Bryant brought them to a stop beneath a dripping railway arch and seized Augustine’s collar. ‘So you have seen where the Ripper walked and hunted his victims, if indeed it was just one man,’ he said. ‘For the truth is, we know nothing at all about him beyond the fact that he was probably left-handed and literate enough to write a letter. All the crazy people who are convinced they know who committed the murders, all the suspects, all the clues from the writing on the wall to the note the Ripper sent the police, they all amount to nothing. And that is why he is remembered, not for what we know but for what we don’t know, and that is why we are detectives, because we always want to finish the picture. Every case is an unfinished picture, and only we can find the missing pieces. And now I must tell you the most terrible part of the Ripper’s secret.’
He pulled the boy closer, Long John Silver to Jim-Lad, Magwitch to Pip. ‘The legend of Jack the Ripper has been kept alive all these years,’ he whispered. ‘There are nearly four thousand books on the subject. The Ripper breathes and walks almost as if he is still flesh and blood, when he should have been allowed to die long, long ago. His victims were desperate, poor women who could not earn enough to find a bed for the night or a hot meal. Their skin was grey and saggy from a diet of potatoes. They tramped the streets for twenty hours a day, in rain and snow and fog. They were beaten up and treated cruelly for doing nothing more than trying to survive in a mean world that didn’t care if they lived or died.’ He poked Augustine in the chest. ‘Once they were like you, lad, young and full of hope for the world, but unlike you they had nothing beyond a few ragged clothes and their failing bodies. And instead of treating them with kindness and respect, men bullied them and stole away their only precious possession, their innocence, and after they were dead the men – and women – still exploited them, displaying photographs of their ruined lives, writing about the Ripper as if he was intelligent, a surgeon, a member of royalty, an artist, as if he was more worthy of attention than his victims. We raise him up in films and books and TV shows, almost as if he was something to admire. But he wasn’t, Augustine. He was just another cruel, evil bully only worthy of our revulsion and disgust, because he exploited the weak. And this is true of all terrible crimes; it’s the victims who must be respected and honoured, not the murderers, and that is why I do my job, and will continue to do it until the day I die. Do you want some crisps?’
Augustine was crying.
‘Oh, come now, it’s just a bad story that has lived too long. There’s more kindness in the world than harm. I honestly believe that to be true, and so must you. Look around here at all these people. They want to see good things done, not bad.’ Bryant scuffed the boy’s tears away and stopped outside an Indian restaurant. ‘I’d take you for a Ruby Murray but that might be pushing it. Let’s just get some poppadoms.’
The rain had stopped. As they trudged back through dirty puddles and litter towards the tube, Augustine crunched his way through a bag of the savoury discs and they talked of other things: his father and mother, his school, his friends and holidays.
‘Tell me one thing,’ Bryant said as they neared the tube and he knew he was running out of time. ‘You told me your father was with you on Wednesday when I’m pretty sure that he wasn’t, and I understand that. You love him, and he only asked you one small favour. Most sons would have done the same thing. But why do you think he asked you to do it?’
Augustine waited until he had swallowed the last piece of poppadom, then balled the bag and looked around for a bin.
‘It’s OK, you can chuck it into the street,’ said Bryant. ‘Just this time.’ With one end of Brick Lane barricaded by burned-out cars, a paper bag wasn’t going to make much difference.
‘I think he was doing something for work,’ said Augustine finally. ‘He wasn’t doing anything bad.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I believe you. I believe you’re a man of your word.’
‘He never tells me anything about his job. Except for the trips away. He’s always travelling, and he doesn’t like it.’
‘He tells you about the trips?’
‘Only bits and pieces. Like the Russian taxi drivers, how they drive like crazy, stuff like that. And how the Chinese can’t play football.’
‘They can’t? I didn’t know that.’
‘No,’ said the boy matter-of-factly. ‘After his last trip he told me the Chinese won’t play ball. I told Uncle Vernon and he laughed. He’s not my real uncle, he just comes to the flat sometimes.’
‘You told Vernon Harding that your father said the Chinese won’t play ball?’
‘Yes. He didn’t know that, either.’
Well, thought Bryant, there you have it. A new name, and a very well-known one at that. The source of the leak. Out of the mouths of babes.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get you home before the rain starts again. Everything that has happened today is a secret between us. Deal? Hang on.’ He poked about in his pocket and picked the fluff from a Mint Imperial. ‘Open wide,’ he instructed, flicking the mint into the startled boy’s mouth. ‘We can’t have you reeking of booze when your dad comes home.’
As the boy sucked the sweet there was a sudden clap of thunder. Bryant looked down to find that Augustine was tightly holding his hand. For one flickering moment it crossed his mind that having a son might not have been the worst thing in the world.
48
HEADING SOUTH
He had bought the second-hand hospital trolley online, but had not thought to check its measurements to make sure that it would fit in the back of the van. It did but only at an angle, so he loaded Cornell on to it and held his wrists and ankles at the sides with plastic cable ties, and gagged him with the torn-off sleeve of an old shirt.
He’d worried that the sedative was too strong, but just as he was trying to lift the gurney into the vehicle, Cornell began to wake up. He couldn’t move the damned thing with all that weight shifting about, so he was forced to remove the gag and punch the banker in the face until he understood that he had to be quiet. Cornell had been thirsty now and drank his water greedily, not realizing that there were more sleeping pills in it.
It was another twenty minutes before they properly took effect. As soon as Cornell was under, he loaded the trolley into the van, nearly putting his back out by doing so. To take his mind off the job, he thought about what was happening across town.
In the Square Mile the protests had swelled to five times the number of the previous weekend’s attendances. With no more police to draft and only the army as a last resort, the riots were tipping over into full-blown revolution. The City was no longer being described as a powder keg. It had been ignited by the news of the others he had killed.
After it was all over he could disappear, drop back into anonymity and watch the results from the sidelines. The anarchy would bring collapse. And from the ashes of the old order something new would arise.
After Bryant dropped Augustine Cornell back at his father’s apartment, he headed to the PCU via a practice in Harley Street, where he visited Wendy Barnestaple, a psychotherapist recommended to him by Maggie Armitage. Barnestaple ran a private clinic on two mornings each week, but had agreed to see the detective on a Saturday at short notice. Seated in a frosted-glass box, her feathery blonde hair contrasting with a no-nonsense grey business suit, she seemed the last person in the world that Maggie would know.
‘So, I finally get to meet the famous Arthur Bryant,’ she said, offering him a seat in the consulting room. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from our mutual friend. She’s a fascinating case study.’
‘You mean you treat her?’
‘As an NHS outpatient. I do one day a week at UCH. I suppose you know she had a lot of problems.’
‘Give me a confidential diagnosis – one professional to another.’
‘Extreme passive-aggressive identity dysfunction, a borderline histrionic stimulus-seeking exhibitionist.’
‘She’s a very kind woman with a heart of platinum,’ said Bryant defensively.
‘Well, let’s just say that’s what you see. I read the notes you sent over. You know I have no background in criminology.’
‘I just want a gut reaction,’ said Bryant. ‘You’ve read my notes on him. What do you think?’
‘You’re not on the right track.’ Barnestaple donned a pair of miniscule reading glasses and studied the email he had sent her the day before. ‘This isn’t the behaviour of someone who acts with careful deliberation. He’s angry at the world but ineffectual, an opportunist who firebombs a bank that’s already been receiving media attention. In the process he accidentally kills. He watches the news coverage, feels more empowered, attacks again, this time hoping to earn public points for tarring and feathering a financier, but he chokes his victim to death through sheer ineptitude. His sense of self-esteem becomes exaggerated, and so does his desire to show how cruel he can be. It’s not enough to kill the next victim – he brands him, too.’
‘Then how does Joanna Papis fit into his plan?’
‘She’s the odd one out. Perhaps he has personal, sexual reasons for going after her.’
‘But you do agree that he’ll act again tonight?’
She folded the email with a little too much precision, setting it aside. ‘He must, but the target could be somewhere in the City, as near as he can get to the Bank of England. He must be seen by as many cameras as possible. He has a narcissistic personality disorder, a need for admiration. His perceptions are warped. I imagine he’s uncomfortable socially, avoids personal responsibility, lacks any empathy for his victims. And there are classic signs of paranoia; he grandly sets out to undermine the status quo but can’t look his victims in the eye. He seeks evidence of hidden schemes. He has the unshakeable conviction that he’s acting for the right reasons.’
‘And after tonight?’ asked Bryant. ‘Do you think this will be the end of it?’
‘Certainly not.’ Barnestaple checked her watch. ‘His personality won’t be changed by what he’s done. If anything, his actions will reconfirm his beliefs. He may only just be starting.’
‘You have to go,’ said Bryant.
‘I’m taking my daughter to the country,’ she explained. ‘It’s not safe for her here any more.’
‘One last thing,’ said Bryant. ‘Do you think he created all of this? The riots?’
‘I’d say they created him.’ The psychotherapist rose and shook his hand. ‘I wish you luck. I’m not sure that what’s started will be easily stopped.’
It won’t stop until someone stops him, Bryant thought as he headed out into Harley Street looking for a cab. There had been a state of discontent about the behaviour of City bankers for the past few years. He was sure that the killer had been waiting for it to turn into something more so that he could use it to cover his actions.
We have to catch him without any more outside help, he decided as a cab splashed towards him. Whatever happens, it has to end tonight.
‘You’re what?’ asked Raymond Land again, hardly willing to believe his ears.
‘We’re all going to the firework display in Lewes tonight,’ said Meera. ‘Mr Bryant asked me to book train tickets.’
‘While you’re at it, why don’t you book the royal box at Covent Garden Opera House? Or the Bolshoi Ballet?’
‘He didn’t say anything about the ballet.’
‘Well, I suppose we can be grateful for that. What are we all supposed to be doing in Lewes?’
‘Not we, sir; he wants you to stay here with Fraternity.’
Land felt the inexplicable chill of not being invited to something he didn’t want to do in the first place. ‘If you lot are going to get the unit even deeper into trouble, I should at least be there to try to stop you.’
‘The idea is that you’ll have data access from here and will be able to help us if we get into a situation.’
‘Always the bridesmaid.’ Land sighed. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any point in me trying to stop you?’
‘I’ve already booked the tickets, sir,’ said Meera, marching out of the office.
‘Arthur, do you honestly think it’s a good idea to come with us?’ asked May.
‘How can I not?’ Bryant was stuffing things he needed into an old leather school satchel. ‘I’m bringing my teddy bear. Don’t try to stop me.’
‘When did I ever?’ May said with an air of resignation.
‘Cornell told his son that the deal with the Chinese had fallen through,’ Bryant explained as they crossed the concourse of Victoria Station. ‘He didn’t mean to, he just mentioned something in passing. The boy misunderstood and unthinkingly told a man called Vernon Harding.’
‘I’ve not heard of him,’ said May. ‘Who is he?’
‘Harding is a leopard who never changed his spots. He’s a government bank adviser who owns several cable channels, but he came from an old-school Fleet Street family. He started out on Hard News’s business magazine. He instantly understood what the boy meant when he said his father told him the Chinese wouldn’t play ball, and called his old pals in the newsroom. A classic scorpion-and-frog move. It makes me think that the answer’s been staring me in the face all along.’
‘You mean you know what’s behind all this?’
‘I have a very strong idea but no proof as yet.’ He looked around the concourse. ‘Are we all together?’
‘Colin’s gone to buy Cornish pasties for everyone. It may be a long night.’
‘Thanks, I think I’ll stick to the coronation chicken sandwich Alma made for me. Leaving them overnight in my Tibetan skull seems to ripen them. Come along, we don’t have long.’
The train was crowded with families and groups of teenagers heading to Lewes. What had once been just another odd English commemoration in a small country town was now a major event in the social calendar for many party-loving Londoners. May led the way, but when he turned around his partner had already wandered off.
‘We can’t go in there,’ objected Bimsley, as Bryant bagged the best seat in first class.
‘You’ve got your ID on you, haven’t you?’ said Bryant. ‘And he could be on the train, couldn’t he? So it’s police business. See if you can score free teas and biscuits from the buffet car once we get going. Throw your weight about a bit.’
‘Do you have anything resembling an actual plan?’ asked Renfield, sitting himself beside Longbright as the train pulled out of the station. ‘It would be good to know what we’re supposed to be doing down there, in a crowd of tens of thousands. What the hell is it all for, anyway?’
‘Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the King and Parliament on November the fifth, 1605,’ Bryant said. ‘You know that much, I assume.’
‘Amazing as it sounds, I did go to school.’
‘The following year an act was passed proclaiming that the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot should be held in perpetual remembrance, and that the day should be a holiday in thankfulness to God “for the deliverance and detestation of the Papists”. Well, in 1679 there’s a record of the Pope being carried through the streets of Lewes in effigy and burned in a bonfire. Typically, the whole thing quickly got out of hand after gangs called Bonfire Boys set fire to the local magistrate—’
‘You mean the magistrate’s court.’
‘No, the magistrate. So the town formed bonfire societies. Each one has its own costume. The members of the Cliffe dress as smugglers and still burn giant figures in effigy. Ever see that film The Wicker Man? It ends with a policeman being burned alive inside a giant pagan figure. Bit of a spoiler there.’
‘You think our killer is somehow going to get Dexter Cornell trussed up inside his own effigy so he can burn him alive while the world watches?’ scoffed Renfield. ‘You’re barmy.’ Remembering Bryant’s current problems, he felt compelled to add ‘sir’, but the detective didn’t take offence.
‘He won’t be burning Cornell alive, the world will. That’s the differen
ce. The public has already spoken. Cornell’s the most hated figure in the country. It’s a good day to bury bad news.’
‘What about the other victims?’ Longbright asked. ‘Where do they fit in?’
‘Most had a connection with doubtful financial practices, but I think they hurt him personally. And he saw a way of taking revenge while furthering his own anarchistic aims.’
‘What about the practical elements of this?’ Banbury asked. ‘Aren’t you going to talk to the local constabulary at all?’
‘Only at the very last minute,’ Bryant said. ‘If we do it any earlier they’ll have time to check on our authorization, and we can’t allow that to happen.’
‘We can worry about the form-filling after we’ve got him in custody,’ May agreed.
‘All this is supposing that everything goes according to plan.’ Banbury sat back in his seat, trying not to let his anxiety show.
‘I warned you all at the outset that this could be dangerous,’ said Bryant.
‘Yes, but I assumed we’d have someone watching our backs,’ Banbury countered.
‘We’ll only have each other,’ said May, bringing an end to the conversation as the train raced over the rainswept South Downs towards Sussex.
49
RURAL INFERNO
As they alighted from the train and followed the dense, slow-moving crowds from the station, they could hear the drumrolls and see the flickering red flares of Lewes High Street. Lit by the first of the bonfire parades, the sifting rain appeared to be composed of crimson needles. Even from this distance the noise was incredible, a pulsing beat interspersed with spectacular explosions.
‘Blimey, what’s that racket?’ asked Bimsley, turning his collar up.
‘Drummers and kids throwing bangers into the crowd,’ said Bryant. ‘Every parade has its own style. Most of them carry anti-papist banners and drag portable bonfires with them along the route.’
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