Bryant & May

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘No,’ said Digby drily, ‘I’m representing Mr English.’

  ‘I’m seeing you because I gained the clear impression that you weren’t going to go away,’ said English.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said May. ‘A brief chat may suffice to clear the matter up. I understand you and Michael Claremont were not the best of friends.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think we’re going to do this, are we?’ English asked Digby. ‘Interrogations at the luncheon table, really?’ He turned his full gaze on May. ‘Mr Claremont got a little too big for his Oxford toecaps. Condemnant quod non intellegunt. We clashed, ideologically speaking. If I found anyone in the House who fully agreed with me I wouldn’t trust them.’

  Arthur always tells me that only the unintelligent feel the need to quote Latin, May thought. ‘Did you also know Chakira Rahman?’

  ‘We crossed swords once or twice. I did the same with Kenneth Tremain.’ He swirled his gin. ‘Does that make me a suspect? My aides can fully account for my time. I have a penthouse at Potters Fields overlooking the Tower of London, and that’s where I’ve been most nights with my staff. Of course I go out to eat—I own a restaurant on Piccadilly, although I had to fire the chef for being too damned French.’

  ‘I can’t imagine a person like yourself becoming physically involved in anything violent,’ said May, ‘but you must appreciate that many wealthy men and women have employed the services of someone else to handle unpleasant tasks.’

  ‘Are you seriously suggesting that I hired a hit man? The Speaker of the House is still alive, isn’t he? Have you tried talking to him?’

  May felt as if he was being cornered by a predator. ‘He can’t be interviewed while his condition is being controlled by barbiturates.’

  He glanced up and saw with horror that a tramp had wandered into the restaurant, and that the tramp was, on closer inspection, his partner. Bryant had his hands in the pockets of his immense brown overcoat and was openly inspecting everyone’s meals as he passed between the tables. He was trailing toilet paper from his left heel. The maître d’ led him over like a butler taking out a rat.

  May could see with awful clarity what was about to occur. Bryant, his restless personality expanding in the confined, hushed space, would detonate the meeting. Don’t do it, Arthur, he silently begged.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Bryant, patting English on the shoulder. ‘I see you’ve brought along your familiar. I always wondered what it was like in here. How’s the grub? The other tables all seem to be having school dinners. I suppose the sight of overcooked meat is enough to conjure happy memories of public-school spankings.’

  ‘I don’t entirely understand why you are here,’ said English, furious but showing only polite contempt.

  ‘You get both of us, Mr English. VIP treatment.’ Bryant dragged a chair over from another table and squeezed himself between them. ‘I suppose my partner was explaining that you have something in common with the victims.’ He pulled the toilet paper off his boot and daintily placed it on a side plate.

  ‘You need to reconsider the tone you’re taking with my client,’ said Digby.

  ‘Read the children’s menu for a while, Edgar,’ Bryant suggested. He waved at an ancient waiter. ‘Can I get a decent cup of tea, sonny? A proper enamel stripper, no cat’s piss.’

  ‘I agreed to meet your partner in order to clear the air,’ said English, lowering his voice. The Archbishop of Canterbury was seated two tables over. ‘I was explaining that I’ve never had any direct contact with your victims.’

  ‘But your paths crossed. You could have been summoned to court today if the judge hadn’t left his frontal lobe in a flower bed.’

  ‘My corporate law team would have been there, not me.’ English stabbed his finger on the tablecloth. ‘There is no connection between us. Why would there be?’

  May tried to think of something that would draw attention away from his partner, who was now scraping his boot with a fork.

  ‘You’re intending to enter politics, aren’t you?’ Bryant replied without looking up. ‘I imagine the fraud case couldn’t have come at a worse time.’

  ‘It’s a suit involving a distant subsidiary,’ snapped English. ‘I have bigger fish to fry.’

  ‘Ah yes, your independent party.’ Bryant turned over a silver mustard pot to examine its hallmark.

  ‘I want to make this country feel respected again. As I walked here today I hardly heard a word spoken that I could understand.’

  ‘Well, the English are notoriously bad at languages.’ Bryant started to wipe up spilled mustard. ‘You should have paid more attention at school.’

  ‘You think this is funny, do you?’ English was seething now. ‘I’m a suspect because I disagreed with them? Why not add everyone I’ve ever argued with to that list? Some of them must be dead by now but I don’t suppose that’ll stop you. I know all about your unit, Mr Bryant. A bunch of woolly-minded liberals living in the London bubble, not giving a tinker’s cuss for the working people of Britain. Some people have had enough of it. They want to go back to how things were.’

  ‘How far back?’ Bryant asked congenially. ‘Tudor England? I suppose the downside to that would be a life expectancy of thirty-five years, so you’d have hit room temperature quite a while ago. Let’s be honest, it’s not the British people who want to go back, it’s you. Back to a misremembered past cobbled together from old films and children’s books where you once felt safe with Nanny. That’s not why you’re on our list. You’re there because we have phone tapes of your clash with Mr Claremont and because Mr Tremain was about to question your business practices.’

  ‘These killings of yours’—English aimed a forefinger at the pair as if personally holding them responsible—‘are the result of your unit’s ineptitude. And when another death occurs you will once again have blood on your hands. You’re the people that my party will go after first.’ He pointed a stubby finger at Bryant. ‘Especially you.’

  * * *

  |||

  ‘I thought that went rather well,’ said Bryant when they reached street level a few minutes later. ‘We rattled his cage a bit.’

  ‘I didn’t know we had phone recordings.’ May opened his umbrella and looked for a taxi.

  ‘We don’t. Please admire my ability to spontaneously lie. There’s nothing like a bit of brinkmanship to pep things up. Do you think he did it?’

  ‘No,’ said May reluctantly. ‘There’s too much at stake for him. He’s rich and unpleasant but I’m sure he has subtler methods of revenge at his disposal, most involving phone calls to the press.’

  ‘Unless that’s what he wants us to think.’ Bryant wiped a yellow streak from his coat pocket.

  ‘Did you just steal the mustard pot?’ asked May.

  ‘Might have,’ said Bryant. ‘At least we’ve managed to upset him. The gloves are off now.’

  ‘Every step forward feels like two bloody great steps back,’ fumed Raymond Land. Janice was the only member of staff within earshot, but she had stopped listening. ‘It just gets messier and more confusing. I hope they take it all away from us, just take it—just—leave us in bloody peace and—and—’

  ‘Raymond, breathe into a paper bag,’ Longbright suggested, grabbing Sidney as she passed. ‘Did you hear back from John?’

  Sidney looked at her blankly. ‘I already told you.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, I sent you an email.’

  ‘I haven’t had time to look at them. Just tell me.’

  ‘You mean FaceTime you?’

  ‘No, I mean actually physically tell me.’

  ‘But you already have the email.’ She turned to find the detectives returning. ‘You don’t have to read it now, they’re here. Hey, I know what happened.’

  ‘I’m Mr Bryant to you. Let me get my coat off.’ Bryant set dow
n his stick, his hat, his scarf, his overcoat and the silver mustard pot from Simpson’s. ‘Come into our office.’

  He ushered her and Longbright in but held up his hand when Land tried to follow them. ‘I’m sorry, you’d be exceeding the room’s weight limit. You’ve got quite porky lately.’

  ‘I should probably sit in on this,’ called Tim Floris.

  ‘All right, you can come in, you’re thin,’ Bryant agreed, ushering him through. Land stepped forward but Bryant shut the door in his face.

  Longbright was offered the only spare chair by Sidney, which made her feel old. Sidney turned to address the room. ‘Okay, so this girl I know is seeing a guy on and off who does podcasts from a studio on the same floor as Judge Tremain. He was working late last night and says he saw the killer going up to Tremain’s door. He gave me a description.’

  ‘What does he look like?’ asked May.

  ‘He has a woolly blue hat and a navy Puffa jacket and was hunched over, and there’s something wrong with his leg.’

  ‘What else?’

  Sidney looked blank. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘That’s it? I’m guessing your friend didn’t train with police observers. What time was this?’

  ‘He doesn’t know.’

  ‘Did the judge come to the door? Were they friendly? Angry?’

  ‘He doesn’t know anything else, he just saw this lame guy.’

  ‘When did the man leave?’

  ‘He doesn’t know, he was a bit off his face.’ For the first time Sidney looked rattled. ‘He’d smoked a couple of joints. But he’s sure about the limping man.’

  ‘This—this—is what we’re up against,’ said Bryant. ‘Hopeless witnesses. He confuses everything and slips away before anyone’s sure of what’s happened.’

  ‘That’s why I’ve been looking at the victims,’ said Longbright. ‘They have no work or social connections to one another, so do they have anything in common? Chakira Rahman, hugely admired, a champion for diversity in media, leaves behind two young girls, the loves of her life. Kenneth Tremain, another dedicated family man, outspoken but with a reputation for fairness, his wife and son left devastated. We need to spend time with their families and friends.’

  ‘Fine,’ said May, ‘but be aware—he knows what we’re going to do because this is a race and he’s still ahead of us.’

  * * *

  |||

  Strangeways squinted at the litter tray he’d inherited and deliberately micturated in the opposite corner before falling asleep on Meera’s jacket, clawing at it in his dreams. He was disagreeable even when unconscious, snoring, shedding and producing prodigious amounts of mucus.

  By late afternoon most of the staff had decamped to the operations room because it was the only place with fully operational lighting. Bryant was wrapped inside a vast orange woollen scarf and fingerless mittens like a Dickensian bookkeeper, and sat with his pug nose half an inch from his laptop screen. He had somehow managed to push its luminescence up so high that his screensaver—Géricault’s The Raft of the Medusa—had turned his face green. May was still smarting from the meeting with Peter English, and was searching through press files looking for anything that might incriminate the entrepreneur.

  It was the worst possible time for Maggie Armitage to turn up, bustling in and shaking water from a red lacquered Japanese parasol. ‘Sorry, it’s chucking it down out there,’ she said, unfurling herself from a waterproof Monsieur Hulot raincoat and a saggy-sleeved yellow cardigan. ‘Your new pet just hissed at me. He looks like he’s been flattened in a mangle. What is he?’

  ‘A cat.’

  ‘He might have been in a former life. I meant his breed.’

  ‘I don’t think he has one,’ said May without looking up. ‘He’s called Strangeways, apparently.’

  ‘Yes, I think I’ve just seen a couple of them.’ She searched for somewhere to hang her dripping coat. ‘Arthur, you’re not answering your phone.’

  ‘Ah, er, no, it got paint on it,’ said Bryant, pushing aside his laptop with relief.

  ‘Can’t John fix it?’

  ‘It’s stuck to the window frame,’ said May wearily. ‘Don’t go there.’

  ‘I need you to come with me, Arthur.’ Maggie tugged at his sleeve. ‘We have to talk about the end of the world.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said May, typing his notes in. ‘Go and discuss the coming apocalypse and leave the boring old investigating stuff to us.’

  ‘Top plan,’ Bryant agreed, grabbing his umbrella. ‘I could do with some tea and a bun.’

  ‘Incredible,’ said May to himself, shaking his silver mane as he watched them go.

  * * *

  |||

  ‘There’s a buildup occurring,’ Maggie explained as she pushed open the door to the Ladykillers Café. ‘The signs are everywhere.’ She approached the counter. ‘Do you have liquorice tea? Kombucha? Arrowroot? Thistle?’

  Niven regarded her with a jaundiced eye. ‘No.’

  ‘Just builders’, then, preferably Yorkshire Gold. And something sweet.’

  ‘Anything in particular?’ Niven asked, hand on hip. ‘Spiced nettle and cranberry scorpion cake with walnut top notes, or will you settle for a doughnut?’

  ‘You’re a caution, aren’t you?’ She turned to Bryant. ‘I need to explain my thinking. I suppose it’s because of the Dutch. Everyone knows three things about them. They’re incredibly tall, have the worst cuisine in Europe and support voluntary euthanasia.’

  ‘I was thinking windmills, tulips and saucy ladies, but go on,’ Bryant replied.

  ‘My friend Madame Tizia in Rotterdam is a Grand Order White Witch like me. She researches social panics—everything from satanic abuse and false memory syndrome to antivaxxers. She calls to all the White Witches on spring evenings.’

  An image of bonfires being lit at dusk sprang into Bryant’s mind. He hadn’t considered that the witches might have something similar to the Twilight Bark. It seemed picturesque, if impractical.

  ‘Does she do it telepathically?’ he asked.

  ‘No, through WitchNet. According to Tizia’s data, human entropy has entered its terminal stage. The sixth extinction is now unstoppable, the global emergency is accelerating and technology is ending the information age. The predictions of H. G. Wells have come true. We still worship tribal deities and revert to superstition at the earliest opportunity.’

  ‘Well, that’s cheerful,’ said Bryant, carrying his tea to a table. ‘I hope your friend remembers to leave us a solution before she sticks her head in an oven.’

  ‘These deaths you’re looking into—I’m sorry, I read that horrible piece on the Hard News site about how useless you all are—they’re worsening the situation for witches in the UK. Our members meet in the nation’s church halls and conference centres, and they’re already reporting a change in public attitudes.’

  ‘Really? What kind of change?’

  ‘My fellow witches feel they’re being targeted for their beliefs.’

  ‘I thought that was part of their job description. Sorry to be obtuse, but what does that have to do with the victims in this case?’

  Maggie leaned forward, keeping her voice low. ‘There’s a secret organization funded by billionaires that’s socially engineering the country.’

  Bryant leaned forward, too. ‘If it’s secret how do you know about it?’

  ‘They send us warnings. They’re getting rid of everyone who’s a threat.’

  ‘Why are you whispering?’ Bryant had a hard time imagining that a group of garlanded Wiccans singing folk songs and making seaweed tea could be a threat to anyone.

  ‘We tried chanting but we’re not strong enough to stop them. We need help to start a counterrevolution.’

  ‘Maggie, you mustn’t believe everything you read, otherwise you’ll start thi
nking aliens are sending you messages through the fireplace.’

  ‘I used to think that, but then I realized that the woman next door was a radio-cab controller.’ She dug into a red plastic shopping bag. Bryant tried to read what was written on the side. ‘It’s recyclable,’ she explained. ‘Destroyed by sunlight in three days. I’ve had this one for over two years. Says a lot about the weather in London. Ah, here.’ She whacked a sheaf of dog-eared papers on the table. ‘I printed it all out so that nobody can steal the data.’

  ‘You printed out a file your friend copied from a website,’ said Bryant. ‘Even I know that’s daft.’ Against his better judgement and only because she was avidly watching him, he flicked through the misspelled pages. ‘I’ll look into it,’ he promised.

  ‘I suppose King Lud was the country’s first one,’ she said, absently biting into a doughnut.

  Bryant thought he must have zoned out of the conversation for a moment. ‘The first what?’

  ‘Social engineer,’ she replied as if it was obvious. ‘He named this the City of Lud over seventy years before the birth of Christ. He was an evil man in favour of culling the population and keeping strangers out.’

  ‘That was because of the plague,’ said Bryant with impatience. ‘Not because he didn’t like some people.’

  ‘He wanted to remove everyone of “impure race.” Maybe this new group is planning to replace those they assassinate with their own candidates. You know, replicants. From you know where.’ She raised a glittery fingernail at the ceiling.

  ‘The first floor?’

  ‘No, Alpha Centauri.’

  As much as he often admired her lateral thinking, Bryant feared that the white witch’s somersault from King Lud to Invasion of the Body Snatchers would take them to UFOs, lately her pet subject.

  ‘I’ve got enough on my plate without intergalactic conspiracies,’ he warned her, handing back the pages. ‘Maggie, I’ve always shown a lot of patience with you, but you’ve been duped by a fake-news site.’