The plan needed to be explored in almost infinite detail, so I went back to my memoir. Suddenly I found I was writing not just a fictional account of a murder spree but a memento mori. If I’m honest with myself, I think that by this time I had abandoned the idea of physically taking revenge. It was as if the act of writing it down was in itself a form of retribution.
I worried that the plan had flaws I could not see. They say authors grow so close to their fictions that they fail to realize what’s wrong with them. I needed outside advice from someone, but whom could I trust?
When I walked past the bookshop, I knew it was the kind of place that was run by an expert. The owner hardly ever had customers. I discovered that he read unsolicited manuscripts from new writers and offered them advice, so I submitted my creative exercise.
Cristian Albu read the book and wrote to tell me that it worked because I had made a clichéd plot believable. I had been in danger of losing my purpose but now I had found it once more, and decided to move forward at once with the plan. The time was right. All of my targets were in London at the same moment.
I knew I might never get another chance. When you approach a problem single-mindedly and concentrate on completing each section with the desired effect, you remove most of the chance elements and guarantee the outcome.
I promised they would die and I told myself I would deliver their deaths, even though I knew events might unfold differently to the way I had planned.
It transpired that I had made a single fundamental mistake.
There is no such thing as a perfect crime.
PART SIX
| | |
The Great Bell at Bow
Children of Cheape, hold you all still,
For you shall hear Bow Bell rung at your will.
—CLERK OF THE BOW BELL
SCRIPT EXTRACT FROM ARTHUR BRYANT’S ‘PECULIAR LONDON’ WALKING TOUR GUIDE. (TOUR OF THE CITY’S OLD MARKET PLACES. BRING MORE DOSH THAN YOU THINK YOU’LL NEED, YOU’LL BE BUYING A LOAD OF TAT, TRUST ME.)
Cheapside connects St Paul’s Cathedral to the Bank of England. In medieval times ‘cheap’ meant ‘market,’ and markets were everywhere in this ancient part of London’s Square Mile.
The streets were named after the items sold: Bread Street, Poultry, Milk Street and Honey Lane were here in all their rambunctious glory, so it’s no surprise that Chaucer was raised among the stalls. The highest members of royalty passed among the lowest tradespeople.
Cheapside was once described as ‘the busiest thoroughfare in the world’ and was long considered one of the most important streets in London, because you could buy cabbages and chickens here, but you could also buy gold. The street was devastated during the Second World War and has now transformed itself into the pedestrianized shopping hell in which you find yourself today.
The cockney epicentre of London is St Mary-le-Bow, a church that has always had trouble with its bells. They were so often unringable that it became a matter of national concern, and even when they pealed there were problems. The bells shook the stonework from the spire and killed a merchant in Bow Lane. After the Blitz they were recast, each with an inscription from the Psalms on it. The first letter of each Psalm formed the acrostic ‘D WHITTINGTON.’ The British love word puzzles.
Cockneys are an endangered species now because the Bow bells can’t be heard above the noise of traffic. They’re dying out because hardly anyone lives in the area. The only hospital within earshot of Bow bells has no maternity ward.
I would like to read you a selection of bawdy speeches set in Cheapside from Henry the Fourth Part One. Anyone not wishing to be enlightened by the words of the immortal Bard may avail themselves of the myriad retail opportunities offered by Zara and H&M. If I’m left with less than three punters you will find me across the road in Williamson’s Tavern.
They were stationed thirty yards from the church of St Mary-le-Bow, Cheapside, outside a tanning salon that was loudly advertising specials on leg waxing and muff management. A steady stream of half-asleep office workers passed them. Nobody looked up at the church. Hardly anyone looked up at all.
‘I could kick the nuts off a chicken korma right now,’ said Colin, pinching his stomach through his PCU tunic. ‘Look at me, I’m wasting away.’
‘It’s nine o’clock in the morning,’ said Meera. ‘Have a nutrition bar like everyone else.’
‘I’m not a budgie. You’ll be suggesting a bell and a mirror next. Come on, there’s a café over the road. It’ll take five minutes.’
‘And what if we miss him?’
‘We can see just as much from there. Murderers don’t get up this early. Look around. It’s a lovely morning; we just need a bit of grub to make it perfect.’
Meera turned on him. ‘How do you do it, Colin? How do you stay so bloody perky and cheerful no matter what happens? The seas are rising, the forests are vanishing, our leaders are imbeciles and murderers roam the streets, but when you look out there all you see is sunshine and food. It must be exhausting being you because it’s exhausting even being near you.’
He looked at her as if she had spoken to him in Turkish. ‘You can’t do anything about the first three and the last one will be resolved by people with bigger brains than us, so why worry? We’re foot soldiers, Meera. We’re like thingy and whatsit, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.’
Meera’s eyes were like fireworks. ‘At least they tried to get Hamlet murdered. I have ambitions, too. You’re just happy when it’s not raining. I’ve set my bar a lot higher than that.’
‘Than me, you mean.’
She softened and touched his arm. ‘No, not you. It’s just that there’s more I can do. I’ve been meaning to tell you. I want to apply for specialist training.’
Colin’s happy mood evaporated. He kicked at the wall behind him. ‘But that would mean you leaving the PCU.’
‘If that’s what it takes. It doesn’t affect us. This is probably our last day on the case anyway. We’re no further on than we were when it started. Tomorrow it will go to the SCC, the Home Office will have proven their point and the Unit will head into mothballs for the last time. That’s why I need to think about moving on.’
‘Why do you always say that?’ Colin asked. ‘I this, I that, never we, never us.’
‘I don’t think of us as being together,’ she replied carelessly. ‘I’ve always been independent.’
‘Too much independence cuts out everyone else. Don’t become the person who does that.’
Meera was losing patience. ‘I don’t know what you’re saying.’
Colin waited while someone shouting into his phone passed them. ‘I’m saying you should learn to rely on me, Meera.’
‘And how am I supposed to do that?’
‘In my head it’s really simple. We just get married.’
Meera could not have looked more amazed if she had gone to a football match and found herself attending a public hanging. She attempted to wipe the look of stupefaction from her face. ‘Do you want to take a minute to think about what you just said?’
‘I’ve already taken a lot longer than a minute to think about it,’ said Colin, removing a ring box from his jacket pocket. ‘I guess I loved you from the first moment I saw you.’
‘You guess? It’s not love at first sight if you’re not sure.’
‘I’m sure. I remember thinking, I love her even if she is a bit short. Meera, I need to know if you feel the same way about me.’
She stalled. ‘It certainly wasn’t reciprocated. You were eating. Anyone who can watch you fit a whole sausage into your mouth in one go isn’t going to fall in love with you at first sight. Or at second sight, when you’ve swallowed it and run your finger around your teeth to get the extra bits.’
Colin could feel the moment ebbing away. His hand with the ring box was still outstretched. ‘But
do you think you ever could—’
‘Can you shut up for a minute?’
He closed his mouth. He wasn’t sure about the way she was watching him—like a child with a magnifying glass waiting for an ant to stand still. He wanted to add something profound and beautiful but decided against it because he couldn’t think of anything.
‘If you want to win a maiden you must slay a dragon,’ said Meera.
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘You have to ask my mother first.’
‘I don’t want to marry your mother.’
‘I mean you have to get permission from her.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you do,’ said Meera, ‘she’ll pay for the whole thing.’
Colin looked as if his eyes were about to fall out. He thought of all the happiest moments of his life, starting with finding that he could now reach the shelf where his mother kept the beer. This was better.
‘What’s that in your hand?’
He looked down, startled to find the box in his palm. ‘There’s nothing in it yet ’cause I’m a bit brassic at the moment, but I’ll fill it, I promise. I’ve got a can of Fanta in my bag; I could give you the ring off that for now.’
‘As irresistible as it sounds,’ said Meera, ‘I think I’ll wait.’
‘Oh my God.’ He pinched his cheeks. ‘I’m waiting for the sky to fall.’ He held her hand. ‘My old man said I would never amount to anything. He said I’d never make a copper because no one would ever look up to me. I wish he was still alive. I miss him.’
‘You have a very good heart, Colin Bimsley,’ said Meera. ‘I’d be proud to marry you.’
He was about to kiss her when his phone rang. It was Janice. ‘Stop whatever you’re doing, Peter English has disappeared,’ she said. ‘We had two Met officers following him this morning from his flat to his office, but he managed to shake them off. We’re sending you backup. From this moment on you need to be really alert. Question everything you see and hear.’
‘How did he slip away?’ asked Bryant, stabbing at a hamburger carton with his walking stick and deftly flicking it into a bin. This afternoon he had chosen to bring along his ebony cane with the retractable spike.
‘They saw him go into the building but couldn’t follow him because they’re not being allowed to enter without a warrant,’ May explained. ‘English’s lawyer is trying to argue that there are no grounds for the granting of one. A few minutes later someone spotted English in the street behind.’
The pair headed over to a wooden bench in the little cobbled courtyard outside the church of St Mary-le-Bow and seated themselves. From here they could see anyone entering or leaving. There were supposed to be four Met constables stationed around the church. They couldn’t be seen, but Bryant conceded that was the point.
‘I should never have set off the fire alarm at Peter English’s office,’ he said out of the blue. ‘It tipped him off because now he knows that I know.’
May struggled to see the point but gave up. ‘What do you mean?’
His partner appeared not to have heard. ‘I have been deceived and now we all have to face the consequences. Do you know about the bear?’
‘I’m having enormous trouble following your thoughts,’ May admitted.
‘If you look at the art of deception from a neurological point of view it gets very interesting.’ Bryant sorted through a paper bag of boiled sweets. ‘I know my eyes don’t work very well but I console myself with the knowledge that nobody’s do. We need our brains, specifically shape-selective neurons, to make sense of what we see. Perspective and occlusion are tricks of depth perception that mess with our minds.’
He popped a barley sugar into his mouth, then remembered to offer May one. ‘There are a number of famous experiments that show just how terrible our powers of observation are. One involves a student stopping to ask a porter for directions. Some workers pass between them carrying a large board, and a different person takes the place of the student without the porter even noticing his change of identity. Another experiment involves footage of a football match as a striker heads towards the goal. Nobody spots a big fellow in a bear suit dancing across the pitch because their brains have focused exclusively on the attempt to score. Deception is simply a system learned like any other.’
‘Do you believe Peter English is guilty?’ May asked.
‘Oh, I know he is. That’s not the problem.’
An elderly and somewhat infirm verger came out of the side entrance and undertook the adventure of crossing the cobbled courtyard. ‘Ah, there you are,’ he called. ‘I’m afraid the vicar can’t be here to greet you. He just wanted me to check that there wouldn’t be too much disruption here today.’
‘We’re rather hoping for a miracle to occur,’ Bryant replied.
‘This is a church with modest expectations.’ The verger exuded an air of natural melancholia, like rising damp. ‘If you’re having doubts, perhaps our contemplative atmosphere can help. Just not today. The bells are being repaired again. It’s a never-ending saga. Would it be sacrilege if we switched to recordings, I wonder? Would the congregation notice? I hope you get your miracle, although I imagine the chances are slim in this city of Mammon.’
May’s shoulder transceiver buzzed. ‘Peter English is approaching the church,’ said Meera. ‘He’s walking down the middle of the pavement in plain sight. Should be coming into range—now.’
* * *
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Dave One was a big man who would quite happily squirm his way through a tight doorway, but he was stuck. ‘Pull on my boots,’ he called back to Dave Two. ‘If that doesn’t work I’ll have to take my trousers off.’
‘I’d rather be spared the sight of your Noddy and Big Ears pants, thank you,’ said Dave Two, tugging hard. How he knew about them was one of life’s lesser mysteries.
His workmate reemerged covered in plaster dust. ‘There’s something weird going on in there,’ he said, pointing back through the doorway. ‘We should have finished bricking it up or left it open, because that ain’t right.’
The pair were in the Unit’s dank basement, where the low rumble of tube trains mixed with the gastric gurgle of the underground river. The small chamber beyond was all that was left of the old passageway connecting the basement to the below-street bar in the building next door.
‘What do you mean, something weird?’ asked Dave Two. ‘There shouldn’t be nothing in there because I relocated the junction box after all that trouble we had with that bleedin’ corpse.’*
‘Nothing in there, eh?’ Dave One stepped aside to let his workmate see through the gap. ‘What’s all that, then?’
A row of tiny red eyes winked back at them.
* * *
|||
Sidney Hargreaves leaped along the corridor with her open laptop balanced in her right hand. She found Janice on the phone in the operations room.
‘You have to see this.’ She turned the screen towards Longbright and ran the clip.
Janice hung up the phone. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘It dropped onto Twitter for about thirty seconds before vanishing, but I was able to pull it in time. It was sent from a fake host.’
She ran it again. The video clip was taken from a phone on the steps of St Martin-in-the-Fields. It was only four seconds long. The audio was muddy and the visual was in deep focus but the foreground was diamond-sharp. Chakira Rahman was falling to her knees. The figure walking away from her only looked up at the camera for a second, but was easy to identify. Peter English’s dark eyes caught the camera lens for a split second, then continued onward.
‘John’s just spotted him arriving at St Mary-le-Bow,’ said Janice, ringing him back. ‘John, we have filmed evidence of Peter English a couple of seconds after the attack on Chakira Rahman,’ she explained as he answered. ‘G
o ahead and make the arrest.’
* * *
|||
The verger was confused. The detectives to whom he had been chatting had suddenly leaped to their feet and shot off like much younger men, following a smartly suited fellow who was striding with speed and purpose towards the church entrance.
As Bryant set off after him May caught up.
‘What’s English doing? There’s no one else here except him.’ May thumbed back at the verger.
‘The bells,’ said Bryant. ‘There’s a man working on them.’
The church’s blue and cream interior had been freshly painted. Instead of pews, plain chairs had been laid out in a semicircle. The stained-glass windows on either side of the organ were blood red.
Bryant looked around and failed to find English, even though he had only just entered the church. Spying the door that led to the bell tower, he listened for the tap of shoes on stone, but his ears had yet to stop ringing after the bomb.
There was nowhere else he could have gone. Bryant knew that neither he nor May could get up there. He was about to call the others when Colin slid into the apse from the street and ran for the staircase, closely followed by Meera.
‘Bring him down in one piece,’ Bryant called after them. ‘He’s not going to hurt you.’
Colin entered the bell tower. Its interior was a maze of dusty wooden struts with ropes tethered to them like giant spiderwebs. Each arrangement of beams supported one of the great bells and its accompanying flywheel. At the centre of them stood the largest of all, a great bronze bowl deeper than a man, currently propped upside down so that it could be worked on.
On the staircase above him was English.
‘Mate,’ called Colin, holding his ID high, ‘I don’t know what you’re doing but you need to come down from there.’
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