Michelle ran glittered nails through her frizz of dye-fried hair and puffed out over-rouged cheeks. “It ain’t as bad as all that. The rain’s easing off. We might get a late turnout.”
“I don’t care about the bloody attendance figures, we should just end this!” he shouted suddenly, frightening her. But of course, he was in no position to explain his fear. He needed to see Andrei. . He found the Russian dwarf seated at the back of Electra’s tent, watching as the bored girl stepped on to her steel plate once more and prepared to produce sparks from unlikely places. A third of the benches were taken with spectators, including some teenaged boys armed with cans of lager.
“Now can I have a brave young man from the audience?” called the barker, a disreputable drunk Cockney who had only joined the Arcade of Abnormalities on this leg of the tour. He worked for booze but, having spent his life in funfairs and circuses, was capable of memorizing his lines perfectly. “You, sir, with the racy haircut, you look like you have an eye for the ladies - would you care to step up here?”The barker pointed so energetically and with such conviction that the boy could not refuse. His friends laughed and pushed him forward. The barker swung him up on the stage to make him look good in front of the crowd; the secret was not to show anyone up, to build expectations but then give them relief after a scare and show the volunteers how brave they’d just been, granting them a round of applause.
The barker produced a shiny metal salver and dropped a set of keys on to it. “These keys,” he said, “are the keys to the lovely Miss Electra’s hotel room. She’s a very lonely lady and likes to have company on these long dark nights.”
He handed the salver to Electra, who raised up the tray with a dazzling smile and a flourish for the audience. “Now,” the barker instructed, “if you can take these keys from the salver, I think Miss Electra will be prepared to reward your bravery with a night of pleasure.”
In the audience, a couple of families with small children looked awkward. The young man grinned out at his mates. To be honest, the arcade’s latest Electra had seen better days, but a challenge was a challenge. He blew on his fingers like a safecracker, and prepared to reach out for the keys.
“But first,” said the barker, “we must turn on Electra’s own safety shield of 30,000 volts, which she needs to protect herself from the attentions of her many admirers.” Someone in the audience gave a sarcastic laugh as the switch was thrown. There was a buzz and a crackle, and Electra was illuminated with tall, wavering spikes of blue-white static. The young man suddenly looked a little less confident. His friends egged him on. Stretching out his hand, he went to clasp the keys and received an electric shock. It was only a small one, but the anticipation had paid off and he yelped, jumping away as his mates roared with laughter.
Janice Longbright had seen enough. Some of the illusions were obvious. Electra was standing on a metal plate producing a low level of static discharge, capable of lighting a neon tube when she connected it to the terminal hidden in her palm, enough to scare a punter who had already been unnerved by the spinning dials and jolting needles of the standard Frankenstein-laboratory equipment behind Electra that included a spark regulator and a Wimshurst machine.
While she waited for Andrei Federov to finish overseeing the shows, Longbright wandered across to. the other tents. The Half-Bodied Woman and the Moth Girl produced similar effects, one through judicious use of careful lighting and angled mirrors, the other via a rig that disguised her tightly contorted body beneath a framework simulacrum. The princess who turned into a mummy involved two performers with a glass scrim passing between them - although having the mummy break loose at the end was a nice touch. Lucio the Human Pin-Cushion clearly had a skin condition, and she knew that bleeding could be prevented by pinching the epidermis and folding it in such a way that it could be pierced without harm.
The only exhibits that still fooled her were Marvo the Caterpillar Boy, effectively a writhing torso in green shag-haired monster make-up that was either a dressed-up amputee or a disturbing rubber-beaked prosthetic, and the Headless Lady, which she decided most likely involved someone putting their arms through a model of a woman’s chest, although she still could not see how the trick really worked.
Longbright went in search of Harry Mills. She found the showman hiding away in his caravan, looking as if the weight of the world was on his broad shoulders. Introducing herself, she gave him her own barker’s spiel.
“I was once a magician’s assistant in Blackpool,” she explained, making sure that Mills got a good look at her infinite legs. “Just during the summer holidays. But I’m very well-rehearsed in the art of prestiges.” These were the gestures used by assistants to distract audience members from the magician’s activities. The statuesque Longbright had arrived at the Arcade of Abnormalities dressed in a low-cut spangled red leotard she had borrowed from a costume shop in Camden. As much as she disliked using her sex appeal on Mills, she needed to get backstage access in a way that would never be granted to punters. Mills was clearly distracted by her voluptuous figure, but was tense and abrupt.
“If I could just have a meeting with your general manager, I feel sure I’d be able to persuade him to consider me,” she persisted.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, love,” said Mills. “Andrei is very busy at the moment. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a lot of work to be done before we close up ...” Rising, he began ushering her from his caravan.
Longbright was a police officer/showgirl who wouldn’t take no for an answer. “It’s all right,” she said cheerfully, “I can see myself out. Perhaps we’ll run across each other.” Backing to the door, she pushed against the handle and slipped outside before he could stop her.
The audiences had gone home now, and the sideshows were in darkness. Moving between each of the tents in turn, she found that their entrance-flaps were held together with rope and were easily loosened. She checked the stages, but all were emptied and silent. Presumably the “exhibits” had all returned to their caravans. Mingled scents of burned petrol, sawn wood, popcorn, electricity and stale sweat pervaded the canvas rooms, and beneath these lay an animal musk, the tang of something feral and corrupt.
Two fat grey candles still burned behind tin shields in the Caterpillar Boy’s tent. Checking inside, she pulled back the yellow satin curtains and found the stage bare. She had just turned to leave when a dark, stunted figure blocked her path at the entrance. Longbright could see two cones of crimson skin sculpted like horns, broad bow legs set wide apart, a barrel chest topped with an abnormally large head.
“The show has ended. You should not be here.” The dwarf remained motionless beneath the flickering lights, watching her. A more bizarre apparition was impossible to imagine, not because Andrei was of diminutive stature but because he had exaggerated his unusual features as much as possible. As he spoke he kept his deep-set eyes fixed tightly on hers. From his right fist he trailed his whip. “I thought you English know that it’s rude to stare,” he said with soft menace.
“You encourage it,” she replied. “The make-up, the piercings, the tattoos, I’d say you set out to deliberately provoke.”
“I am not as other people, so I have remade myself in order to increase the difference.”
“You mean because you’re a dwarf.”
“I mean because I am of superior intellect,” Andrei replied.
“I was hoping to see you,” said Longbright. “I’m trying to get a job.”
“You’re trying no such thing. You’re looking for Michael Portheim.”
There was no point in lying, she decided. “What makes you think that?” Longbright assessed the situation, playing for time. Andrei was standing in front of the only exit, and was armed.
“You’re a police officer.” Andrei sniffed the air. “I can smell them a mile off. I suppose you want to know why he came to see me.”
“The information would be helpful, yes.”
“Let’s just
say it concerned the Seven Points.”
“The Seven Points? What does that mean?”
“You’re the law, you tell me. Portheim works for the secret service. You know most of their agents are psychologically disturbed. Their problems run very deep.”
“I guess you’d know about that. I’ve read your own medical evaluation.”
Andrei exhaled wearily, flicking the whip much as a bored tiger would twitch its tail. “Doctors are hardly the best judges of character. Most of them are ill themselves. They lack a sense of vision.”
“Is that what Portheim lacked?”
“You know nothing about him other than what your bosses have told you. You’ve read a screenful of unreliable data posted in a document written by strangers half a world away.”
“How do you know that?”
“There is no other access to my medical records from here, only material which the state of my mother country allowed.”
“Then tell me what you know about Michael Portheim.”
“What do I get in return?”
“We don’t make bargains,” said Longbright firmly.
“Then you get no information.” Andrei smiled tightly.
“We’re not supposed to tell you what we think when we’re investigating ... persons of interest,” said Longbright carefully. “But these are unusual circumstances, and I’m speaking for myself, not my bosses. I think you killed him.”
Andrei’s smile broadened, revealing filed teeth. “Now why would I do that?”
“Going from your past record, you don’t need a reason. You’re mad.”
The smile faded. Andrei suddenly raised his arm and cracked the whip in her direction, making her start. “And you are trespassing on private property. Now get out of here before I set the dogs on you. They haven’t been fed, and will tear you apart.”
“I’ll be back with a warrant to take this place down,” Longbright warned. “If we find any evidence against you, you won’t avoid justice again.” She left, knowing that he was watching her every step of the way.
~ * ~
It was nearly ten-thirty p.m. when the detective sergeant found Bryant & May in the Nun & Broken Compass, finishing their pints. “I didn’t let him see I was frightened,” she said, accepting a frothy pint of Made in Camden Lager from them. “He’s certainly arrogant. And there’s a stillness about him that’s incredibly threatening.”
“It still doesn’t mean he knows anything about Portheim’s disappearance,” said May.
“He was taunting me, John. He said Portheim went to see him, not Harry Mills.”
“That suggests he was ready to sell secrets. Federov may be a psychopath, but he’s well connected.”
“He mentioned something called the Seven Points. What does that mean?”
“Well,” Bryant began, “the only Seven Points I can think of are the key meditative stages of mind training. It’s a system of behavioural modification and self-improvement conducted to awaken the senses, part of Mahayana Buddhism. We know Portheim studied a lot of Eastern belief systems because the contents of his flat list an awful lot of books on the subject, but why would he go to see Federov or Mills about them?”
“Mills may seem a rough-and-ready type, but he has a shared history with Portheim,” said May. “They studied together. Maybe they shared other interests.”
“So he goes to see Mills about learning meditation and instead Andrei Federov murders him?” scoffed Bryant. “Forgive me, but that doesn’t seem very likely. And where’s he buried - under the common?”
“Federov is explosively unpredictable - anything could have happened,” said Longbright.
“There’s something else to take into account,” said Bryant. “I dug a little further into his background. Unfortunately most of his files are archived in St Petersburg, and are only made available to authorized visitors who can arrange their appointments in person, but his academic records are online. It seems he was a brilliant student, specializing in code-breaking.”
“The same as Portheim,” said Longbright.
“I imagine his university achievements singled him out for attention by the Russian Federal Security Service. After he leaves college, there’s an eight-year gap in his file. The next time he appears is in court for murder - the case was heard in camera.’’
“So you think he was released with help from his former colleagues?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Bryant. “But you have to admit, it’s very suggestive.”
“So, what do we do now?”
“Crisps,” said Bryant. “Worcester Sauce flavour. Three bags. And a sausage. I’ll think more clearly then.”
~ * ~
“You won’t be able to reason with him,” said May nervously, as they pushed open the gate to the park and set off in the direction of the sideshows once more. It was past midnight, and the rain-clouds had parted to reveal a sickly moon.
“Not that you’ve ever been able to reason. I mean, not properly. You’re utterly illogical so maybe the two of you have something in common. And what if you’re wrong? What if Michael Portheim left the arcade alive and just - I don’t know - fled the country? Or lay down and died somewhere in the woods where no one has found him yet?”
“He didn’t leave the park,” said Bryant. “The CIA and MIS couldn’t find him.”
“And that means we can? Without back-up? I don’t understand how.”
“The secret-service agencies collate empirical data, but we operate on instinct and emotions,” said Bryant. “We can’t involve anyone else because we’re not even supposed to be involved now. And my ears are tingling, which means I know he’s killed again.”
“We don’t have a warrant yet,” May reminded him. “And what do you mean, we’re not meant to be involved? Did I miss a meeting?”
“Something like that, yes. I had a bit of an argument with MI5 earlier. But Harry Mills is closing the arcade after tonight,” said Bryant. “If he does that, Andrei Federov will disappear and no one will ever know what happened to one of the country’s top code-breakers. Slow down a bit, will you? You’re very tense tonight.”
“Are you surprised?” said May. “Trying to get the goods on a whip-wielding psychopath in the middle of the woods?”
“We’re in a London park,” said Bryant. “Honestly, I never took you for such a worryguts.”
“Do you really think he killed Portheim?”
“If he did, I’d like to know what he did with the body.”
“He has an IQ of almost 130, not that I suppose intelligence translates into common sense, but I can’t imagine he’d be so stupid as to bury it.”
“No,” said Bryant, thinking. “The tents are pitched right in the middle of the park, which is bordered on all four sides by main roads, and they’re all covered with traffic cameras. I suppose he could have fed Portheim to his dogs, but he’s more likely to have hidden him somewhere.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, you know,” said Bryant, waggling his fingers around his forehead, “twisted mind, likes to play with people.”
“I can’t get my mind around motiveless crimes at all,” said May. “There are no reference points to work from.”
“Oh, I don’t think it was motiveless,” said Bryant. “Far from it.”
“Can you prove that?”
“I’m going to have a damned good try.”
They had reached the arcade entrance. The evening’s customers had long been ushered from the area, but the main gate was unlocked. The burning flambeaux that lit the walkways around the edge of the tents were guttering in the rain, throwing odd angles of flamelight across the trodden, sodden grass.
And there he was, waiting for them, as dark and solid and mysterious as an ancient crow-filled oak.
“Mr Bryant, Mr May, thank you for sending me your showgirl. I returned her intact.”
“Ah, you met our Miss Longbright,” said Bryant cheerfully
. “Got a minute? Can we sit down somewhere? My legs are killing me.”
“Everything is lolling you,” replied Andrei. “Your air, your food, your water, but most of all, your beliefs.”
“Ah, you’re in a philosophical turn of mind tonight, I see.” Bryant smiled indulgently as he eased his old bones on to the wooden bench. He was playing for high stakes now, and chose his words carefully. “We find ourselves drawn back here, Mr Federov, because as you admitted yourself, Mr Portheim’s story ends here with you.”
Psychomania: Killer Stories Page 44