Bryant looked like he’d been hit with a brick. Besides, he hated being upstaged. “You’re telling me this is about The Beatles?” he asked incredulously.
“No, I’m saying it’s one element.” The sergeant threw the others a smug look. “I did some further checking up last night while you lot were brushing your teeth and making cocoa. Adrian Jesson owned the original photographs from the Mad Day Out, signed by McCullin and all four of The Beatles. Standover was desperate to buy the shots because he owns the sets from the other six locations, meaning that he would have the complete photographic record of The Beatles’ historic day. It would have sent the value of Standover’s collection through the roof. You met him, so you know there’s one problem; he’s got the charm of an open grave. He failed to bargain the photographs away from his old rival after staging a very public argument with him. Everyone in the collecting community knew he was trying to get his hands on them, so when he got turned down he made himself a laughingstock.”
“But if he tried to steal from Jesson, surely everyone would suspect him?” Bryant argued. “And even if he had done so, he wouldn’t be able to sell the collection, because he could never reveal that he was in possession of Jesson’s photographs.”
“That’s right. You can see parallel situations rising between Maddox Cavendish and Richard Standover,” said Renfield. “The connection between them is a desperate desire to steal something. The architect Cavendish steals from Delaney, the collector Standover steals from Jesson, and now three of them are dead. Cavendish the workaholic screws up and kills Delaney, and the process changes him. He’s a murderer now – he has nothing left to lose. Suppose Cavendish knew Standover? Did anyone think of that? Suppose he shows Standover how to get what he wants by killing his rival? And Standover does the job, but he’s worried about Cavendish, who’s nervous and fast becoming a liability. And now that Standover has killed, he’s sure he can do it again. Out of the four, the only one left alive right now is Richard Standover.”
“No, no, no.” Bryant held up a wrinkled hand. “It’s all too complicated. There’s a single, simple thread running through this and we haven’t found it yet.”
“You’d better send someone round to bring Standover in, and quick,” said May. “Renfield, if you’re right, we’ll have a lot to thank you for.”
As the unit mobilised into action, May followed Bryant back to his office. “Don’t take it badly, Arthur,” he consoled. “You can’t get it right every time.”
“Renfield is wrong,” Bryant said sadly. “Everything was pointing to Xander Toth. The area’s history, the fact that his family had been pushed off their land – all the pieces fitted together.”
“No, they didn’t. You were trying to force them together. I’m not saying Renfield’s one hundred percent right, but you have to admit he’s come up with a workable theory. Toth was dressing as a local character in order to bring publicity to his cause, that’s all. The mistake has been thinking that the three deaths must be tidily connected. They occurred in the same place at around the same time, but it’s exactly what you said about chaos theory. Tens of thousands of strangers, passing through here every day – so many of their lives intersect without them realising it.”
“I think you may have hit upon a truth,” said Bryant. “We’re looking at a series of causes and effects rather than a single unified case. There are three distinct events that occurred here two weeks ago, and they triggered disastrous consequences. One, a protester goes too far and makes himself a murder suspect. Two, a company man makes a mistake and tries to rectify it. Three, a collector gets a little too acquisitive. The city draws something out of them, especially here. It’s the King’s Cross effect – too many people brushing against temptation and losing sight of themselves.”
♦
On the way out, Bimsley swung past Renfield. “You missed a revelation, Jack,” he told the sergeant. “It seems our Miss Longbright enjoyed carnal knowledge of PC Liberty DuCaine on the way back from Brighton. See what a bit of sea air does for you?”
Renfield stared at the handsome West Indian constable. “You’re bloody joking,” he muttered.
Bimsley knew he had made a mistake. Swallowing nervously, he quickly left Renfield alone with his fury.
∨ Bryant & May on the Loose ∧
43
Dying Alone
A t the age of eleven, Maddox Cavendish had switched his school satchel for the smart brown leather doctor’s briefcase that he still carried to work. He treated his job as if he was permanently preparing to sit before an examination board. He went into the office seven days a week, although he allowed himself the luxury of spending Sunday afternoon at home, even though he was usually at a loss for something to do there. His spare time was spent seated at his laptop, surfing the net for news of rival companies. He knew that Marianne loved his corporate loyalty, but was also aware that she would not hesitate to fire him if he failed to deliver.
He couldn’t go to her and tell her that he feared for his life, because it would mean admitting to his mistake. He had no friends, no lover with whom he could discuss his fears. His family idolised him for being a success, which meant that they could not be involved, either. Overnight, the shining path leading up the stairs of corporate success had become a dead end.
Cavendish worked hard but didn’t play hard, partly because he didn’t drink. In the past eighteen months he had started gambling on-line, and now his bank account was flickering on empty. To get the money to pay off Mr Fox, he knew he would have to borrow or embezzle. When the staff left that night, he remained at his desk trying to think of a way out. After she shut down her computer, Sammi came back into his office with her coat on, and asked if he was all right.
“I’m fine,” he told her. “Just a bit tired.”
He knew something was on her mind when she unbuttoned her coat and sat down on the other side of his desk. “You’ve been on edge for the last few days,” she said, hesitant and anxious not to cause offence. “I just wondered if there was something, you know, that you wanted to talk about with me.”
“What do you mean?” His question was a little too sharp.
Sammi had been his assistant for eight years, and had never once questioned his judgement. Now she looked on the verge of saying something that could change their relationship forever. She studied his eyes, waiting for him to speak first, then realised he would never open up to her. “Maddox, I know about Camley Lane.”
He played with the ballpoint pen on his desk, unable to speak.
“If you’re in any trouble you should talk to me, because I might be able to help.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please, Maddox. I saw you talking with that awful man, the one with the tattoos. I saw you through the window of the pub. I’m not an idiot; I know when something’s wrong. And I know that anything you’ve done is for the good of the company. You’re trying to get hold of the property rights before Marianne finds out. Is that man blackmailing you?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
“Suppose I told you? What do you think you could do? You’re a secretary, for God’s sake.”
The only way to get rid of her was to hurt her. She studied him a moment longer, unconvinced that he meant what he said. “Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do?”
He decided not to answer her, to pretend she had left the office.
“It’s not worth it, Maddox. All this – paranoia. It’s just a job.”
“No, to you it’s just a job. This is my career.”
This time she really was hurt. Rising, she rebuttoned her coat, avoiding his gaze. “I’ll say good night,” she said softly, and although he wanted her to leave, part of him was willing her to stay.
When she had gone he sat with his head in his hands, and for the first time in his life he knew how it felt to be truly alone.
An hour later the door buzzer sounded, and he recogni
sed the shape behind the glass, and knew that his time had run out.
∨ Bryant & May on the Loose ∧
44
Someone in the Shadows
Arthur Bryant was not happy. He paced across the cluttered lounge, peered from the windows into the rainy night, clapped his arms about himself, muttered under his breath, paced back again.
“Could you stop walking about?” asked Alma Sorrowbridge. “You’re going to wear out my Persian rug.”
“The closest this threadbare runner has been to the East is the East End,” said Bryant testily. “Where is he? He said he’d be here by now.”
“He only dropped you off a few hours ago. You see enough of each other during the day. I don’t know why you have to spend your evenings together as well. It’s nearly midnight. Most respectable people are in bed.”
“I told you, I’m awaiting news of a development. Besides, compared to a great many people I meet these days, I’m positively respectable. John May is the other half of my brain. I have to try my ideas out on someone.”
“You should be more worried about the compulsory purchase order on this place. We’re about to be made homeless and you’re going on about murderers. There’s always going to be murderers, but we might not find another place to live.”
“I knew I couldn’t expect you to understand. I’ve spent nearly an hour explaining my thought processes to you tonight.”
Alma didn’t like to admit that she had been concentrating on her knitting. “I tried to follow what you were saying. It would help if you made a jot of sense.”
The doorbell rang. “I don’t know why you don’t give him a key,” Alma complained. “You’re like an old married couple.”
“Oh, go and make yourself useful. Boil something. And bring us food. We’ll be working late.”
Alma let John May in. “He’s over-exciting himself,” she warned. “He won’t take his blue pills. Says he’s worried they’ll make him sleepy. Can you do something?”
“I’ll try,” said May, hanging up his wet coat. “I thought you’d prefer him like this to when he’s not working.”
“Well, I do,” Alma insisted, “but he’s scaring me with all this talk of a murderer. I have my faith, but there’s a limit to how much Jesus can do when Mr Bryant starts talking about chopping heads off.”
“Well, you can both rest easy now. We’re bringing in his man. I’ve come to pick Arthur up.”
“What’s that?” asked Bryant. “You’ve got someone?” He seemed suddenly confused.
“You know we have. Our boys have gone to arrest Richard Standover for the murder of Adrian Jesson. I thought you might like to be there for the interview.”
“No, no, that’s wrong.”
“What are you talking about? You were there when Jack put forward his theory and you didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t want to demolish Renfield in front of everyone without a theory to put in its place. The idea that one man might teach another to kill would be feasible if they were gang members, but we’re talking about two middle-class businessmen here, not a pair of disenfranchised kids.”
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous of Jack,” said May, “just because he came up with a solution you couldn’t reach.”
“That’s just the point,” replied Bryant. “I do have a solution, or at least part of one. What I don’t have is a way of catching him.”
May seated himself on the arm of the sofa. “All right, go on. Explain. I’m listening.”
“Renfield’s theory has been bothering me. It leaves too many loose ends, and we have no scrap of proof that Cavendish and Standover even knew each other. I think there’s someone else still in the shadows, a connection we haven’t been able to draw out. Maddox Cavendish would have been too scared to do his own dirty work. I know his type. He had to save his career by getting the deed back fast, but he wouldn’t have been able to do it himself. People like Cavendish always hire others to handle the heavy lifting.”
“Where was he going to find a burglar?”
“I don’t know. There are plenty of workmen on the site; maybe one of them knew somebody. But he wouldn’t want the risk of involving anyone from his own company. Besides, the workmen would see him as management, and I don’t suppose he found it easy talking to them. I think he went out on the street to look for someone who didn’t know him, someone who would steal that deed from Delaney and melt away into the crowd. It had to be done the hard way, by discreetly asking around. He wouldn’t have used the office phone or his mobile, and anyway, who would he have called, Rent-A-Thug?”
“You really think it’s likely that he just went out on the street?”
“He was working in King’s Cross,” said Bryant. “How hard could it be? You can get drugs easily enough there just by talking to a few people in a pub. It wouldn’t be much more difficult to find a burglar. What else was Cavendish going to do, a nice white-collar worker with no known criminal connections? Follow me on this.”
“All right, I’m listening.”
“Having found someone, Cavendish had to have a way of contacting his man, because he needed to make sure the job got done and the deed would be delivered back to him. Presumably he then also had to pay him, unless he gave him the money up front, which would make him a complete idiot. We know Cavendish withdrew an unusually large amount of cash before he died. They could have had a pre-arranged meeting place. Probably somewhere in the station. God knows it’s big enough. But he’d still need a number, an address. Without it how could he be sure that the guy wouldn’t let him down?”
“We didn’t find anything.”
“No, because his murderer destroyed the evidence. Think about it. Cavendish hires someone to steal the deed. What if Standover hired the same man to steal a packet of photographs? It would explain why he has an alibi for the night of Jesson’s death.”
“So working with your theory, Cavendish and Standover don’t know each other at all. The only connection is this Mr X.”
“Correct. What if the man they both hired is prone to violence, and didn’t like being disturbed in the middle of a job? Delaney walked in on his attacker. Suppose Jesson did exactly the same thing? That’s two of the three deaths accounted for.”
“But what about Cavendish?” asked May. “You think he was killed by this phantom he hired?”
“Cavendish clearly knew his attacker; he let him into his office. Now you have one killer for all three victims, using the same MO.”
“It doesn’t explain why the heads were severed.”
“I don’t know. Cruelty, savagery. That part is still a mystery. You have to admit it makes more sense than Renfield’s solution.”
“But if Cavendish’s killer is cleaning up the mess he made, it would be logical to go after the last of the group who knows his identity – Richard Standover.”
“Exactly,” said Bryant. “When a man becomes involved in murder he opens himself to the same risks faced by his victim. You’re not bringing in a killer, John, you’re bringing in someone who’s about to be killed.”
∨ Bryant & May on the Loose ∧
45
Complete
Richard Standover worried about his collection.
Now that it was finally complete, something indefinable had been lost. That magical, mystical day in 1968 had been catalogued and pinned down, every last minute accounted for. He had been there, at location number five, reading a Beano comic on the park bench in the graveyard attached to St Pancras Old Church, when the Fab Four had turned up with their photographers.
They were rowdy and filled with laughter, and he was seven years old. John Lennon had insisted that he join them in the group shot on the bench, and had even put his arm around his shoulders. Passers-by had stopped to gawp through the gates of the churchyard, but were too awed to come in. People were in those days. It was a working class area; the old’uns were dismissive of pop stars, and the young were shy.
The photographs were taken, the
n all four were off with a smile and a wave to be filmed in a flower bed of crimson hollyhocks beside the hospital buildings. Paul McCartney was in a pink suit, George Harrison wore a bright blue shirt and orange-striped trousers. The heat of the afternoon sun was starting to fade. Cool green shadows crept over the lawns as the watchers dispersed. Standover had remained on the park bench, touching the wooden slats where his heroes had sat, laughing and joking with him as if they were his older brothers.
It was the day his collecting habit had begun, and now the most important part of it was complete, sealing the faded memories of his childhood behind cardboard and clear plastic forever.
Going on-line, he printed out a boarding pass for a 7:20 a.m. Easyjet flight from Luton and threw a few clothes into a holdall. He would rent out the flat until it could be sold, but the slender envelope of photographs would remain in his hand until he arrived in Majorca, where it could take its place in the documented schedule of that extraordinary day.
His cleaning lady had promised to drop off her keys before he left. When the doorbell rang, he assumed it was her.
♦
Renfield and Bimsley knew something was wrong as they approached the block of apartments in Bloomsbury where Standover lived. The lighting in the front-facing third-floor living room was askew; Renfield had seen enough rooms where fights had occurred. A lamp had been knocked to the floor, its shade displaced. A shadow stretched, the upturned beam passed across the opposite wall, then the ceiling, rolling fast.
“I know these flats,” said Bimsley. “There are exits all over the bloody place.”
Renfield broke into a run, with Bimsley close behind him. He powered through the unlatched main door and up the stairs, through the open apartment door and into the dim hall. He could already see the bright scarlet smears in the room ahead. Standover was on his back, his right hand still frozen in a posture of defence, the left gripping his throat, ebbing rivulets of blood pouring between his fingers. He was already dead.
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