Bryant & May

by Christopher Fowler

  He squinted at his laptop screen like a pawnbroker examining a disappointing engagement ring. Before him were thirty pages of multiple-choice questions.

  ‘You have to do it if you want to stay on the case,’ May said, pressing lightly at the sore muscles in his chest.

  ‘My keyboard’s sticking. I spilt some lamb pasanda on it but it’s normally fine with Indian cuisine. I think clarified butter might work like WD40. It certainly does on me.’

  ‘Here, have this one.’ May handed over another keyboard and paired it for him. It was faster to supply Bryant with spare keyboards than try to clean food off them.

  Armed with an extra cushion, Bryant settled to the task. ‘Right. “Question one. A warehouse fire proves to be arson. A man was seen running away just after it started. He had been sacked from the company for stealing.” ’

  ‘Read it to yourself,’ May suggested.

  Bryant continued aloud. ‘ “For each of the following statements, answer: A equals TRUE, B equals FALSE, C equals IMPOSSIBLE TO SAY.

  ‘ “One. The man seen running away from the fire was the man who started it.” Well, that’s ridiculous. Who wouldn’t run from a fire? B, false.

  ‘ “Two. The incident is the second one to occur.” That obviously has nothing to do with it. How big is the factory? Is its safety manager reliable? Are flammable items stored on the premises? B, false.

  ‘ “Three. The man who was sacked from the factory may have started the fire.” Well, that throws up more questions. Had the company unfairly docked his wages? Was he being exploited by the bosses? Was he framed after reporting health and safety infringements? This is exactly what’s wrong with the police, narrow minds, limited imagination. How do they know it was a man and not a woman? What does the factory make? Has it been built in a storm corridor without lightning rods?’

  ‘You’re overthinking it, Arthur.’ May looked over his shoulder. ‘And you’ve answered the questions in the wrong order.’

  ‘I’m not a linear person. It’s no good.’ Bryant pushed the laptop away in exasperation. ‘It’s all a load of miscellaneous rubbish. I can’t be expected to correct all of their mistaken suppositions.’

  ‘Then just tick the boxes you think they’d like you to tick,’ said May gently.

  Bryant shook his head. ‘My conscience would never allow me to do that.’

  ‘If they take away the investigation you and your conscience won’t get a look-in.’

  Bryant gave him a pleading look. ‘Could you do mine?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said May. ‘There’s other stuff that needs sorting out. We’re short of information on Jackson Crofting’s background. Sidney sent me an email. She’s done some checking and found that all of the victims have disproportionate social reach.’

  ‘I’m not sure I entirely grasp what that means,’ said Bryant.

  ‘It means they have influence, but successfully ring-fence their own private data. Outgoing but not incoming. They are followed but don’t follow.’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  May grabbed a sheet of paper from his partner’s desk. ‘Imagine a Venn diagram with each circle representing a victim’s field of expertise. Politics, justice, technology: They cross into each other’s lives, just not in the ways you’re used to finding. They’re not related, didn’t go to university together, didn’t have affairs with each other. But this’—he stabbed the diagram with his pen—‘shows they were connected in other ways. Dinners are work. Parties are work. It’s peer group data-sharing.’

  Bryant stuck a finger in his ear. ‘No, you’re not getting through. It’s like distant waves crashing on the shore. Or it may be my tinnitus.’

  ‘We’re not finding a common causal link. Maybe they don’t remember meeting, or were only distantly affected by something Peter English did. Or something they unwittingly did to him.’

  Bryant had been barely listening. He had a habit of tuning out when May became enthusiastic about typing and timetables. May did the same thing when his partner started going on about Greek mythology.

  ‘Claremont,’ Bryant said suddenly.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I can’t get hold of him. This private clinic where his wife is keeping him: Nobody answers the phone. I think we should send someone to check.’

  ‘I’ll add it to the list of things to do,’ said May wearily.

  ‘So we’ll burgle English’s place first thing in the morning, and that just leaves the competency test to sort out.’ Bryant’s blue eyes were saucerlike. ‘Perhaps I could copy yours?’

  May studied this strange childlike man who depended on him to navigate the treacherous shallows of modern life. He slid over his laptop with a sigh. ‘Don’t duplicate it exactly. At least make a couple of mistakes.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m fantastic at cheating,’ said Bryant with a grin.

  They met at Holborn tube station at nine the following morning.

  ‘What on earth are you wearing?’ asked May as they headed towards Peter English’s building in High Holborn. ‘For God’s sake, finish that before we go in.’

  Bryant was eating a chocolate éclair. ‘This is my casual attire,’ he explained, running a hand down his clothes like a magician’s assistant showing off a cabinet of swords. ‘Appropriate clothes for an office worker relaxing at the weekend.’

  ‘And that’s what you think they wear, is it? A Christmas jumper and corduroy trousers.’

  ‘I don’t own any jeans and the top was knitted for me by Alma’s church ladies.’ He opened his coat to reveal the full horror of the jumper, which featured Santa Claus being blessed by Jesus.

  ‘It looks like it was knitted by that woman who painted the Monkey Christ,’ said May.

  ‘This must be the place.’ Bryant put the remains of the éclair in his pocket. The entrance before them was daunting: a bronze and glass frontage with revolving doors and an acre of cream marble beyond. Within was a slab of sandstone that might have been stolen from Stonehenge, behind which sat a blank-faced young man in a blazer and tie, as smooth and unfeatured as a shop mannequin.

  ‘Act casual,’ said May. It would have been better not to say this, as Bryant’s casual act involved a strange, arm-swinging gait that belonged in an old Norman Wisdom film.

  ‘Hellooo.’ Bryant cheerfully approached the receptionist. ‘We’re just doing some weekend work…at the weekend.’

  ‘You still have to sign in.’ The receptionist pointed to an open book on the counter.

  Bryant scribbled a line, then printed a random set of consonants. If the receptionist asked he’d say his name was Hungarian. Taking May’s arm, he aimed them at the brushed-steel barrier and waved his card at the panel.

  Nothing happened. The receptionist started to take an interest.

  ‘That’s your Marks and Spencer card,’ May whispered.

  Bryant searched his wallet and switched it for the pass.

  ‘Do you gentlemen know where you’re going?’ the receptionist asked.

  ‘But of course,’ said Bryant. ‘We’re doing a favour for Mr English, collecting…a thing.’

  ‘He didn’t leave anything for you down here. Maybe it’s in their reception.’

  ‘Of course. And where would that be?’

  ‘On the sixth.’

  ‘Oh, well, I’m sure that’s where it is, then. Waiting for us to collect it.’ Bryant’s voice had become inexplicably posh and vaguely Oliver Hardyish. He stepped through the barrier and slipped the card back to May. ‘Thank you so much for your most caned concern.’

  May was pulling a face at him. ‘Accent. And stop explaining.’ They headed for the lifts, where the swipe card was needed again.

  The sixth-floor reception area of Peter English Associates was a brash show of power: more marble, signature designer lights, glamor
ously uncomfortable furniture. A bank of monitors was running the kind of colour-saturated footage usually found in television showrooms: drone footage of South American waterfalls, Venice under clouds of pigeons, Machu Picchu with an orange sky.

  Bryant peered down a corridor. ‘Do you think someone else is in? I should have asked the receptionist.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t while you were doing your Prince Charles impersonation,’ said May. ‘Come on, English is bound to have the largest corner office.’

  They found it on their second try, but the door was closed with a traditional lock. This was where Bryant’s skeleton Yale proved useful. Inside was a surprisingly modest room—no central desk, just an expensive Italian sofa and three fire-engine-red armchairs set around a marble mushroom.

  ‘It’s a pity there aren’t laser beams crisscrossing the floor,’ said Bryant. ‘We could have rappelled through a heating duct.’

  ‘Says the man who has trouble bending over to tie his laces.’

  ‘Where do you think he keeps his stuff? Do people even have any stuff now or is it all online?’

  ‘Well, it’s not going to be in a grey filing cabinet full of manila envelopes, is it?’ said May. ‘This isn’t the 1970s.’

  ‘And yet it is.’ Bryant pointed to a filing cabinet standing in the smaller adjoining office. ‘Seventies wallpaper and an ironic filing cabinet. It’ll probably be full of whiskies or something.’

  His prediction proved correct. The drawers opened to reveal an extravagantly stocked bar.

  ‘This place is geared for hospitality, not work,’ said May, looking for charging points. ‘There’s no computer equipment. He must take his laptop with him.’

  ‘There’s a safe,’ said Bryant, pointing to an unassuming black metal box set at the back of the bottom drawer.

  ‘How did you spot that? You can’t see buses.’

  ‘I have my special trifocals today.’ Bryant’s moon-eyes swam up through thick lenses.

  ‘Looks like it uses a Titan security key.’ May peered at a tiny slot in the front. ‘We won’t get it open. Google use them in their buildings.’

  ‘If he’s that secretive, he has something to hide.’

  May rose and looked about. ‘I bet you that even in a company as security-conscious as this there’s a closet Luddite working here. There’s always one.’

  They headed off along the corridor to look. In what appeared to be the HR department they found a single sheet of paper pinned behind someone’s chair: ‘English’s schedule for the week.’ May photographed the page. ‘Nothing very revealing…he’s throwing a party at one of his properties tomorrow afternoon. Some kind of launch event.’

  ‘Excuse me, who are you?’

  They turned to find themselves faced with a stern-faced young woman holding a cardboard coffee cup.

  Bryant tried to recall the name he had written in the reception book. ‘I’m Mr Harghzyszabó,’ he said. ‘I work here.’

  ‘I don’t think you do, Mr Harghzyszabó. You’re far too old for a start, and this is my office.’

  ‘You could have just said too old.’

  Deciding that the best solution was partial honesty, May showed her his ID. ‘We’re working on an investigation into the death of one of Mr English’s colleagues, Jackson Crofting. We’d heard that Mr English would be in this morning and were hoping to interview him.’

  The young woman peered at them narrowly. ‘He’s never here at the weekend. You could have called me and saved yourself the trip. Is it something I can help you with at all?’

  ‘We need to see certain documents pertaining to his deal with Mr Crofting,’ said May.

  ‘Unfortunately I’m afraid it’s beyond my power to grant you access.’ She had adopted a thermometer-lowering British tone that directly contradicted what she was saying.

  ‘It’s an official police investigation,’ Bryant pointed out.

  ‘Then I’m surprised you didn’t arrange the interview in advance.’ She checked her watch. ‘It would be so much better if you weren’t here.’

  May squared up to her. ‘Do you understand that we are senior law enforcement officers conducting a murder inquiry?’

  She set her coffee down, ready for a fight. ‘You may well be, but this is a public company sanctioned and represented internationally by the government that employs you, so I think you’ll find you’re beyond your jurisdiction.’

  ‘Peter English does not make the law,’ said Bryant.

  ‘He doesn’t need to. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave now.’

  ‘So soon?’ Bryant lifted up his boot. ‘Can you direct me to the lavatory? I think I trod in something on the way in.’ Much to her horror, he showed her. She pointed to a door in the corridor opposite, and Bryant limped theatrically over to it, followed by his partner.

  ‘Who the hell does English think he is?’ May fumed, closing the door behind him. ‘God, you really did tread in something.’

  ‘No, it’s my chocolate éclair,’ said Bryant. ‘Give me a hand.’ He leaned on May’s shoulder and climbed onto a counter holding three washbasins.

  ‘She’s probably calling English right this minute,’ said May.

  ‘Then let’s give her something to call him about.’

  Hauling a length of iron pipe from inside his coat, he reached up and smashed the overhead sprinkler. A moment later water began spraying from points all over the ceiling and an electronic alarm sounded.

  ‘You maniac!’ May grabbed his partner and pulled him down. Outside, sprinklers had detonated in the corridor, too, staining the walls and flooding across the polished wood floors.

  ‘Wow,’ said Bryant, ‘I didn’t expect that to work.’

  ‘Be careful you don’t slip.’ May took hold of his partner’s arm.

  The assistant stood aghast, phone in hand, as sirens wailed above her and the detectives moved carefully on, leaving the building with as much dignity as they could muster.

  The receptionist rose in his chair as they passed him, shaking themselves off like wet dogs, but decided he was not being paid enough to wrestle a pair of soaked seniors to the floor.

  ‘I can’t believe you brought an iron pipe with you,’ said May as they hastened down the steps.

  ‘It was part of that old rocket launcher. The one I used to fire chickens across the road with.’

  ‘I can’t even remember why you were doing that.’

  ‘Neither can I.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ May asked.

  ‘We wait,’ said Bryant, wringing out his hat.

  * * *

  |||

  Meanwhile, Raymond Land had arrived at the Unit and opened his emails to find something disturbing. He stared at his screen and wondered what on earth he’d done wrong. A note he had fired off to Leslie Faraday in hasty anger had gone astray, and he couldn’t tell where it had ended up. It was embarrassing having to call in Floris for help, so he tried turning his computer off and turning it on again. As his mailbox reopened he realized he had received a notification not intended for him because the sender had accidentally left him on a thread. It read:

  Leslie—

  Thanks for your note. On further investigation it appears to be distantly related to progeria. The disease in its purest form is incredibly rare and no one has survived it beyond the age of twenty-six, but there are more common versions with progerialike side effects.

  He was about to dismiss it as some bizarre form of spam but a name further down caught his eye. Before continuing he checked the word ‘Progeria’ and got ‘an extremely rare autosomal dominant genetic disorder in which symptoms resemble the physiological ageing process.’

  He read on:

  One variant is not always fatal but indicates that the patient is subject to premature ageing. Unfortunately this isn’t the only sympto
m as the disease also affects the brain, often causing hallucinations and reducing the patient’s ability to tell dreams from reality, as well as adversely affecting their decision-making process.

  I was not happy about releasing these details to you prior to my conversation with Mr Bryant, but I understand that, given the extreme seriousness of the Unit’s ongoing investigation, the circumstances in this case are exceptional. I suspect that Mr Bryant has long known about his illness and has never disclosed the facts about it. If for no reason other than withholding information, he should be removed from operations forthwith.

  Marcus Gillespie

  Land was astounded. The email was attached to some previous correspondence between Faraday and Dr Gillespie about staff medical insurance, and Gillespie had accidentally copied him in.

  The more he thought about it, the more everything began to make sense. While the rest of the team, including his partner, had been immersing themselves in the nuts and bolts of the investigation, Bryant had been away with the fairies, chatting to his usual assortment of marginalized idiot savants.

  Something needed to be done. Bryant had to be taken off the case as quickly as possible.

  HARD NEWS VIDEO REPORT FROM PAULA LAMBERT TIMED AT 10.30 A.M. SATURDAY 13 APRIL

  A series of killings in broad daylight has placed Londoners on high alert this week. The latest victim has been confirmed as Jackson Crofting, CEO of the tech company Geniusly. He was discovered outside St Leonard’s Church, Shoreditch, apparently the victim of a bizarre accident, but there are suspicions that he was murdered by the Oranges & Lemons Killer. The police unit in charge of the investigation is refusing to comment on the risk to Londoners. In the meantime members of the public are warned to stay alert and avoid dimly lit areas.

  ‘She’s completely contradicting herself,’ said Arthur Bryant indignantly, spanking his laptop screen. ‘Why would you need to avoid dimly lit areas if the attacks occur in broad daylight? Why is daylight always broad? And why is the article headed with a photo of Angelina Jolie?’