May made sure that his partner was sitting beside him. ‘Are you certain you know what you’re doing?’ he whispered. Bryant tapped the side of his snub nose and said nothing.
The entrance to the Findersbury Bank still showed evidence of the petrol-bomb attack, and although a half-hearted attempt had been made to clean the surround, it had since been daubed with skulls and crossbones and splashes of red paint. Instead of a venerable and trusted financial institution, the bank looked like a derelict ghost train. Bryant had told no one but DuCaine that he had stolen Dexter Cornell’s swipe cards, so he waited while a young woman met them and arranged admittance.
‘Are you honestly suggesting that Cornell got word to the directors through four concrete floors?’ asked Faraday, pacing about.
‘I thought it was impossible at first,’ Bryant answered. ‘All those details about the Chinese shares and Kenya and them pulling out of the proposed merger and leaving the stocks exposed and the likelihood of a collapse in the cash flow and heaven knows what else. But then I remembered that the directors knew all this. They had everything they needed to know. The only single piece of information they were missing was: Would the deal happen before the deadline or would it fall through? And as soon as I realized that, it became like the election of the new Pope. Would there be white smoke or black smoke?’ He rooted about in his pocket, pulled something sticky off his mobile and thumped out a number. ‘Hello, Fraternity, are you ready? Be so kind as to do it now, would you?’
Faraday went over to the window, frowning. ‘Are we supposed to see something happen?’
‘They never went over to the windows,’ May pointed out.
‘That’s right,’ Bryant agreed. ‘You can sit down over here and you’ll still be able to see. Remember, Cornell knew that the room was covered by CCTV, so he couldn’t do anything that would show up on camera or arouse any kind of suspicion.’
Faraday stretched his bulk on tiptoe and examined the glass globe in the ceiling. ‘That thing films a 360-degree picture. Are you telling me he sent them a message that couldn’t be picked up by a high-definition camera lens? What was it, some kind of audio signal?’
‘No,’ said Bryant, easing himself into a seat and raising his eyes with a smile. ‘Look.’
There on the ceiling was a bright rectangle with a broad X at its centre. ‘X as in no entry, not happening, no go,’ said Bryant unnecessarily. ‘If the deal had been approved, the X would probably have been halved to a single downstroke, a tick for yes. It’s funny, you never know what’s in a London street. Take the headquarters of the City of London Police in Love Lane. You know what’s underneath that building opposite you, Mr Faraday, the tower of St Alban’s?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Faraday distractedly, staring up at the cross.
‘There’s a white-tiled stable full of horses. Once a month, London’s only remaining farrier comes along and fits the police mounts with new horseshoes. He has a mobile furnace and a portable anvil.’ Bryant rose and waved a hand at the view. ‘And on the ground floor of that building opposite is a venerable old wine bar, scruffy and stuffy, with real-ale casks and barrel tables in a basement. Cornell popped out for a quick lunch on the day in question, just as the sun came overhead and into the street at noon. He went across the road with two of his mates, and angled the upper window pane so that it reflected on to the boardroom ceiling, leaving it in place while he had a sandwich and a glass of wine. I imagine he’d been in there the night before and had stuck two strips of tape on the glass. That’s the great thing about city pubs. Nobody ever notices what you do in them. He must have spotted the light on the boardroom ceiling before and it gave him the idea. And the best part was, the CCTV couldn’t pick it up because it was mounted into the same surface as the projection.’
‘But there’s no sunlight out there right now,’ objected Faraday.
‘You’re right, it’s too early,’ Bryant agreed. ‘Which is why my lad is down there shining a torch at the window to replicate the sunlight.’
‘All right, you’ve proved your point,’ Faraday conceded, ‘but where’s the proof?’
‘We have a witness,’ said Bryant. ‘One of the barmaids saw Cornell open the window. She’s already given us a statement.’
‘It’ll never hold up in court,’ warned May.
‘Maybe not, but it’ll pin him down for a while.’
‘What do you mean, pin him down?’ asked Faraday, his face a picture of apprehension.
‘I’d say that right now Cornell is our main suspect.’
‘Are you insane?’ Faraday exploded. ‘He’s at the centre of one of the most intense media spotlights ever turned on a human being in this city. How would he ever think that this was a good time to get away with murder?’
‘If he could pull it off,’ said Bryant placidly, ‘I’d say it was the perfect time. Look down there. What does that say?’ He pointed to the street sign on the wall beside the bank.
‘Crutched Friars,’ said May. ‘I always wondered about the name. Something to do with a monastery?’
‘Exactly so. Over there’ – he waved his walking stick at the other side of the road – ‘was the House of Crutched Friars, the Order of the Holy Cross, founded in 1298. Underneath that building in 1842 they discovered a group of Roman goddesses bearing baskets of fruit, which is why the site became holy.’
‘Where are we going with this, Bryant?’ begged Faraday impatiently.
The detective was not to be hurried. ‘During the dissolution of the monasteries, Cromwell’s emissaries caught the Prior of Crutched Friars in flagrante delicto, and down came the hammer on that corrupt little brotherhood. The church was turned into a carpenter’s yard, and the friars’ hall became a glasshouse. In 1575 a suspicious fire broke out and destroyed everything but the stone walls. Many said that it was arson, an act of Catholic revenge after the Marian Persecutions, when Mary Tudor had burned two hundred and eighty-eight Protestants alive.’
‘Are you saying that was somehow connected with this?’
‘A religious legacy, perhaps. As soon as I saw that someone had tried to burn down the bank, I thought of the monastery. There’s so much about arson that’s identifiable now. We can tell how, where and when a fire starts and what flammable substances were used. We can plot its spread, we know what accelerates and retards it. But the one thing fire does is eradicate the culprit. It’s a coward’s weapon. We’re looking for someone bitter and angry, impulsive and cowardly. Or at least, that’s what he wants us to think. Because if he was really clever, he’d be none of these things.’
Faraday groaned. ‘I’m all at sea here. Who are we talking about now?’ He looked to May for help, but found none.
‘Leslie, I assume even you know about the recent secret reports into the corruption of the criminal justice system,’ said Bryant, ‘the threatened juries, the collusion of Freemasons, the “Get out of jail free” cards?’
‘Scotland Yard is apparently putting its house in order.’ Faraday gestured vaguely.
‘You can believe anything you want, but I suggest you look a little more carefully into Darren Link’s background.’
‘Link? He’s working under the jurisdiction of the Serious Crime Directorate.’
‘Who are themselves under investigation,’ said Bryant.
‘Why would Link get himself involved in something like this?’
‘That’s what I intend to find out. The first question I asked myself was the simplest: Who has the most to gain? While the City’s financial institutions remain engulfed in chaos, Dexter Cornell can virtually do as he pleases. And who can protect him?’
‘Link? Really?’ Faraday waved away the whole idea. ‘Well, I’m afraid it’s a bit over my head. The Chinese, the Africans, the government, plots and conspiracies, and now the police – I mean, such cover-ups aren’t very likely, are they?’
‘There has to be a reason why someone can keep getting away with murder without leaving any clue to his identity,’ sai
d Bryant. ‘I’m not saying it is Cornell, but right now we know he’s committed a major felony. And he has one weak spot when it comes to the deaths: His alibis don’t hold up. To exclude him, I have to get his son to open up.’
‘His little boy?’ Faraday was aghast.
‘Cornell can keep fudging his whereabouts, but I think the boy is closer to him than anyone else. Let him assume I’m chasing alibis. What I really want is insider information. You know, the coming of fire has always been seen as a sign of the Apocalypse. Perhaps everything we hold dear is going to come tumbling down around our ears. Then where will we be, eh? I’ll see you later.’ And with that Bryant patted his homburg harder down over his ears, rose and slipped out of the boardroom.
‘Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?’ wailed Faraday, watching Bryant leave.
‘I think I should go after him,’ said May.
‘No, I need you here,’ warned the epicene liaison officer. ‘If all this is true, we’re not finished.’
‘But—’
May was desperate to stay with his partner. The crafty devil, he thought. He’s used the meeting to get away. This isn’t an investigation any more; it’s an expedition into his mind without a map.
38
OPHELIA ON THE SHORE
‘Janice, have you got a minute?’
Meera stood in Longbright’s doorway, waiting to be invited in, which was a first. Usually she just barged about wherever she liked.
‘Of course,’ said Longbright. ‘Grab that stool.’
‘Sorry to collar you so early, I just thought I could have a word before things got busy around here again.’ She looked sheepish and uncomfortable.
Longbright put down her pen and gave the DC her full attention. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Your mum was in the force, right?’
‘Yes, Gladys worked for Mr Bryant before me. And both her parents were in the Met.’
‘So there was never any doubt that you’d join up, too?’
‘Oh, there was doubt. But my happiest memories were with her at work, so I tried it and found that I liked the life.’
‘And you never regretted the path you chose?’
‘Of course I did. I left several times, tried all sorts of other jobs, but none of them was half as rewarding, and I always found myself coming back. Why? Are you thinking of leaving?’
Mangeshkar was not used to unburdening herself, and the words did not come easily. She swung about on the stool, looking for the right phrase. ‘It’s not me. My folks – they want me to start a family. They don’t think this is a healthy environment for me.’
‘Are they putting pressure on you?’
‘Yeah. Only because they care, but … there’s someone they’re keen for me to marry. I’ve known him for a long time. He’s nice.’
‘Do you want to be with him?’
‘That’s not really the question. It’s not about him at all, but me. Whether I want to stay here.’
‘And do you?’
‘Yes. I’m suited to the life. I know I bitch about it a lot, but it fits with who I am.’
Longbright shrugged. ‘Then stay. We’re not nuns. It doesn’t mean you have to give up everything else. You can have both, you know. Date a doctor – they keep difficult hours. And there are some lovely blokes in the force.’
Meera looked doubtful. ‘There are also some real dickheads.’
‘This isn’t about marriage, it’s about the job?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘Then I can tell you that you have everything it takes to be a great detective.’
‘I think you’ve just answered my question.’ Meera smiled and rose.
‘Send the next one in on your way out.’ Longbright sighed. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’
He knew she was alone in the ground-floor Bankside apartment because the other two girls had already left, a leggy blonde with the unearned superiority of someone in an inconsequential media job, and a dumpy, frizzed mess of a thing in a plaid woollen skirt and sweater that her mother must have picked out for her.
A ground-floor flat in a three-storey semi-detached house with six bells beside the front door. Obviously he couldn’t be buzzed in, so he would either have to wait for someone to come out or try to gain access through the rear. But he couldn’t risk waiting.
He had to catch Joanna Papis inside.
He was still deciding what to do when the front door opened and a young Chinese guy came out. He looked like a very conservatively dressed student, the type that would keep to himself and barely notice anyone around him. It was easy to get up the steps and catch the door before it fully closed. Stepping over a scattering of junk mail, he saw that front doors to the two ground-floor flats had been carved from the home’s old hallway; the plaster ivy entwined along the edge of the ceiling came to a sudden halt against a diagonal of painted plasterboard. Checking to be sure that he had the right number, he unloaded his tool bag and set to work, knowing that at any moment the door could spring open and she would emerge, ready to leave.
There was no letter box. That was why the mail had been left in the hall. None of the flats had letter boxes. OK, no reason to panic, he’d have to improvise. There was a narrow gap under the door. The bag yielded a roll of silver tape. He needed to keep the washing-up bottle higher than the tubing … There was a noise inside, and he knew that she had stepped into her hall. It was too late for anything elaborate. He would have to take a chance.
Shoving the end of the tube into the nozzle of the bottle, he pushed it through the gap and began to squeeze. The stuff was so pungent he was sure she was bound to notice.
Joanna Papis was running late. She shared the flat with two other girls, both of whom also had long hair, so they took ages in the single bathroom. Early on in their relationship a set of rules had been agreed upon. The first was that no one should spend more than twenty minutes in there each morning. That rule had been the first to be broken. Their second – whoever finishes a bottle of milk buys a new one – had resulted in the last few usages of each pint shrinking by ridiculous proportions.
Joanna had overslept and found herself third in line for the shower, and – gross – she had to clear the plughole of hair because Gretchen-the-top-media-PR-guru (a description she used on her LinkedIn page) was too grand ever to bother cleaning up, so by the time Joanna was ready to leave the flat the others had gone and she was already due at Southern Hub, the virtual workspace in Waterloo where she sorted out her clients’ accounts. It looked wet out but felt mild, and she had donned her favourite outfit, a white dress lapped in red and purple flowers, even though it was really too summery-looking to be worn in November. The radio DJ was trying to find the most annoying sound ever recorded, so she turned him off and packed her case, then slipped on a jacket and headed out.
In the hall she stopped to check her hair in the mirror, and was caught by the sudden pervasive smell of petrol. There was nothing in the flat that could have caused it. A truck outside, perhaps? Then she heard the trickle, saw the white plastic pipe extended beneath the front door, watched in puzzlement as it withdrew – and suddenly an undammed river of fire poured in, quickly spreading across the hall carpet and up the walls. It all happened so fast that she barely had time to move.
The plastic pipe reappeared at another spot, twisting back and forth under the edge of the door, spraying liquid fire everywhere. A pile of old magazines on the side table ignited, their pages lifting in the updraught, and she realized how dry and dusty everything was, how easy it would be to burn. The fire took hold in seconds, rising up the front door to produce a dense outpouring of oily black smoke. There was no other way out of the flat, and the windows in the lounge and kitchen had toughened glass.
But the flat had one weak spot.
Joanna dropped her bag and ran back to the bathroom, removing her shoe and thumping it against the small square pane until it cracked, the largest parts falling out.
The window
was too high to reach. She needed a chair from the kitchen. Returning to the hall she was horrified to see how thick the fumes had become in such a short time. It was already hard to draw breath. She dragged the chair to the bathroom and scrambled up on it, pulling out the last shards of broken glass.
Wriggling through feet first and dropping into the yard at the side of the house, she tore her dress but landed safely. She tried to imagine who could do such a thing as this, and remembered the number she had added to the phone in her jacket pocket. She rang Colin Bimsley.
The DC was nearby, queuing for a sausage roll in a Southwark Street café when he got the call. He’d started the morning with some Xing Yi Quan training in the twenty-four-hour gym, and now realized that he was doomed to be forever interrupted in his pursuit of carbohydrates. It seemed he had only to step inside a greasy spoon to trigger his phone.
He tensed as soon as he saw that the call was from Joanna Papis. The girl didn’t sound frightened, just out of breath. ‘I guess I should have stayed in contact with you. He’s just set fire to my flat.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In the alleyway at the side, but I can’t get out past the front of the house without running into him.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘No, not yet, but I know he has to be just inside the main hall.’
‘What about the back of the alley? Any way out there?’
‘Maybe. I’ve never tried.’
‘Stay on the line, Joanna, I’ll get you back-up and then I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘Do you want me to see if I can get a good look at him?’
‘Hell, no! You need to get as far away as possible, OK? Go towards the river. I’ll find you.’
She slipped the phone back into her jacket and headed down the alley, but the rear gate was locked and it was too high to climb over. She vaguely recalled seeing a key for it in the kitchen, but she couldn’t get back in. As she moved towards the front of the house, there was a dull explosion of glass from within the flat.
Bryant & May - The Burning Man Page 24