Bryant & May

by Christopher Fowler

  But he did notice her.

  If he hadn’t done so, I would not have set out on a path to burn this city to the ground.

  PART THREE

  | | |

  The Bells of Old Bailey

  The past is round us—those old spires

  That glimmer o’er our head;

  Not from the present is their fires,

  Their light is from the dead.

  —LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON

  Elise Albu sat on a stool restitching the torn seat of her husband’s favourite armchair, and tried to think of him without crying.

  She could not yet begin to grieve. She had promised herself that no tear would be shed until after his funeral, but the ceremony had been postponed pending the endlessly delayed police investigation. She would do what all the women in her family did: busy herself with something that could temporarily take away the pain.

  The armchair had been his grandmother’s, packed up and shipped from Romania. It had caramel-coloured embroidery and deep soft cushions, and was wing-backed so that Elise could rest her head in its corners and close her eyes, and smell his aftershave, his skin, his hair. Perhaps if she kept her eyes closed for long enough and waited for just the right moment to open them again the world would be reset back before that terrible night, and she would hear the click of the kettle in the kitchen and know he was making himself a cup of tea, and would come in carrying a mug for her, because he always made her one without needing to ask.

  When she opened her eyes the flat was still empty and silent. Nothing had changed, but now it felt inhabited by one, not two. She could hear the traffic in Dalston High Street, and the tick of the old tin alarm clock in the bedroom they had set aside for a baby. She found a tissue in her sleeve and blew her nose. The nursery could be painted white and turned into an office.

  The strange old man from the semi-derelict building in King’s Cross had asked her to go through all of her husband’s letters, notes and bills. Now they covered the kitchen table. Cristian would have hated the mess she’d made. Booksellers liked order. What she had found was too painful to think about: requests for loans and payment extensions, endless finance restructuring documents, politely desperate begging letters to relatives. He had never let her see the lengths to which he had gone to secure their future.

  In the last month she had called Sergeant George Flowers at Holborn Police Station so many times that he stopped answering. Now he was on sick leave and the case seemed to have been taken up by Mr Bryant, but despite his promises the detective had not been in touch again.

  She picked up her phone and looked for his contact details. She wanted to call him, just to know that there was someone genuinely trying to help, but he was a confused old man who clearly never should have been passed the case, and she did not know what to say to him. How could the police help her if they were prepared to hand her over to a pensioner after a month of doing nothing?

  She returned to the task of sorting through her husband’s correspondence. Cristian kept an empty Nike box in a kitchen cupboard that he used as a ‘pending’ file. She fetched it now and emptied it out onto the floor.

  Here were the rest of the unpaid bills along with details of the loan they had taken out, several final demands and threats of private collection agencies. Repairs to the shop roof that Cristian had paid for had not been reimbursed by the landlord, and private dental work for Elise that the NHS had been too stretched to handle had amounted to a small fortune.

  She opened his laptop and checked his email account. In it was a file she had not noticed before marked Titles Cash Only. His record of under-the-counter sales.

  She spun down through the volumes.

  Richard Quittenden, Giant-Land, author’s own edition with hand-coloured plates.

  Oscar Wilde, Salomé, first edition, one of fifty copies, printed on Van Gelder stock.

  Arthur Conan Doyle, The Maracot Deep, four science fiction stories 1929. V. rare.

  There were dozens of titles, many more than she had expected. The sales had begun in August of last year and ran until just before Cristian’s death. She tried to think of any sign that this shadow trade had been going on behind her back but nothing came to mind. They had gone to work, eaten together and seen friends like any other couple. Their love life had lost its early urgency and there had been some money worries but otherwise their day-to-day affairs had run on the same solid rails as always, or so she’d thought.

  With the exception of this one undeleted file he had covered his tracks very carefully. She could find email addresses for his buyers but what could she write that would elicit anything but furious responses and threats from lawyers?

  As she tried to find a solution something broke inside her and she finally cried, the way a man cries, with head lowered in silent shame, swiping at her eyes so that no one would see her wet face. She had thought that his death was the worst thing that could ever happen, but this made it even more unbearable.

  She found Arthur Bryant’s number and deleted it. She would never be able to understand her husband now, so what was the point of asking anyone to investigate his death?

  * * *

  |||

  ‘I’m afraid he’s asleep,’ said Mrs Flowers, blocking her view. ‘You should have called instead of just turning up like this. He’s on official sick leave.’ She had opened the front door by about a foot, the standard width preferred by those who were suspicious of unsolicited callers.

  Janice Longbright was used to the response. Members of the public were easier to deal with than Met officers and their families, who treated her and the rest of the PCU staff like interlopers. ‘I’ll wait until he’s awake,’ said Janice, checking her watch and showing that she was prepared to settle in on the doorstep.

  ‘He’ll sleep right round the clock now.’ Mrs Flowers opened the door wider and folded her arms across her chest. ‘It would be best to come back another day.’

  ‘Mrs Flowers, I apologize for not calling first but if I leave without seeing him, George’s career in the force is going to end tonight. Could you fetch him for me, please.’

  That did the trick. Longbright waited patiently in the lounge, hearing muffled, urgent whispers behind the wall. She looked around the room. When you stepped into someone else’s living space you always made assumptions; it was an observational skill that came with the job. Everything here had been chosen by a woman. Sergeant Flowers had no interest in his home because he chose to spend more time at work.

  Six minutes later, George Flowers appeared, buttoning up a blue work shirt and smoothing down his hair.

  ‘I thought someone might come around here,’ he said, studying her. ‘You’re DI Longbright. I’ve heard all about you and your lot.’

  ‘Mr Flowers, we have to clear this up,’ she said. ‘On March the twelfth of this year, a man being held under suspicion of arson committed suicide in the bathroom of Holborn Police Station while you were on night duty.’

  ‘I’ve been over this with everyone concerned a dozen times already, and I’ve made an official statement to my own division which I’m sure you will have read.’

  ‘I’ve no argument with what’s in the statement. The problem is what you left out.’ She paused to see if he would respond. ‘The coroner’s report on Mr Albu is going to be submitted today, and it will state that he was hanged with an elasticated belt, not with a strip of plastic torn from the mattress of his cell.’

  Flowers’s cheeks changed colour. ‘You used your own coroner. Why are you trying to stitch me up?’

  ‘We just need to know exactly what happened. The bed cover had been cut with a penknife blade, and no knife was found on the victim.’

  He studied her in silence. She knew he would deny having anything to do with it. He was the type who would stay with his story no matter what happened. Huffing and eye-rolling
failed to hide his panic.

  ‘Before you speak, I want to check that you understand the implications of this. If you go on record insisting that you removed his belt, your testimony will change the verdict from suicide to murder by person or persons unknown. It seems obvious to me that you switched it because you forgot to take it from him in the cell. That’s not a crime, George, it’s an honest mistake.’

  Flowers still said nothing but shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other.

  ‘You’ve got one lad still at school and the other at uni, you have another twenty-three years on your mortgage and you’re forty-six. I think I can save your job.’

  ‘Negligence,’ said Flowers finally, picking at his fingers. ‘That’s what they would say. That I caused his death by leaving him with the means to kill himself.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied Longbright. ‘If Mr Albu had really wanted to kill himself he would have found a way to do it. We once had someone under arrest at Mornington Crescent who blocked a toilet bowl with paper and drowned himself. He couldn’t do it in a cell because they’re designed to prevent suicide, but the staff toilets aren’t. Albu died in the toilet because Holborn has no provision for an in-cell facility. You didn’t kill him, George.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything.’ His gaze was steady and unflinching. ‘That bloke was drunk and stank of petrol. I have no idea what his state of mind was like, and it’s not my job to find out. All I know is that he wasn’t wearing a belt. You can check the CCTV if you want. The cell has had a lot of occupants. Maybe one of them smuggled in a blade and started to cut the bed cover just to vandalize it. They do anything they can to show their disrespect. It’s not a crime if none of us noticed.’

  * * *

  |||

  Longbright’s conscience was clear; she had offered him a lifeline and Flowers had thrown it back at her.

  She made her way across town to the ugly stone-and-glass box that housed the new Holborn Police Station. It was pelting with rain and her collapsible umbrella had done just that. The streets were suddenly deserted, improving the city no end.

  As she reached the covered entrance, she tried to wipe the water from her face. Inside, she found herself alone. The duty desk was due to change at eight P.M. It was now a quarter past and no one was around. She stopped a passing constable sporting the kind of weapons-grade acne that only afflicted the very young. He told her the incoming sergeant was running late because of flooding.

  ‘Can you let me into the overnight cell?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t do that without the duty officer’s permission.’ He looked apologetic.

  ‘But he’s not here.’

  ‘You’re PCU, aren’t you?’ He looked a little awed. ‘I thought you’d been closed down.’

  ‘We’re on special assignment. I spoke to someone earlier.’

  ‘They must have forgotten,’ the constable replied. ‘I was told not to let anyone down by themselves.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Sergeant Flowers. He’s off on sick leave at the moment. There’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Longbright ran a hand through her wet hair, making sure to get some water on the floor. ‘Can I use the staff bathroom?’

  He led her across the reception area and buzzed the door for her. ‘Down the stairs, first door on the left.’

  Inside the bathroom, she checked the sinks and taps. The place reeked of disinfectant. There were a few taped-up health and safety posters beside a mirror, including Your Anonymous Tip-Off Helpline and Call for a Free Chlamydia Kit. Dispensers full of pink liquid soap were riveted to the wall. Nothing out of the ordinary. At the top of the rear wall was an opaque window covered in steel mesh. There was no handle and it looked as if it didn’t open but she needed to be sure.

  In the corridor outside she found a blue plastic chair and took it into the bathroom, placing it below the window. Hoping that the constable would remain upstairs to cover the empty desk, she climbed on the chair and pushed against the glass.

  The window was sealed and unbreakable. Of course it would be. Overnight visitors were sometimes so drunk and full of anger that every edge and corner, every door knob or imperfectly tightened screw became a possible cause of injury. In the bathroom Albu had found a way to hang himself with a type of noose he could only have made if he’d had access to a knife.

  Even setting aside the unlikeliness of the whole thing, it made no sense. If he was to be killed, why hadn’t it happened in the alleyway near the bookshop? Or did it have to look as if he had taken his own life? No one would plan a murder in multiple stages: burn a shop, blame an innocent, fake his suicide. It was just too complicated. Killers weren’t usually very bright.

  She returned the chair and headed upstairs.

  ‘I thought you were going to dry your hair,’ said the constable cheerfully.

  ‘I think I’ll stick with the wet look. What does Sergeant Flowers do when he’s here all night?’

  ‘He reads a lot of science fiction,’ the constable told her. ‘And he eats.’

  ‘I’m going behind his desk—turn your back,’ she warned. ‘What does he eat?’

  ‘Apples mostly. He’s got this thing about getting the peel off in a single piece.’

  In the bottom drawer she found a Swiss Army knife. It had so many blades and recesses that there was a good chance it had picked up plastic threads from the cell bed. She slipped it into her pocket.

  ‘Who checks your CCTV?’

  ‘Normally me but it’s out of action at the moment. It’s been out for a while. We’re waiting for a service.’

  ‘It’s been out since Flowers went sick?’

  ‘Yeah, about then.’

  Camera boxes were meant to be tamper-proof but she’d heard of staff getting into them. She was convinced now that Albu had been locked in the cell still wearing his belt. Proving it would be a problem if Flowers had cleaned up, but having made one mistake he had probably made others. Since it was impossible that Albu had removed the belt from his own neck and substituted another material, the death would now appear on the books as unexplained, which the PCU classed as grounds for a murder investigation.

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ she told the constable, glancing out at the rain.

  ‘Did you want the book?’ the boy suddenly asked.

  ‘What book?’

  ‘The bloke who died. Albu.’ He pointed vaguely in the direction of the cells. ‘He had a little book in his jeans but it must have fallen out when he was lying down in his cell. I put it aside for you. Didn’t George tell you?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she replied. ‘Thanks for reminding me. I was supposed to pick it up.’

  ‘Hang on.’ He loped off and returned, handing her a tiny blue leather book, quite old, with onionskin pages and gold edges. The Poetry of Alfred Lord Tennyson.

  ‘You’re a lifesaver.’ She flashed him a smile and headed out to the staircase that led to the rainswept street.

  Bryant’s landlady was not a woman to be trifled with, even so soon after a stay in hospital. ‘If you tell me you’re going to be here for eight o’clock, that’s when the dinner goes on the table,’ Alma admonished, setting his reheated portion of stargazy pie before him.

  ‘Madam, when I stare at a meal it’s not supposed to stare back at me,’ Bryant complained.

  ‘The fish heads are meant to be above the crust like that. They’re pilchards. It’s a Cornish recipe.’

  ‘You’re from Antigua, not the West Country.’

  ‘West Indies is still west.’ She stuck her hands on her hips—never a good sign. ‘You’re having baked Alaska for dessert and I’m not from there, either.’

  ‘Then perhaps I should have a say in the weekly menu.’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m not having steak-and-kidney pudding every day, and crisps aren’t a ve
getable. Just try to get home on time.’

  ‘I can’t help the long hours. We’ve got a murderer on the loose.’

  ‘You’ve always got a murderer on the loose. They’re a bloody nuisance. Make them wait. Have you been to see John?’

  ‘He’s back at the Unit.’

  Alma looked horrified. ‘He can’t possibly be ready for work yet.’

  ‘It’s more harmful being stuck at home. Men are like parrots.’

  ‘You mean they repeat everything you say.’

  ‘No, they tear their feathers out if left unattended.’ He propped a dust-encrusted copy of Gogol’s Diary of a Madman against the cruet set and thrust a fork into his pie.

  ‘Can you at least put that filthy thing down while you’re eating? You’ll give yourself indigestion.’

  ‘This “filthy thing” is a masterpiece of Russian literature, madam, as you’d know if you’d ever opened a book.’

  ‘Reading’s never done you any good, has it? It’s not stopped you from being rude to everyone. Instead of stuffing all those words into your head you could have given me a break and found yourself another wife. And Russians are nothing but trouble.’

  Bryant tapped his book, releasing a shower of dirt from the pulverized binding, and spoke through a mouthful of pilchards. ‘I was reading about the temple illusions of the ancient Greeks this morning and you didn’t like me reading that, either.’

  ‘Only because it made you forget to lock the toilet door. You can’t possibly be reading that rubbish for work.’

  ‘I am, actually, and it’s not rubbish. It will help me catch our man.’

  ‘How do you know it’s not a woman?’

  ‘Because it hardly ever is. Over eighty percent of all killers are male.’