Bryant & May

by Christopher Fowler - Bryant

  ‘Humiliation isn’t against the law, John. Sounds like he’s used to getting his own way.’

  ‘One of his companies created a program that aggregates algorithms to detect false news. The program proved inaccurate and the investors lost fortunes, so they’re pretty disgruntled. It may be a way in to him.’

  ‘You really think he’s involved in this?’

  ‘It’s hard to know, working like this. I need to get out there.’

  There was a creak of wood. Bryant could tell his partner was supine. ‘How are you feeling? Are you getting any exercise?’

  ‘I’m controlling the pain. I can’t help much with just a phone and a laptop. I’m useless. How’s the new blood?’

  ‘They’re very nice, if you don’t mind interactifacing with generationally challenged pod people so young their mothers are still lactating. You need to get back here and help me deal with them; I have absolutely no idea what they’re on about.’

  ‘We are still in the room with you,’ said Sidney.

  * * *

  |||

  May rang off and went to answer the door. His new neighbour, Jenny, had brought him a spaghetti Bolognese. ‘I come bearing convenience products,’ she said cheerfully, inviting herself inside. ‘It says “artisanal” on the lid so maybe they’ve put some bits of grass in it. Are you working?’

  ‘Just notes,’ he said, closing the lid of the laptop. Recent experience had taught him to be wary of sharing any information, no matter how innocent.

  ‘So’—she tapped the packets—‘spag bol, soup, juice, some kind of pie thing and some veggie bits. That should keep you going.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you but I have food in the freezer.’

  ‘I dare say you do, but you can also accept a friendly helping hand.’

  ‘I’m not very good at that.’ He sat back on the edge of his bed. ‘Let me give you some money—’

  ‘I’ll take a coffee. Incredibly, I do know how to use a Nespresso machine.’ She headed for the tiny kitchen. ‘Do you cook?’

  ‘I haven’t for a while.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Maybe six, seven years.’

  ‘So, the whole time you’ve been here.’

  He hobbled behind her, feeling ancient. ‘How would you know that?’

  ‘The caretaker told me. He has the dirt on everyone. I treat cookery like a sport: Push up the temperature, get into a sweat, wear yourself out—the perfect end to a day spent hunched over a screen. How long are you going to be away from your job?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’m seeing the doctor again next week.’

  She turned on the coffee machine and wandered into the living room. ‘You’ve got no books.’

  ‘I download them.’

  ‘Lots of lovely tech, though. I have the same headphones. I have a headphone fetish. Seven pairs and counting.’

  She prowled around the flat peering closely at everything. He was glad he had put away the more unusual prototypes Dan Banbury had made for him.

  ‘Watching for details,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Your video games—they must make you notice small things.’

  She apologized. ‘It comes with the job. I know it looks like I’m being nosy. Where’s your—legal practice, did you say? Is your office far from here?’

  ‘Not far.’

  ‘How long have you been with them?’

  ‘A while now.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘You don’t give out much information, do you?’

  ‘I’m a bit out of practice, conversationally.’

  ‘Throw me out when you’ve had enough.’ She poured coffee like a barista. ‘I talk too much. It’s because I can’t talk at work.’ She tapped her ear. ‘I wear the headphones all day long. I’m deprived of normal conversation. Not that I work with many normal people. They tend to conform to stereotype. Good at powering up to fight next-level bosses, not so hot on banter.’ She laughed. ‘You don’t seem to have a TV.’

  He knew that from an outsider’s viewpoint the flat must appear devoid of creature comforts. ‘I have a tablet,’ he said. ‘I don’t amuse myself. I’m usually thinking about work.’

  ‘But you must have friends outside of work.’

  God, she wanted to know a lot. Was this how all normal people were? During investigations he interviewed them with unfailing kindness and consideration, but they really only existed to answer his questions. People were never comfortable with police officers. The innocent worked so hard to make themselves appear guilty.

  ‘Your work makes you sound very mysterious.’

  ‘I’m not that interesting,’ he said. ‘Tell me about you.’

  She ran out a second coffee and tasted it. ‘I moved south after Sheffield University. I have a son named Caden, a great kid, almost a teenager. You’re not married, obviously. Any children?’

  Her questions flagged themselves up like warnings and he found himself unable to answer her. He had spent too many years as a perpetual bachelor, refusing responsibility, determined not to act his now considerable age, but the shooting had shifted everything. Things had to change. He felt much as Tom Jones must have done when he decided to stop dyeing his hair.

  ‘You’re miles away,’ she said cheerfully.

  ‘My wife is dead,’ he blurted out. ‘She had a breakdown and never recovered.’

  Jenny was momentarily nonplussed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I’m not very good company. My chest is rather sore.’

  ‘You won’t be feeling social if you’re on these.’ She picked up a packet of tablets and read the label. ‘They’re very strong. I’m intruding on your privacy. Call me if you need anything. I don’t mind when.’

  She drained her coffee and waved fingers at him, heading out.

  He sank back into his sofa feeling relief that she had gone. He was suspicious of her for being so kind and curious about his life.

  No more than three or four people had ever set foot inside his flat. After a lifetime in the force the young, gregarious John May had turned into a taciturn senior, institutionalized by work, uncomfortable with outsiders, discomfited when left alone. He no longer believed in the seven ages of man but in two states only: looking forward and looking back. Somehow the most important part, the time that fell between them, eluded him entirely.

  It was the first time in an age that Arthur Bryant had been by himself to see Giles Kershaw. The holly-framed cottage at the back of St Pancras Old Church cemetery housed the coroner’s office and looked like a Victorian stage set. In its backstage area was sunk the brutal grey concrete bunker where the science of death was navigated.

  Bryant realized he would have to face Rosa Lysandrou alone. Usually when he made fun of Giles’s dour housekeeper he had John to back him up.

  She opened the door to him before he’d had a chance to knock.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Bryant, ‘do you have ESP?’

  ‘No, we have Sky,’ said Rosa, peering around him. ‘Where is the one I like?’

  ‘Still shot, I’m afraid. He wanted me to thank you for the chocolates. I passed the hard-centred ones on to him. You’ll have to make do with me today. Did anyone ever tell you how lovely you look in the morning light?’

  ‘No,’ she said suspiciously.

  ‘They never will. But we must desist in this foolish dream. Our love can never be. I’m from leafy Whitechapel and you’re from the wrong end of Mykonos. My father was a lowly tram conductor and yours was the head of the SS. Can Giles come out to play?’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No, but I have a little badge that allows me to see him whenever I want.’ He flashed his bus pass at her. ‘I’ll wait in your Chapel of Rest.’

  ‘You will not. I’ve jus
t polished it.’

  ‘There’s not much point in having a Chapel of Rest if you can’t rest in it. Announce me, you espresso bar Jezebel.’

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ said Giles, coming to find him. ‘Don’t lurk out there annoying Rosa, come and see your corpse.’

  ‘I’ve got wintergreen, sherbet lemons or rhubarb and custard,’ said Bryant, rattling a bag of boiled sweets at Kershaw as they headed for the autopsy room. ‘They’re all horrible but it’s better than smelling of your chemicals.’

  Giles led the way. ‘You’re still finding plenty of cases “likely to cause public affright,” I see.’

  ‘That’s our remit, old sausage. People default to a state of trust. It’s the way we’re programmed. As I see it, the Unit is responsible for maintaining that trust. Which one is he in?’ He pointed to the cadaver storage drawers.

  ‘You know, it always annoys me when you see coroners’ offices in films,’ said Giles. ‘All those half-naked bodies lying about. I’ve never met a coroner who keeps a corpse out when there are visitors. Mind you, you’re nobody’s idea of a detective.’

  ‘Then what am I?’

  ‘A disrupter.’

  Bryant popped in a sherbet lemon. ‘Is that a good thing, do you think?’

  ‘It’s not a bad thing. I suppose you heard I didn’t get a look-in with Michael Claremont.’

  ‘Well, he’s not technically dead.’

  ‘I know, but I thought I might give you a hand by talking to a survivor. I’m a pretty good judge of character.’

  ‘I don’t see how you can be, when the only people you usually see are staring up at the ceiling.’

  ‘Anyway, I hear he’s been whisked off to the countryside. I guess the NHS wasn’t good enough for him.’

  ‘You went to a school for poshos, didn’t you? I thought you had family connections to the Home Office?’

  ‘Had being the operative word,’ said Giles. ‘She left me. Why?’

  ‘I’m trying to find a way of interviewing someone who’s too rich to return my calls.’

  ‘Be careful not to confuse posh with rich, dear chap. The former are poor and the latter are vulgar.’ Giles knew whereof he spoke, heralding from an ancient estate that was flogged off to pay taxes. ‘How’s John doing?’

  ‘He’s as well as can be expected,’ said Bryant, reaching the crunching stage of his sherbet lemon. ‘The case has given him something to aim for but at the moment he’s in durance vile at his flat on the river.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s back soon. You need him to keep yourself anchored.’

  ‘We are not a ship. Why did she leave you?’

  Giles looked surprised. ‘My wife?’ He thought for a moment. ‘We disagreed on the correct ingredients for a salade Niçoise and I had an affair. Let’s see what we’ve got here.’ He pulled open a drawer and unzipped its sanitized bag.

  ‘Cristian Albu, late proprietor of Typeface Books, Bloomsbury,’ Bryant murmured. He was always amazed by the human body in repose. ‘How much did you find out?’

  ‘Janice scanned your decoded notes for me but I still couldn’t read them. Your handwriting is atrocious. This chap’s been kicking around the system for far too long. He’d been mislabelled and put in storage at University College Hospital. What went wrong?’

  ‘We did, I’m afraid. The case came in just after the Unit was shut down. I need to make it up to his widow.’ He sniffed inside the bag, then backed off.

  ‘The most obvious thing is the distinctive smell, even after all this time,’ said Giles. ‘A mix of burning wood and varnish plus linseed oil.’

  ‘It was used on his wood floors and stored in a can under the stairs.’

  ‘So Janice told me. I thought I’d find splashes on his hands and boots. Instead I found it under his arms. And no ashes on him, not an ember. There’s alcohol in his system but not enough to put him out, so I looked for the presence of narcotics. I wasn’t sure I’d still find anything but there are mineral traces from a neural blocker. They’re factory-made synthetics, unfortunately very easy to get hold of these days.’

  Giles moved around to the head of the drawer. It pleased Bryant to see him using the retractable steel pointer their previous coroner had bequeathed to his successor. Continuity gave him an irrational sense of pleasure.

  ‘There’s a small contusion on the back of his head, specks of gravel on the heels of his trainers, as if he was dragged a short distance and dropped. No oil on his hands, yet the cap was off the empty can. Nothing unusual in his clothes: small change, a paperback, his wallet, a phone. He’d made one call home.’

  ‘So a scenario presents itself,’ said Bryant. ‘He takes a drink with this stranger to celebrate a sale, he’s drugged and is half walked, half dragged across the courtyard into a corner of the alley. The stranger takes his keys, sets fire to his shop and leaves the can beside him.’

  ‘A relatively easy frame-up in an empty backstreet,’ Giles concurred.

  ‘The next part is weirder. Albu is arrested and put in Holborn station’s overnight holding cell. There’s nothing in there you could hang yourself on, so he tears the plastic cover off the bed in a strip and asks to use the bathroom. Once inside, he ties it into a makeshift noose, attaching one end to the cold tap, the other around his neck. He then drops towards the floor, choking himself to death. And that’s where my problem begins.’

  ‘I’m glad you have a problem, Mr B.,’ said Giles, ‘because so do I. Let’s see if they match.’

  ‘OK, mine is the bed cover.’

  ‘Oh.’ Giles was surprised. ‘Tell me yours first.’

  ‘It’s impossible to tear. It’s thick, strong plastic and designed not to be ripped. Oddly enough I was testing my theories on deaths in custody and tried tearing a jacket made of roughly the same substance. I couldn’t do it. Mind you, I can’t get the lid off a jar of gherkins. You could tear it if you could find something to puncture it with first, but Albu had nothing sharp on him.’

  ‘His teeth?’

  ‘Not consistent with the marks on the bed. According to Dan the cover had been punctured before being torn, probably with a penknife—an item Albu did not possess. Tell me your problem.’

  Giles traced his pointer across Albu’s throat. ‘See these livid crimp marks? There’s blood trapped under the skin. You get them from elasticated material as the threads stretch and then contract, like the marks your socks leave when you take them off. There’s no give in the plastic strip we found around his neck, so it couldn’t leave a mark like this, and it doesn’t quite match up. Sergeant Flowers says he took Albu’s laces and belt away from him, and later found him hanging from the plastic strip. But his belt was elasticated and matches the earlier throat markings.’

  ‘So it was swapped for the torn bed covering after he had already died.’

  ‘Which is where I hand the problem back to you,’ said Giles, looking around for a box of swabs. ‘I’ve got something on your arsonist, too. If he lifted this fellow up to move him I assume he’d lift him under the arms, so I smelled his armpits.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘All part of the service. I wondered if he’d left any transfers on the body but I didn’t find any fibres, so sometimes it pays to use your nose. Smell this.’ He ran a swab on Albu’s armpit and waved it under Bryant’s nostrils. ‘It’s a transferred scent. He doesn’t just smell of smoke.’

  ‘No,’ Bryant agreed. ‘He smells of oranges.’

  PART TWO

  | | |

  The Bells of St Martin’s

  The English are bears in all places, except in their own houses; and only those who make their acquaintance in their dens know how amiable, kind and mannerly they really are.

  —MAX SCHLESINGER

  SCRIPT EXTRACT FROM ARTHUR BRYANT’S ‘PECULIAR LONDON’ WALKING TOUR GUIDE. (DURATION 45 MINS, MEET BESIDE STA
TUE OF DAME EDITH CAVELL.)

  In the year 334, Jesus appeared to Saint Martin in a dream. Martin wasn’t a saint then, just another gormless Roman soldier, but he was canonized and buried at the edge of Covent Garden, where Henry VIII created the parish of ‘Saynt Martyns-yn-the-Ffelds’ in 1536.

  His graveyard later came to hold the victims of the Great Plague, because Henry didn’t want them coming anywhere near the Palace of Whitehall with their filthy germs. The original cockney thief and jailbreaker Jack Sheppard was hanged at twenty-two and buried there. William Hogarth, too, and Nell Gwyn, at thirty-seven. She had probably been born in Coal Yard Alley off Drury Lane, went onstage as a man, became Restoration comedy’s superstar and Charles II’s mistress, although everyone still thinks of her flogging oranges in Covent Garden because they never let you forget your roots.

  St Martin’s got grander. The church owns the adjacent alleyway so it has its own inscribed lampposts. Everyone hated the new design, yet it became copied all over the world, especially in America. It’s the parish church of both the royal family and the prime minister.

  But it’s an oddly unlovable building, elegant within, severe without, rectangular and faced with a portico whose pediment is supported by giant Corinthian columns. It almost defies you to step inside, although the crypt is welcoming and you can have lunch on top of the gravestones in there. Don’t worry, we’ll be stopping there for a cuppa and a sausage roll with meatless option as I have a bit of a deal going on with the cook.

  St Martin’s commands the upper right-hand corner of Trafalgar Square. Forget finding it in fields; you’re hard-pushed to find any trees. Surprisingly, it’s always been a community church. It has a history of sheltering the homeless and in both wars soldiers were billeted in the crypt. And check out the arched central East Window, which looks like there’s some kind of space-time warp going on. It makes a nice change from shepherds, halos and fat little children tangled in sheets.