Bryant & May – England’s Finest

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘You seem to know a lot about what goes on around here,’ Bryant commented.

  ‘Yeah well, I have – a few deals going on.’ Joe shut up fast, remembering that Bryant was more than just an annoying neighbour.

  ‘What’s the problem with thirty-nine?’ asked Bryant.

  ‘Her name’s Parkhill. Adeel tries to be friendly, right,’ Joe replied, ‘but she just snatches stuff from him, don’t answer or nothing, and shuts the door. She’s got a right attitude, rude to everyone. Blimey, I could do your job. Anyway, she’s a weirdo.’

  ‘Would you care to elucidate further?’

  Joe stuck out his bottom lip and furrowed his brow.

  ‘Could you explain more?’ said Bryant.

  ‘Oh, right. She collects all this stuff. Little statues, horrible things. And she has a go at everyone. Goes out the same time every night. You can set your clock by her.’

  ‘That doesn’t exactly make her weird,’ said May.

  ‘Come back in an hour,’ Joe told them. ‘She should be back from work by then. You’ll see.’

  Amy Parkhill opened the door a crack and peered at them without speaking. She was tall, pale and overweight, so full of face that her features might have been tentatively sketched on. Her red hair was scraped back from her forehead and tightly tied. She was dressed in black suit trousers and a blue gingham top. Bryant could see a telescopic aluminium stick set against the wall. He had spotted more of these around lately, used as a walking aid by surprisingly young people.

  ‘I wonder if we could have a word with you?’ asked May, showing his PCU card. ‘It’s about the death of a postal worker who was delivering to these flats.’

  ‘Yes, I heard about it.’ She affected disinterest.

  ‘So you met Mr Khan?’

  ‘He rings when he has packages for me.’

  ‘Did you know his name or ever talk to him?’

  ‘No, I just signed his book.’

  ‘How did he seem to you?’

  She did not bother to consider the question. ‘I have really no idea. He was the postman, not a personal friend.’

  ‘Did he have anything for you yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, a package.’

  ‘You spoke to him?’

  ‘Only “Good morning”.’

  ‘The package he brought you yesterday—’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘What was in it?’ Bryant persisted.

  ‘I hardly see that it’s any business of yours.’

  ‘I’m a policeman, Miss Parkhill, everything is my business.’

  ‘Mrs. I’m divorced.’

  ‘It’s just that a neighbour tells me you receive quite a few deliveries.’

  ‘Which neighbour?’ Her tone had grown icier.

  ‘That’s irrelevant.’

  ‘Is it a crime now, to order items by post, or am I free to purchase what I choose? I was under the impression that this was still a free country.’

  ‘You’re entitled to believe what you like. I find your attitude very aggressive,’ said Bryant, trying to remember what Longbright had told him about locating a female perspective and failing miserably.

  ‘I am a private person. I have the right to protect my privacy,’ Parkhill snapped.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Bryant, looking uncomfortable, ‘could I possibly use your loo? My last cup of tea’s gone right through me and it’s a fair walk back to the unit.’

  May was left with Parkhill while his partner used the bathroom. ‘Is he your father?’ she asked, glancing along the hall.

  ‘So, what did you learn by using your female perspective?’ asked May as they headed down the stairs and walked away from Albion House.

  Bryant thought for a moment. ‘You shouldn’t wear gingham if you’re portly,’ he decided.

  ‘I don’t think that’s quite what Janice meant. Parkhill wanted to know if you were my father.’ May was unable to suppress his laughter.

  Bryant was incensed. ‘Bloody cheek! You’re only three years younger than me. You’ve had an easier life, that’s all. I didn’t say she was fat, did I? And when I say fat, I mean enormous.’

  ‘She judged your age by your appearance. Do you take Janice’s point now?’

  ‘I take her point but I’m struggling with it. Human beings are naturally judgemental.’

  ‘As police officers it’s our job to counteract that,’ said May.

  ‘But I joined the force in order to be as judgemental as possible,’ said Bryant indignantly. ‘It’s what attracted me most in the first place.’

  It sometimes took May a minute or two to realize that his partner was joking.

  ‘We still don’t know exactly where he fell from, do we?’ said Bryant. ‘No scuff marks on the floors of any of the terraces.’

  ‘We know where he’d got to in his deliveries,’ May pointed out. ‘He’d just reached Parkhill’s door. She’d signed his book. His next stop would have been number forty-one, Mr Davies, two letters. Then he’d finished the block.’

  ‘Odd.’ Bryant’s face scrunched up.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Postal workers usually start at the top and work down, not the other way around. He began at the bottom and had to take the lift down when he’d finished.’

  ‘I don’t see how that can have any significance.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It’s suggestive, that’s all. I’d like to know how soon he changed his routine after he’d taken on the Albion House route.’

  May held his partner back on the kerb as a lorry passed. ‘I don’t see what that’s going to tell us. We should be finding out who he hung around with when he wasn’t with his wife and daughter.’

  ‘That’s just it, John. He didn’t. He worked, he went home, he saw his parents and grandparents. Oh, and he went bowling once with Mr Pitt. So either he was secretly miserable and decided to end it all on the spur of the moment, or somebody did it for him.’ They leaned forward and studied the traffic before crossing the road, like children observing the Green Cross Code.

  ‘What are we missing?’ continued Bryant. ‘Was he having an affair with one of the women to whom he delivered packages? Gail Sampson at number nine, she was very pretty. Maybe her partner found out and confronted him.’

  May shrugged. ‘Khan was happily married.’

  ‘Was he? Jack couldn’t tell from meeting the wife. Maybe Janice is right. A woman might spot something we’ve missed. But I have an idea. We’ll have to go to Khan’s depot.’

  They caught a bus to Almeida Street, Islington, and were taken into the crowded duty room, where Khan’s colleagues expressed sadness and incomprehension at the death of their colleague.

  ‘He was just a decent sort of bloke, really open and genuine,’ said one of the Post Office managers, unlocking a screen on a battered computer. ‘We have to run very careful background checks on who we employ, but his came up spotless. Here’s his delivery roster for the last three months. It’ll tell you the size, type and date of delivery but not what was in any of the packages. Obviously security’s a lot higher these days, given the present threat of terrorism, especially in this area, so everything is screened, but parcels from trusted sources are fast-tracked.’

  ‘Have you had any suspect packages in the last year?’ May asked.

  ‘No, none that turned out to pose any real threat,’ said the manager. ‘The usual morons posting drugs to each other, thinking we won’t notify you lot. I’ll leave you to go through this.’

  Working from a single postcode simplified the task, but it still took them several hours. After a while Bryant snatched off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. ‘How do people work at these things all day long? I’m half blind.’

  ‘Yes, but you are half blind,’ said May. ‘I thought you were going to get your cataracts done.’

  ‘The NHS said they won’t sort them out until it looks like I’m viewing Victorian postcards. Amy Parkhill received thi
rteen packages in just over three months, all the same size and shape.’

  ‘Didn’t your neighbour say something about her being a collector?’ said May. ‘I guess she doesn’t trawl junk shops.’ He read over his partner’s shoulder. ‘Ten-inch square boxes, one delivered every Thursday.’

  ‘I took a shufti around when I used her loo, and the odd thing was, I didn’t see any figurines,’ Bryant said. ‘Mr Pitt reckoned they were china statues.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to go and antagonize her again when you get home.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Bryant agreed. ‘It’s got to be her, but I can’t for the life of me see why.’

  Amy Parkhill was not pleased to receive a second visit from her neighbour. ‘You’re back,’ she observed, somewhat redundantly. ‘Do you need to use my lavatory again?’

  ‘Thank you, I’m not incontinent,’ said Bryant, nettled. ‘I wanted to ask you about the packages the postman delivered to you every week.’

  She gave an annoyed sigh. ‘I collect china figures.’

  ‘Ornaments are meant to be put on display, aren’t they? I didn’t see any left out.’

  ‘They’re not ornaments,’ she replied, folding her arms against his questions. ‘They are collectables.’

  ‘What kind of collectables?’

  ‘If you must know, they’re dogs. So when you went to the bathroom you snooped around my flat.’

  ‘I’m naturally suspicious,’ Bryant admitted. ‘It’s a prerequisite of the job. Are you buying them for someone in your family – a niece perhaps?’

  ‘I can tell you where I bought them, if that will satisfy you.’

  ‘We already know that. They came from the Fenton Crafts Online Gift Store. So where are they?’

  ‘That’s absolutely none of your business,’ she told him, closing the door in his face.

  The next morning, Bryant arrived at the unit to be greeted by the two Daves, the Turkish workmen who had come to fit a toilet three years ago and stayed on.

  ‘Mr Bryant, I wonder if we could have a word with you?’ asked the Dave with the more luxuriant moustache. ‘It’s about your dead postman.’

  ‘Has this been reported somewhere?’ asked Bryant, amazed. ‘Or have you been listening in on our investigation reports again? You do know you’re here to fix the electrics and make sure nobody else falls through the floor, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s just that Dave here’ – he indicated the other Dave, who seemed incapable of speaking for himself – ‘his ex-sister-in-law’s auntie lives down the road from you and she says another one died. A lady postman.’

  ‘We call them postal workers because it’s sexist to say lady postman,’ Bryant explained proudly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know – Janice told me. I think it’s about assuming that postal workers are automatically male.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Dave. ‘I’d better make a note of that.’

  ‘Anyway, what about her?’

  ‘She fell off a balcony as well.’

  Bryant’s patience was ebbing. ‘When was this?’

  ‘About eighteen months ago.’

  ‘Why has nobody told me about this? In Harrison Street?’

  ‘No, in Tenerife. She was pissed.’

  ‘What on earth has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘I dunno. We thought you should know.’

  ‘Do I tell you how to repair a ballcock?’ Bryant rolled his eyes and made his way to his office, where his partner was waiting for him.

  ‘This just came in,’ May said, handing over a page. ‘Amy Parkhill has a history of antagonizing her former neighbours. She’s narrowly avoided jail a couple of times, once for nuisance calls, once for trying to poison a cat. Of course that doesn’t make her a murderer. What I don’t understand is why a bad-tempered woman like her would collect cute animal figurines. You met her. What did you think?’

  Bryant donned his trifocals and scanned the page. ‘Venison.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Tough and unpleasant.’ His phone rang, making them both jump, as the ringtone was a woman shrieking a high note from Iolanthe. Bryant gingerly put it to his ear. A familiar voice boomed out.

  ‘Mr Bryant, is that you? It’s Joe. Mr Pitt. Hang on. Oi, Michelle, turn that down a sec. Sorry, you still there? I got your message about was there anything I’d forgotten.’

  Bryant turned off the speaker setting and listened. While he was doing so, Janice entered with further information. ‘Here’s the full list of purchased products from the manager of Fenton Crafts,’ she said. ‘She says you can see them all online. They only make china dogs.’

  May examined the list of figurines Amy Parkhill had ordered. ‘Odd,’ he said. ‘They’re all the same batch number, all the same breed of dog, the British Bulldog, all the same figures.’

  Bryant hung up. ‘That was my neighbour,’ he said. ‘He was talking with his wife and she remembered something rather important. It might explain why I didn’t find the contents of Parkhill’s packages in the flat. She breaks them in half and throws them away.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Mrs Pitt went out on to the balcony for a smoke one night and saw her neighbour in the kitchen. She had one of the bulldogs on the counter and was cracking it open with a hammer. They’re hollow. Then she swept it into the bin. And here’s the interesting part. This was over a month ago.’

  ‘Why is that interesting?’ May asked.

  Bryant shook his head impatiently, as if the answer was obvious. ‘She continued ordering them, didn’t she? So she smashes them and orders more?’

  ‘Wait.’ May checked the page on his desk. ‘This has today’s date. She just cancelled her standing order for the bulldogs.’

  ‘There you are,’ said Bryant. ‘She was looking for something inside them and Adeel Khan had figured out what it was. We go back there.’

  The third visit was the least comfortable yet. Amy Parkhill was by now extremely agitated. ‘What I choose to do with items that belong to me is no business of yours,’ she said. ‘If I want to blast them to smithereens with a shotgun it is entirely within my rights to do so.’

  ‘Only if you have a permit for the gun, and not in a built-up area,’ said Bryant argumentatively.

  ‘I work for Camden Council, and I will raise the matter of the police abusing their powers at the very next meeting.’

  May had had enough of this. ‘Why did you break them open?’ he asked. ‘What were you looking for? Did Adeel Khan challenge you about it? You talked to him, didn’t you? You got angry with him, frightened that he would turn you in. You pushed him over the balcony.’

  ‘Get away from this flat before I call—’

  ‘The police?’ asked May, trying to restore his temper. ‘We’re already here and we’re on to you, Mrs Parkhill.’

  ‘Well, I thought you went a little over the top there,’ said Bryant later that evening, when they were back in their office at the PCU.

  ‘I don’t like being taken for a fool,’ said May. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t do something.’

  ‘Oh, I did,’ said Bryant, reaching under his desk. ‘After you stormed off I got my neighbour to knock on her door and ask to borrow a pair of scissors.’

  ‘Why scissors?’

  ‘It was the only thing I could think of that everyone’s bound to have. While she went to get them, I got him to steal this.’ He laid Parkhill’s aluminium walking stick on the desk. It had been carefully wrapped in plastic.

  ‘A totally illegal thing to do, but we’ll let that pass,’ said May, taking a good look at it. ‘Am I missing something?’

  ‘No, we were,’ said Bryant. ‘It’s got Adeel’s fingerprints on the lower end.’

  ‘Arthur, I must be tired – I don’t know what’s going through your brain.’

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Bryant with a grin. He took off his shoe, reached behind him and knocked on the wall with it. Janice Longbright came in. ‘Janice, would y
ou explain to my colleague what happened to Adeel?’

  ‘Mr Khan was backing away from her when she picked up the stick,’ Janice explained. ‘It was kept beside the front door. It wasn’t a premeditated act. She has a temper. We know that from her past problems with the police. She lashed out at him and didn’t know her own strength. The small bruise on his chest was made by the end of the stick. He raised his hands like so, clasping the stick.’ She demonstrated. ‘But he couldn’t get any traction. She’s a strong woman. He was tall but thin. He was pushed backwards, lost his balance and went straight over. She went back inside, closed the door. End of story.’

  ‘You’re sure about this?’ asked May. ‘Then what am I missing?’

  ‘The female perspective,’ said Longbright. ‘Amy Parkhill wasn’t interested in the figurines. They were simply the first thing she thought of buying that wouldn’t fit through the letter box. She smashed them up and threw them away because they weren’t what she wanted.’

  ‘Then what did she want?’

  ‘Him. She wanted Adeel Khan to call on her as often as possible.’

  ‘You can’t know that,’ said May, unconvinced. ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Remember I told you that Khan didn’t have a Facebook page?’ said Longbright. ‘He had one once, but had to take it down. Too much trouble with stalkers. Even the newspapers had picked up on the story. I hadn’t seen any photographs of him at all.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Neither of you noticed, but every one of his female Facebook followers did. He was absolutely bloody gorgeous, like an Asian Kit Harington.’ Longbright slid a tabloid article across the desk at them. It was headed, ‘You’ve got male! Secrets of London’s sexiest postie!’ ‘Next time,’ she said, ‘try taking the female perspective a little further.’

  Bryant & May and the Devil’s Triangle

  ‘Do you think there are such things as spiritually bad places?’ Arthur Bryant raised his head from a dog-eared copy of Stanley’s Through the Dark Continent and asked the question out of the blue.