Bryant & May 06; The Victoria Vanishes b&m-6

by Christopher Fowler

  She heard his voice from far above, even though he could only be speaking in a whisper. “Stay with me,” he told her. She tried to remain awake, sensing that if consciousness failed it would not return. She was young and mistrustful of men, so how could this be happening?

  So unfair, she thought, so stupid. In that brief moment she felt as if all the evils in the world were there to be understood. Men were starving wolves who searched for weaknesses, and she had dropped her guard for the first – and only – time in her short life.

  ♦

  The Nun & Broken Compass had been shut for refurbishment, so Raymond Land’s pals from the Met had suggested going a little further afield today, seeing as they were on short shifts, and Land could basically do as he pleased now that the Home Office called the shots for his unit. Land was still laughing at the superintendent’s disgusting joke as they pocketed their dart sets and left the Albion. He didn’t like Barnsbury, too many stuck-up North London politicians living here, but the Albion was a bit of a find, bucolic and becalmed, hidden behind an artful undergrowth.

  While they were discussing what would be the quickest way back, the superintendent noticed the girl. She was seated upright on the bench, her head hanging over her drink, and Land had been about to make a remark about birds not being able to hold their booze when one of the others realised that something was wrong with her.

  In the deepening shadows beneath the leaves of mulberry trees, a young black girl had fallen asleep so soundly that she had died, her soul departing on respectful tiptoe, as quietly as the fading breeze.

  ∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧

  18

  Pub Crawl

  Thursday morning at the PCU dawned in a tangle of disbelief and recriminations.

  “You were actually on the premises,” May accused his superior, pacing the latter’s threadbare office carpet. “How could you not have seen what happened to this young woman?”

  “Do you know the Albion?” asked Land angrily. “It’s a series of rooms, and we were out at the back having a game of arrows. How was I to know she’d been attacked?”

  “Didn’t you hear or see anything unusual at all?”

  “No, I was playing for money and concentrating on my form. I don’t think I saw another person in the pub apart from the barman, and he hardly speaks any English. This girl had apparently been stood up by her boyfriend – who is in the clear, by the way, because he was actually at a job interview in the Finchley Road Mercedes showroom and had forgotten he was meeting her. Besides, she had been sitting outside the whole time, so how was I supposed to see her?”

  “Has Giles had a chance to conduct a full examination of the body yet?”

  “No, he had to wait for the family to come in and ID her last night, but he says there’s a piercing on the side of her neck consistent with the MO on the first two – or rather four, if we count the uninvestigated cases.”

  “Our perpetrator is becoming angrier.” Giles Kershaw was unfurled in Land’s doorway. “Very nearly snapped the needle off in her neck, left a circular bruise where he pushed the syringe base right up against the skin, and it looks like such a high dosage that I imagine she died in seconds. I’m heading back to Bayham Street. Jazmina Sherwin’s father is probably going berserk.”

  Kershaw flicked back his blond hair in the habitual gesture he had acquired from bending his tall frame over tissue samples. “Something’s out of whack. This one is different – the age, the ethnicity, the social background. I’d have said it was an entirely separate incident except that she was found in a pub and killed in the same fashion. Premeditation, obviously. But a fundamental paradox: The killer wants them to die so quietly that no-one notices, and yet he chooses to kill them in public, often crowded, places. It goes against all of our received wisdom.”

  “Why has he switched to a young black girl after singling out middle-aged white women?” asked Land.

  “His lacunae – the calm gaps between his acts of violence – are closing. It’s only a few hours since he last took a life. Perhaps the need has now become so urgent that in this case it drove him into the nearest pub, and Sherwin was unlucky enough to be the only female there. The rest of the locations are grouped in roughly the same area. Does anyone mind if I take Renfield with me?”

  “What for?” asked May.

  Kershaw looked embarrassed. “I think Mr Sherwin might come back and try to thump someone, probably me as I’m the weediest. We’ve never had anyone at the unit who could handle trouble, and I’ve heard Renfield is pretty good in difficult situations.”

  “He gets very stroppy and shouty, if that’s what you mean,” said May.

  “It may be what’s needed in this case,” said Kershaw. “I’ll return him, don’t worry.”

  “So what happens now?” asked Land, for whom events were clearly moving too fast.

  “The press is making sure that this story will be all over London like a cheap suit. It’s the fault of that woman from Hard News whose life we saved, Janet Ramsey.” The journalist had nearly come a cropper in her pursuit of a story, luring a killer to her apartment, only to be bailed out by the PCU. “She agreed to get off our backs for a while but clearly has no gratitude, because she’s already rung me about reports of a young girl’s death in a London pub, says she’s going to run something tonight.”

  “It’s the scorpion and the frog,” said Land despondently. “Janet Ramsey can’t resist stinging because it’s in her nature. The last thing we need right now is more negative publicity. What are you going to do about it?”

  “What happened to we?” asked May in surprise. “I thought you were on our side.”

  “I’ve had enough crap fall on me in the last few months to drown a cow,” answered Land. “I’m going to make sure I stay dry and sweet-smelling this time.”

  “Oh, I see,” said May, “when the going gets tough, the tough run for cover.”

  “I never said I was tough,” answered Land. “All I ever wanted was a quiet life.”

  “Well, you’ll get it if this goes wrong, won’t you? Renfield will take great joy in filing a report to Faraday and Kasavian. In addition to pointing out that we were sitting on cold files connected to an ongoing investigation which he thinks we can’t crack, he’ll probably mention that Arthur’s memory is so bad he managed to lose the ashes of his coroner on the same night he somehow hallucinated himself back into Victorian times. So you’ll finally get your wish, to sit out your remaining working years in a police station the size of a cabdrivers’ hut in a depopulated village on the Orkney Islands that’s so quiet you’ll be able to hear a duck fart four miles away.”

  “I don’t know why you have to be so incredibly rude,” said Land indignantly.

  “Because you might have saved a young woman’s life if you’d been concentrating on your bloody job instead of drinking with your cronies. If you’re so keen to have Renfield write out reports, tell him to put that detail in them.”

  ♦

  “We are going to get a lead in this case today, and we will stop anyone else from dying,” Bryant announced as he strolled into the office and tossed his walking stick into its stand, a sooty old chimney pot he had rescued from the demolition of the York Way Jam Factory in 1982.

  “Did I miss a meeting?” asked May. “I love the way you just decide to announce these things. How are we going to accomplish this feat? We’re still trying to sort out links between the victims.”

  “We’ll get the break. It may not seem to you like we’re closing in, but we are. Perhaps it’s someone who worked with them all.”

  “Unlikely. Only Curtis and Wynley were at the Swedenborg Society. And we have no proof that they really knew each other – only that one woman was friendly enough with the next to put her number into her cell phone.”

  “Then perhaps you’re approaching the investigation from the wrong end. Ask yourself, what do we know about the killer?” Bryant dropped into his chair and swung it around. “He feels at home in pub
s, to the point where he can commit murder in them with total confidence. Unfortunately, due to high staff turnover, the barmaids and barmen rarely take note of regular customers. Also, his field of operation is in an area of the city which doesn’t have local custom, and that allows him to slip unseen among strangers. Perhaps he’s visited these pubs many times when he has not been moved to kill. Perhaps these women mean something special to him, have some magic that can only be captured by taking a life.”

  “You know I’m going to say I don’t agree with you,” warned May.

  “Yes, and therefore to prove a point, tonight the PCU is going on a pub crawl. I’ve worked the whole thing out. There have been five deaths in all, but there are only four public houses involved, as the fifth appears to have vanished some decades ago. However, all five women have connections with other pubs, so we need to check those as well, which in my book makes a total of nine places to visit, and means we need to put every member of the PCU to work undercover this evening. Here’s the roster.”

  Bryant flipped open a neat black leather Mont Blanc notepad, the one gift from his landlady Alma that he had managed not to lose. “Longbright is going to head for the Conspirators’ Club at the Sutton Arms, where Jocelyn Roquesby was a regular, and Renfield will stake out the Old Bell tavern, where she died.

  “Meera will visit The Apple Tree in Clerkenwell, where Carol Wynley used to socialise after work. Colin has requested to join the speed-dating night at the Museum Tavern, Bloomsbury, where our most recent victim, Jazmina Sherwin, worked as a barmaid.

  “John, you’ll be going to the quiz night at the Betsey Trotwood in Farringdon, which Joanne Kellerman had been known to frequent. Giles Kershaw has offered to spend the evening in The Old Dr Butler’s Head, where she was found murdered.

  “April will attend the Phobia Society upstairs at the Ship and Shovell off the Strand, which Naomi Curtis told her partner she visited because she suffered from claustrophobia, while Dan Banbury will check out the Seven Stars, Carey Street, where she was killed.

  “Raymond Land can go back to the Albion, Barnsbury, to see if he can find out anything more about Jazmina Sherwin’s death. And I shall be joining a historical society, the Grand Order of London Immortals, which Dr Masters has recommended to me on previous occasions, because they know all there is to know about sociopathic behaviour in urban society. They’ve moved to the back bar of the Yorkshire Grey in Langham Place because their old haunt, The Plough in Museum Street, installed a plasma screen for the World Cup, an act for which they have never been forgiven.”

  “And what good do you think all this is going to do?” asked May.

  “As I believe I mentioned, I have an idea that the murderer is motivated as much by the locations as the victims. If that’s the case, we need to spend more time in the kind of places he finds comfortable enough to commit acts of violence in. I want everyone to be sensitive to their surroundings, and to make copious notes. Talk to people, be honest about what you’re looking for. We meet back here after closing time and pool any information we consider relevant, or possibly irrelevant.”

  “You think Renfield’s going to go along with something like this?”

  “We have Raymond’s backing, so I don’t see how he can stop us. Besides, we’re covering all the official routes of enquiry. This is extra-curricular. It’s going to be a long night, so no drinking alcohol. I don’t want Renfield trying to throw out evidence because our intelligence sources were one over the limit.”

  “That includes you,” said May.

  “Bitter isn’t alcohol, it’s beer,” said Bryant. “We will start to find a way of catching this man by the end of tonight, I promise you.” He checked his watch, more from habit than any useful purpose, as the little hand had fallen off in the blast that destroyed the PCU’s old offices, and he had not got around to having it mended.

  “You don’t suppose you’re still suffering the aftereffects from losing your memory last time around, do you?” asked May.

  “Remember when you blew up the unit and banged your head?”

  “That was ages ago,” said Bryant. “I’ve never suffered any recurrence since then. Besides, Mrs Mandeville says I’ll start remembering all sorts of things any day now, if my internal organs can withstand the vigour of her root vegetable diet. Right, I must be off. Call me later.”

  “Do you have your cell phone on you?”

  “Actually I do. This is one of the first things Mrs Mandeville taught me to remember.”

  “Good. Is it on?”

  “We haven’t got that far yet. I shall put it on now.” Bryant made an unnecessary pantomime of operating the device be fore setting off.

  From his window, May watched his partner negotiating the shuffling drunks of Camden High Street. It was difficult not to worry about Arthur’s safety these days, but Bryant seemed quite unconcerned. He waved his walking stick at a passing taxi, and glanced up briefly at the unit’s windows as he climbed in.

  Two minutes later, May received a text that read:

  Stop Fretting Im Fine Have Fully Mastered Predictive Tghx Will Call If I Need Ghzb

  If he didn’t keep finding ways of saving lives, he’d be the death of me, thought May.

  ∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧

  19

  Conspirators

  Bryant’s idea seemed sound enough, until you considered that nobody knew who this man was or what he looked like. Sergeant Janice Longbright studied the scrap of paper she had been handed, then searched the street. The great shuttered block of Smithfield meat market dominated an area now replenished with upscale eateries and thumping nightclubs, but here was a pub like an ancient lithograph, with a grand lead-glass bay window, polished oak doors and sienna paintwork, the sign of the Sutton Arms spelled out in gold glass on an umber background.

  The interior had been given a peculiar timeless ambience of plaster busts, aspidistra pots and reproduced sepia photos that fit in well enough with Belgian beers and steak menus. A narrow staircase led to an over-lit upper room, but she could not gain access to it because a table covered in books and pamphlets had been placed across the entrance.

  “Can I help you?” asked a sallow-faced man with deep-set eyes and tentacles of oily hair plastered across his bald head.

  “I’m here for the Conspirators’ Club,” said Longbright.

  “Well, of course, you would say that, wouldn’t you? You could have read that on our Web site. Anyone could have read that, found out the address and just come in here off the street, and we have no way of knowing if they’re friend or foe. Do you know the password?”

  “Oh, give over, Stanley, how can she know the password when you keep changing it?” asked a pleasant-faced woman in her mid-forties. “Last week it was Inkerman, this week it’s Bisto, how are we supposed to keep track? Just let the lady come in, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Entrance fee still costs two pounds, the money goes toward our fighting fund,” said Stanley, tapping a relabelled tissue box.

  “It goes toward his beer money. He’s a nuisance but he keeps out undesirables. I’m Lulu,” said Lulu. “Come on in.”

  “Do you get many nutters here?” Longbright could not resist asking.

  “Mainly on anniversaries of assassinations, although our last meeting on St Valentine’s night was tricky. A group of wargame strategists turned up and attempted to provide new theories about the fall of the Maginot Line using beer bottles and baguettes. Our members tend to be intense and easily persuaded, especially the single ones. Have you been before?”

  “No, but a friend of mine has. Jocelyn Roquesby, perhaps you know her?”

  “My goodness, you poor love, you’re in the right place, because we’ve been proposing theories about her. It’s not the sort of thing we usually talk about, mostly it’s stuff like this.”

  Lulu indicated the books and brochures on the table. Several titles caught Longbright’s eye. Jim Morrison Lives on in Indian Spirit, The Bavarian Illuminati, Lockerbie and
the CIA, Christ’s Blood and the Crown of Thorns, The UK Biochemical Cover-Up, The Search for Princess Diana, 1968 Moon Landing Props Found in Vegas, Floridagate, Death in the Persian Gulf, Where Anna Nicole Smith Is Now.

  “They’re not all as barking as they may at first look,” Lulu told her. “People think it’s all about coming up with outlandish reasons for the Kennedy assassination – America invented all the juiciest conspiracy theories, after all – but these days most of our debates concern the limitations of world media and the way in which information is controlled. Many of these books expound surprisingly even-handed ideas, although I wouldn’t believe the one about Kurt Cobain being reincarnated as the king of the lizard aliens. Would you like a drink?”

  “Thanks,” said Longbright, immediately breaking Bryant’s rule. “I’ll have a gin and French. You know, with vermouth.”

  “Good choice,” said Lulu. “Perhaps we can introduce you to some interesting people tonight. I’ll try to keep you away from the cryptozoologists. Get them onto Loch Ness and you’ll be stuck here until closing time.”

  “What usually happens at these meetings?” asked Longbright.

  “Sometimes there’s a book launch, or a talk or a debate. It’s a lot more rational than you’d expect. We discuss theories about recent news stories and share ideas. It’s an alternative to only getting your data from the mainstream media, which is partisan, conservative and mainly concerned with scaring the living daylights out of Middle England.”

  “I think I know that woman.” Longbright pointed to an elegant redhead in her early forties, dressed in a black sweater and jeans.

  “She’s a new recruit. Came here by mistake, thinking it was an art appreciation class, but enjoyed herself so much that she ended up coming back. Let me introduce you.”

  “Hi,” said the redhead, holding out her hand. “I’m Monica Greenwood. You’re a policewoman, aren’t you?”

  Longbright was taken aback. “Is it my feet?” she asked. “They’ve always been big. I shouldn’t draw attention to them.” Admittedly, she was wearing Joe Tan crimson peep-toed pumps with ankle bows.