“Very good; you know your history. Did you also know that Spence founded the Society of Spencean Philanthropists? They believed that instead of a centralised governing body, Britain should be run by small groups based in London public houses. I made a list, hang on.” Bryant rooted out another of his scraps of paper and squinted at the huge lettering on it. “The Spenceans met at the Nag’s Head in Carnaby Market, the Carlisle in Shoreditch, the Mulberry Tree in Moorfields, the Cock in Soho, the White Lion in Camden and a host of other pubs. In rented rooms in Cato Street, they hatched plans to assassinate a group of government ministers attending a dinner party in Grosvenor Square. The conspirators were caught by police and tried at the Old Bailey, while their supporters watched from the windows of the Magpie and Stump public house. Some of the accused were executed, some transported. So, we get a second ‘seven’ after the Seven Stars pub, a third with the Seven Bells, the former name of the Old Bell pub, and on top of the other keywords Pellew has given us, we must now add ‘conspiracy.’ ”
Bryant balled the paper and tossed it down into the fastflowing river. “Look at the view we take so much for granted. Politicians are fond of telling us how much cleaner the Thames is now, how you can catch dace and sole in its reaches once again. Everyone wants to believe in appearances. What was the Thames ever but a gigantic sewer, somewhere to empty the waste of a wealthy nation? The steamships churned up so much shit that the fine people crossing this bridge died of cholera. You can burnish a city’s image, but you never really change its nature. There’s something hidden and corrupt running beneath it, there always is, and this time it’s not just the acted-out fantasies of a lost soul.”
“Oh, really,” May complained. “You’re saying you see some kind of citywide conspiracy at work?”
“Most definitely.” Bryant nodded with vigour. “And I intend to discover exactly what it is.”
“If you’re wrong, our reputations will be ruined once and for all.”
“Given the nature of my suspicions, I pray I’m wrong,” said Bryant gloomily.
∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧
34
Gazumped
Raymond Land was uncomfortably perched on the cracked red leather seat of a nineteenth-century tapestry-backed chair in Leslie Faraday’s office, nervously waiting for the minister to return.
As he toyed with a loose thread, he wondered whether he would be able to curry favour from the case’s fast conclusion. His superiors would see that the PCU could compete with the Met in terms of efficiency, and as he was acting head of the division he would surely be commended for resolving a situation that might well have caused a national panic. The monotonous regularity with which the HO attempted to shut down the unit would be ended, and its officers would finally be allowed to continue in an atmosphere of mutual respect.
He looked down and realised that the tapestry thread was wrapped around his fingers. Peering over at the back of the chair, he saw to his horror that he had unravelled a substantial portion of the ancient design. The shepherdess now had no head, and two of her sheep had partially evaporated.
Faraday waddled into the room rubbing his hands. “Ah, there you are, Land,” he boomed cheerfully. “I’m having Deirdre rustle us up some tea. You’re white with two sugars if memory serves.” Faraday’s memory always served. Indeed, it was his singular talent, and all that kept him from being booted from his fine Whitehall office into the gutter. Faraday was as slow as treacle but remembered where all the financial corpses were buried, and therefore it was expedient to keep him where ministers with more competence and cunning could keep an eye on him. “I must say you’ve done jolly well to put this frightful business to bed. I thought it would be a good idea to tell – ”
A chill breeze trembled through Land’s heart. He suddenly knew who Faraday had told.
“ – Mr Kasavian,” said Faraday, holding open the door. “He wanted a word with you himself.”
This could not be good. Whenever the cadaverous Home Office security supervisor became involved in their affairs, babies cried, women cowered, innocence was punished and blame was wrongly apportioned. As he entered the room, Land fancied he heard the distant sound of noosed bodies falling through trap doors. Certainly the sun went in and drained all warmth from the room.
Oskar Kasavian did not smile so much as bare his lower teeth. As Land rose and held out his hand, he realised that his palm was still filled with material from the damaged chair. Like a shamed schoolboy, he let it drop onto the floor behind him.
“I understand our public houses are once more safe enough for the populace to become drunk in,” said Kasavian, waving Land back into his seat, “although it would have been preferable to bring the malefactor to justice rather than spreading him all over the A102.”
“My officers risked a great deal trying to prevent the flight of a mentally unstable man,” Land explained.
“Quite understood.” Kasavian examined his nails as though checking for evidence that could link him with murder. “Trying circumstances for everyone involved, and I look forward to reading your full report. But I am here about another matter entirely. The Peculiar Crimes Unit currently occupies the site at 1b Camden Road, does it not?” Kasavian opened a folder and produced a photocopied map of the area, with the footprint of Mornington Crescent station marked in shaded lines.
Land was bewildered. He leaned forward, peering at the proffered document. “That is correct.”
Kasavian tapped a long hard nail on his front tooth. It made a sound like water dripping from a corpse onto an upturned tin bucket. “You see, the thing is, there has been a rather unfortunate oversight. Probably no more than a clerical error, but an error all the same. Your lease – ”
“ – extended to 2017; I signed the documents myself,” said Land hastily.
“Indeed you did, but for some reason I can hardly begin to fathom, the document was never notarised by the Land Registrar. Which means that the lease was never officially extended.” Kasavian had employed his legal team for over a month, searching for some loophole by which to remove the PCU from his sight. The unratified lease had fallen into his etiolated hands like disinterred treasure.
“Then surely it is simply a matter of presenting the lease once more,” said Land hopefully.
“Would that things were so simple.” Faraday wrung his hands together so tightly that Land expected to see drops of blood fall from them. “With the lapse of the lease, all existing documentation between the former leaseholder and the Crown Estate, which owns the site, is voided.”
“Can’t we draw up new documents based on the previous arrangement?” asked Land, already knowing the answer.
Kasavian gave him a dry, hooded look that suggested he could not be bothered to come up with any more excuses. “The unit is required to vacate the premises at noon on Monday.”
“But tomorrow’s Saturday,” squeaked Land. “Where are we to be rehoused?”
“Alas, we do not have the facility for rehousing such a government unit at present.”
“Then what are you suggesting we do?”
Faraday pretended to spot something of great interest outside the window, which was unlikely as he was facing a brick wall in Horseferry Road. “Mr Kasavian has kindly agreed to placing all members of staff on partially paid leave until the situation can be sorted out,” he said.
“We hope to find new premises for you within three to four months. Meanwhile, we will be offering a generous ‘opt-out’ scheme to your staff, for those members who feel unable to continue with the unit.”
“Do you know how many times the Home Office has tried to disband the PCU and failed?” said Land hotly. “Without us, this type of crime would go undetected and unsolved.”
“That remains to be seen,” said Kasavian. “The unit has clearly had its fans in the Home Office, but many members of the old guard are reaching retirement age and handing over the reins. There are reasons why you never made superintendent, Land, just as there are no
w reasons to assume that the Metropolitan Police Force could handle this kind of work with greater cost-efficiency.”
“So that’s what it comes down to?” asked Land. “Money?”
“It’s a matter of security. It may have escaped your notice, but the capital is on a permanent ‘Severe’ terrorism alert. There is no room for your little cottage-industry detection unit. You’re an anachronism, an unacceptable security risk; you’ve admitted so yourself.”
“That was in the past, before – ”
“Before your detectives won you over? Ask yourself, Land, what has changed? The answer is nothing, and that’s the problem.”
“Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?” Land pleaded. He glanced back at Faraday, who had just noticed that his tapestry chair was ruined.
“It’s too late for that,” said Kasavian. “I’m afraid the building has already been sold. Tomorrow is your very last day at Mornington Crescent. You’d better go and tell your staff to pack up their belongings.” His smile was as mirthless as any carnival huckster’s. “Don’t worry, we won’t do anything as drastic as changing the locks. I remember only too well what happened the last time we tried that. We’re all civilised adults, Mr Land, I’m sure we can reach an amicable agreement.”
“You mean you’d like us to reach a compromise on the terms of moving out?” said Land hopefully.
“Good God, no,” said Kasavian. “It’s merely an expression. There’s nothing you can do now except go.”
∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧
35
Interpretation
A pair of disembodied legs sealed in black fishnet tights and crimson satin garters was balanced gracefully on a mound of red plastic poppies. Nearby, a torso clad in a basque with lavender rhinestones set in its staves glittered menacingly.
DS Janice Longbright peered into the shop window and sighed at the clothes she could not afford. She was tired of being broke and unloved. Checking her watch, she realised that she was running late. Carol Wynley’s partner was awaiting her arrival in the flat beside the shop.
Shad Thomson had suffered a stroke in his late fifties, three years earlier, and the apartment he shared with Carol Wynley had been adapted to allow his motorised wheelchair to pass easily from room to room. Although she was unsure how much help she should offer her host, Longbright suggested making tea for them both, and he comfortably acquiesced.
“I suppose I got lazy living with Carol,” he told her. “It’s surprisingly easy to let someone do everything for you.”
“You must miss her a great deal,” Longbright said.
“I’ll never know anyone else like her,” he replied. “She knew me before the stroke, so she remembered a different person, the one who was still on his feet, racing around town taking meetings, hitting deadlines, thinking that work was so damned important. No-one will ever see me like that again. Carol was the last person to really know me. I’m someone else now. I can never go back.”
“How long were you together?”
“Seven years. I met her in a pub, the Seven Stars in Carey Street. I remember it had some kind of connection with Holland. She had worked for a law firm in Amsterdam, and we got talking about the history of the place. I’m a journalist. At least it’s a job I can still do like this.”
“Carol was still working in a law firm, wasn’t she?”
“That’s right, as a legal PA for the Swedenborg Society.”
“Where was she before that, do you remember?”
“Of course. She was at the Holborn Security Group, a firm of specialist solicitors on Theobalds Road.”
“When did she leave that job?”
“I think it was a couple of years ago now.” Around the same time that the other three had left their non-existent jobs, thought Longbright. Where had these women all been? What were they really doing?
“Did you ever meet anyone she worked with at the Holborn Security Group?”
“I met one of her bosses, some kind of consultant,” said Shad, “and once a woman of about her age dropped her off here.”
“One of these three, perhaps?” Longbright showed him the photograph of Roquesby, Kellerman and Curtis taken in the pub.
“That one,” said Shad, pointing at Roquesby without hesitation. “I think she and Jocelyn briefly shared an office. I remember because Mrs Roquesby was an old colleague of Dr Peter Jukes. You must have read about him in the papers.”
“I don’t think I have,” said Longbright, but she could vaguely recall someone at the PCU mentioning his name.
“I did some work on his case, purely out of interest. Have a look on that shelf for me, would you?” He pointed to a rack of plastic folders above his workstation. “Dr Jukes.”
Longbright found a slender yellow file with the doctor’s name written across the top.
“He originally came from Salisbury, Wiltshire,” Shad explained, tipping the sheets out into his lap and examining them. “Last year his body was found floating off Black Head on the Lizard Peninsula, Cornwall. The coroner thought it was a simple matter of death by drowning, but a local newspaper decided to take up the case, and their reporter believed that Jukes had sustained some unexplained injuries. The inference was that the coroner didn’t do his job properly. Jukes’s boat was washed into a local harbour more than fifteen miles further down the coast. The coastguard thought it unlikely that he had fallen into the sea, because local tides and currents would have taken both the body and the boat into the nearest shore. Jukes told some drinking pals he was going fishing with a mate, but no friend was ever found. I got bugged by the story for a while, even asked Mrs Roquesby about it when she came by. I thought perhaps she might have heard something that didn’t get into the papers.”
“Why were you so interested?” asked Longbright.
“I did my training on the regional court circuit,” answered Shad. “When you hear the names of certain litigious organisations come up time and again, alarm bells go off in your head. In this case I was intrigued because Jukes was a consultant at Porton Down.”
♦
“Roquesby’s colleague was a doctor who worked for the Ministry of Defence,” Longbright told the detectives when she met them an hour later. They were seated in the Hope & Anchor, sipping a dark malty liqueur poured from a mysterious and rather dusty brown bottle Arthur had ordered down from behind the bar. It was nearly eleven p.m., and they had sent the rest of the crew home.
“Jukes was chief scientist for chemical and biological security at the MOD’s main laboratory. There was some kind of scandal over part of the lab being outsourced into the hands of privatised companies.”
“I thought that happened all the time,” said May.
“One of them had been under investigation for allegedly offering bribes. It made a couple of the papers, but the story was dropped pretty sharpish. You once talked to me about the case, Arthur; you said something about turning up darker connections.”
“Did I?” asked Bryant, amazed. “I don’t remember at all. Not that that’s saying much.”
Longbright thought for a minute. “This would have been back in the summer, you told me something about witches or warlocks – no, Druids.”
“Wait a minute, that’s right, I do remember.” Bryant was genuinely amazed. “I told you that Jukes had formerly belonged to a Druid sect – his family had insisted it was only a hobby, but according to the Sunday rags they suggested that he had drifted into Satanist circles.”
“You didn’t tell me about this,” said May, grimacing over his bitter drink.
“Well, no, Janice and I look into all sorts of interesting stories behind your back, don’t we, Janice? But there’s not much point in bringing them to your attention if we don’t think they’ll fly.”
“So what happened?”
“Oh, the Met detectives refused to believe there was a connection between Jukes’s injuries and his interest in black magic. They vindicated the coroner and agreed with the verdict of
accidental death. But you know how my mind works.”
“Not really, no.”
“I couldn’t help wondering if Jukes had become an embarrassment to his employers because he was operating under the Official Secrets Act. I’m not suggesting they assassinated him, of course, merely that they encouraged people to believe that he was mentally unstable. I actually petitioned the Home Office for a look at his notes, but the Defence Secretary refused to acknowledge that there was a case at all. He pointed out that Jukes had been suffering from clinical depression for a number of years, and had long been recognised as a security risk, so I let it drop. And now it turns out he knew Jocelyn Roquesby. Well, well.”
“So what do we have?” asked May. “Carol Wynley worked for another company that doesn’t exist – April couldn’t find any specialist law firm under the name of the Holborn Security Group.”
“And Shad Thomson has another set of employment dates that match those of his girlfriend’s murdered companions,” Longbright added.
Bryant stirred the thick sediment in his glass thoughtfully. “Four women work for phantom companies. One of their colleagues commits suicide or accidentally drowns. Then, in the space of two weeks, the women, plus a fifth, are put to sleep in public places by a former mental patient.”
“It may be that none of these facts are connected. You know how often we’re criticised for jumping to conclusions; I think we have to be very careful this time, and only build the case with documented facts. We could be looking at the result of information gaps, misinterpreted events, simple clerical errors.”
“No. I spoke to one of the doctors who signed Pellew’s release form. Hopelessly evasive about the procedure, pleaded patient confidentiality, believe it or not. And I keep coming back to the pubs in which they died. The Old Dr Butler was named after a deranged doctor; the Seven Stars and the Magpie and Stump give us ‘seven’ and ‘conspiracy’; The Victoria Cross is the name of a pub that could not even exist; the Exmouth Arms provides the name of Pellew himself. My God, he couldn’t have left us much plainer clues.”
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