The Memory of Blood

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he didn’t mean it to read like—’

  ‘Of course he bloody did!’ Kramer bit back. ‘Read the second piece.’

  Baby in Horror Fall

  An 11-month-old baby boy fell to his death from an open sixth-floor window in central London last night. Noah Kramer, son of millionaire theatre owner Robert ‘Julius’ Kramer, 47, and his second wife, Judith Kramer, 26, were hosting a lavish first-night party to mark the opening of their play The Two Murderers when tragedy struck.

  An Emergency Response Vehicle was dispatched to the £3.5 million penthouse at around 9:30 P.M. Officers are at a loss to explain how baby Noah reached the window, which the parents insist was securely locked, or why it had been opened during the torrential rainstorm that hit central London last night. ‘The couple had given their nanny the night off and were downstairs celebrating with celebrity guests when Noah somehow found his way to the window,’ said a close friend. ‘Judith is devastated.’ The police want to know why the baby was left alone by an open window, and will have no choice but to treat the death as suspicious.

  Kramer’s first play at London’s newly opened New Strand Theatre is a gruesome horror-drama that is not for the fainthearted, and has received a critical drubbing.

  ‘You can see what he’s implying, can’t you?’ said Kramer. ‘That the show is somehow paralleled in our private lives. And that we deliberately neglected our own child. “Left by an open window,” “celebrating with celebrity guests,” “Judith is devastated”—no mention of my grief. And putting our ages and the price of the property in the bloody article! Apart from anything else, the place is worth four million at least. This is obviously Lansdale’s work, although I don’t know what they think they’re doing, getting a bloody theatre critic to write the news. I got him his first job on the Telegraph and this is how he treats me. Well, I want him kept out of my theatre from now on.’

  ‘How’s Judith doing?’ asked Baine. He wasn’t really interested, but felt that Kramer would expect to be asked.

  ‘How do you think she’s doing? She’s inconsolable. She’s been dosed to the gills with Valium and has taken to her bed. I can’t go to the theatre while this is going on. We can’t even plan the funeral until some coroner has finished poking about with the body. It’s a bloody nightmare! And now that the press are working some kind of neglect angle, things can only get worse.’

  ‘Everything’s under control at the theatre. We had a bit of a flood after the storm but we’re working on that. The box office is healthy. I hate to say it, but the coverage of the accident has raised your profile.’

  ‘My wife has just lost her child, show some bloody respect.’

  Baine shrugged. ‘I’m an accountant, Robert, it’s how I see the world. Bad for you, good for business.’

  ‘What are we going to say?’ asked Marcus Sigler. ‘They’re going to find out that we were together on the fire escape when they compare notes.’ He and Gail Strong were seated outside a coffee shop on Upper Street, Islington. Gail was wearing absurdly huge Audrey Hepburn glasses that drew attention to her.

  ‘You don’t need to sound so worried.’ She took a drag on her cigarette and jetted smoke away from him. ‘I lied to that stupid policewoman about the timings, the one who looked like a model from the 1960s. I told her I was out there after you, and passed you coming in as I went out.’

  ‘Christ, what if somebody else saw us and contradicts your testimony? When were you going to tell me this? You know my situation. They’ve got everyone else’s times. If there’s a mismatch, they’ll know something’s wrong.’

  ‘Grow yourself some gonads, Marcus. I’m just going to stick to my story. No-one can prove we were outside together, and so what if we were? Strangers take cigarette breaks in each other’s company all the time.’

  ‘They’ll know something was going on. Judith will know. Women can sense these things.’

  ‘Judith’s virtually in a coma, in case you haven’t heard.’

  ‘She’s probably been prescribed something to calm her down. You can’t imagine how bad I feel about this.’

  ‘It didn’t seem to bother you at the time. That’s what cracks me up about men. You never think things through.’

  ‘If this gets out I could have my contract cancelled.’

  ‘I forgot, it’s all about you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it rather is in this case.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Give me one of those.’ He pointed at her Marlboro Lights. ‘I thought you understood. I thought that was the whole point.’

  ‘Understood what?’

  ‘Well.’ Marcus fussed about trying to light the cigarette. There are few sights as spectacular as a handsome man embarrassed. ‘That Judith and I are an item.’

  ‘No, somehow you never got around to mentioning that.’

  ‘We met at her best friend’s wedding in Gloucester, and spent the night together. In the morning, she told me that Robert had already proposed to her. I tried to stop seeing her, but it’s kind of still going on.’

  ‘Kind of? How could you have let that happen if she was about to marry someone else?’

  ‘I don’t know. We really do care for each other. I guess it was just bad timing for both of us. I mean, I made love to her the night before her wedding to Robert. But since then things have got even weirder. I’m starting to get this strange feeling that he knows something’s going on.’

  ‘So, what the hell happened between us on the fire escape?’

  ‘I was a bit drunk, and you came on to me.’

  ‘Is that all it takes to make you unfaithful, Marcus? God, at least I’m unattached. Poor Judith. Do you really think her husband knows something?’

  ‘Probably not. I don’t see how he can. He’d kill me if he did. At the very least he’d make sure I never worked again.’

  ‘I suppose it’s struck you how similar your situation is to the character you play in The Two Murderers. It sounds like you’re living the part.’

  ‘I’ve been feeling uneasy about that for a while, but lately the sensation’s been getting worse. It’s like some kind of shadow play.’

  ‘God, if it follows the play we’re all in trouble.’

  ‘You don’t know Robert Kramer. He’s a dangerous man. He manipulates everyone.’

  Gail removed her dark glasses. She was wearing no eye makeup and suddenly looked like a child. She rubbed at her nose with a paper handkerchief. ‘I joined this company because my father thought it would keep me out of trouble. If the press finds out I was there when a baby died, they’ll ruin everything for me. I’ve had a few problems in the past. And they’ll start digging around. Who knows what they’ll turn up about the rest of the cast?’

  ‘Sometimes productions take years to gestate, and all kinds of things happen to the casts in that time. Actors get promoted or replaced, they marry, divorce and die, kids get born. People always look for parallels between the plays they’re in and the lives they lead …’

  Something in his manner made her pause and stare at him. Without her sunglasses she could see that Marcus had purple shadows beneath his eyes. ‘What else do you know?’ she asked.

  ‘Look, there’s some stuff you shouldn’t get involved in. In fact, I think we should try to avoid each other’s company. It wouldn’t be healthy to be seen together. I’m trying to protect you.’

  Gail did not feel protected. Either Marcus was simply trying to brush her off after an ill-advised liaison or he was genuinely terrified, and for once she decided not to ask any more questions.

  For Arthur Bryant, the case was starting to evoke a different parallel. London has nearly fifty major theatres and countless fringe venues, employing hundreds of people, so it was hardly surprising that occasionally crimes occurred within these very public spaces. The Unit’s first investigation had involved the gruesome death of a dancer in the Palace Theatre, and still fascinated the elderly detective. The theatre was where a great many of Bryant�
��s obsessions intersected. The heady combination of artifice, obsession, esoterica and intrigue fired his synapses. As a child he had sneaked into theatres via their open scenery docks, and would be allowed to watch performances. He watched in openmouthed awe while Hamlet goaded Claudius and Richard III schemed. Walton’s masque from The Tempest and the sprites of Arden seduced him into an impossible world, taking him away from the poverty and bitterness of his childhood home. He still visited theatres whenever he could, but had become disenchanted with the Disneyfication of the West End, which had replaced thoughtful plays with witless family extravaganzas.

  Bryant clambered onto his library steps and pulled down various musty volumes on the history of British theatre, hoping to find some answers to the elliptical questions that flittered about inside his head.

  In a book on the lives of Gilbert and Sullivan he found a quote: ‘London’s modern skin has settled easily over its Victorian heart. Far from erasing the old and replacing it with the new, the city seems to encourage paradox, just as it always did. The highborn and the lowly, the wealthy and the poor, are kept as separate as they have always been.’

  How true, he thought, recalling Lord Lucan, the missing seventh Earl of Lucan, who in 1974 allegedly murdered his nanny and fled the country, apparently protected by a coterie of wealthy friends. Bryant knew that if Robert Kramer operated in similar circles, he would never get to the truth of the boy’s death. There were areas of London society where even the law was powerless. The gap between rich and poor was not just one of wealth but of accountability.

  However, Kramer could not be protected by any altitude of birthright. He had few friends in high places. He was an opportunist, a financier, a self-made man. His protection was based solely on money, and that made him a little more vulnerable. What’s more, he ran a new and already disreputable theatre company. Something about the play and the death resonated, and as Bryant searched the shelves, he found what he was looking for. He pulled down a rare French volume from 1887: The ‘Rosse’ Vignettes of Oscar Méténier.

  Laying it carefully on his desk, he began to read. Méténier’s lurid little plays had given horrified Parisiens a glimpse into the lives of desperate men and women laid low by birth and circumstance. His stage was filled with cackling whores, violent alcoholics and graphic executions. Some of his work was labelled an affront to public morality because of its shocking street jargon, and was promptly banned. In La Casserole, the writer even hired real criminals to play themselves. It seemed the playgoing public always loved to witness gruesome tragedy, so long as it didn’t involve people of their own class.

  Artifice and reality, he thought, examining the photographs and drawings, they combine more easily than we realise. TV shows pretend to offer realism but they hide as much as they show. Fiction, on the other hand, can contain fundamental human truths. And sometimes it’s possible to step back and forth between these two worlds just by opening the correct door, by finding the key that will unlock mysteries. So much of London is masked; unspoken rules protect the privileged, unseen codes hide the guilty. What a crafty lot we are!

  This, then, was Arthur Bryant at work, his furrowed forehead bowed beneath the yellow light of the desk lamp, a shambling Prospero residing over the desiccated pages of his literary arcana, stirring fresh knowledge into the heady stew of ideas that filled his brain.

  As he sat at the chaotic centre of his office-cum-library, blowing the dust from one forgotten volume after another, scribbling notes and teasing out tenuous links, he began to build a structure of evidence in the case.

  Bryant had no interest in the common grounds of detection. He refused to be swayed by plausibility or likelihood. Human beings, he knew, were capable of acting in extraordinary ways for reasons that extended into the realms of the bizarre, and the best way to uncover their confidences was to match the strangeness of their thinking.

  As he unfolded a series of grotesque etchings from the works of Charles Baudelaire, Jules Verne and André de Lorde, he wondered if the shroud shielding London’s deepest secrets was about to lift for him once more. In the miasma of his mind, dark ideas began to swirl and take solid form.

  The following guests were present at the house of Robert and Judith Kramer, 376 Northumberland Avenue, WC1, when Noah Kramer’s death was discovered, and came to the nursery to see what was wrong when they heard the door being broken down by Robert Kramer.

  Della Fortess (Actor)

  Neil Crofting (Actor)

  Mona Williams (Actor)

  Marcus Sigler (Actor)

  Russell Haddon (Director)

  Gregory Baine (Producer)

  Ray Pryce (Scriptwriter)

  Ella Maltby (Set designer)

  Larry Hayes (Wardrobe)

  Alex Lansdale (Theatre critic, HardNews.com)

  Gail Strong (ASM)

  The list had been scrawled out by DS Janice Longbright on a whiteboard in the common room, and the staff were now adding witness statements against the names of each of the guests. The giant schematic concentrated everyone’s attention in the simplest manner possible.

  Interviews were now also being entered into the PCU’s system via a new application developed by Dan Banbury called WECS (Witness Evidence Correlation Software), and the pattern of the night’s events was re-created in a single spreadsheet of insane complexity.

  When Longbright stared at the list of names, the times they arrived, who they knew, when they entered and left the lounge, their relationships to their hosts and to each other, all she saw was a data grid that detailed everything and explained nothing. The problem with traditional witness statements was that they sometimes obscured important facts, but WECS just seemed to make her job harder.

  She wanted to know something far more fundamental: Who among these people could kill a child? Who could act with such violence toward one so innocent, and then return moments later to make small talk at a party? Clearly, it was possible; many killers described a sense of blankness descending upon them, removing their ability to feel any kind of remorse. But she and the other members of staff had met these people and noticed nothing untoward.

  ‘John, do you think actors lie more easily than people in other professions?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know enough about them to judge, but I wouldn’t think so.’ May looked up from his notes. ‘Arthur’s your best bet for a question like that. You’d be better off looking for the distinct emotional characteristics common to homicides. Dissociative states of mind, stress snaps from long-gestating problems. Killers supposedly undergo something called an “aura phase.” Their senses become heightened, skin becomes more sensitive, they experience sights and sounds more vividly. You might discreetly check our suspects for the appearance of such a state.’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible the perpetrator doesn’t even remember what happened.’

  ‘True. It could help explain the anomalies Arthur pointed up.’

  ‘Why would somebody strike in such a public place? It seems to be inviting extra risk.’

  ‘About a third of all killers strike in public. And they often become very depressed after they’ve acted, but we can’t monitor all our suspects all of the time—the system isn’t built for it.’

  More confused than ever, Longbright went back to work. She was still inputting everyone’s movements when the call came in a few minutes later. She rose and left the room.

  Bryant was poring over a huge old book entitled Folk Myths & Legends of England. On top of this were a limited edition of Calthrop’s Punch and Judy, published by Dulau & Co Ltd, and a slipcased original playscript, Punch & Judy, edited by Rose Fyleman for Methuen.

  ‘I’ve got some bad news for you, Arthur,’ said Longbright. ‘Do you know someone called Anna Marquand?’

  ‘John and I had tea with her yesterday morning,’ said Bryant without looking up. His unlit pipe was clenched between his teeth, a sure sign he was concentrating. ‘She’s the editor of my memoirs. I’m thinking of bringing her into the
Unit in some capacity. Why?’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  Bryant stopped what he was doing. ‘What do you mean? How?’

  ‘Her mother just called. She found the PCU’s phone number in her daughter’s jacket. Apparently Anna Marquand got home last night, was going to make herself a toasted cheese sandwich, cut up the bread and passed out in the kitchen. Her mother was in the other room with the TV up loud and didn’t hear anything. Half an hour later she found her on the floor, blue in the face. The medics reckon it might have been some virulent form of blood poisoning, perhaps tetanus. She died in the ambulance.’

  ‘Blood poisoning?’

  ‘Bacteria in the bloodstream.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Janice, I know what it is. How did it get there?’

  ‘The mother says she nicked herself with the bread knife.’

  ‘Is that all? Seems very sudden. Are they sure?’

  ‘It’s not as uncommon as you’d think. I had a cousin who died in exactly the same way.’

  ‘But Anna—what a terrible waste.’ Bryant looked genuinely horrified—not a common sight.

  ‘That’s not all. The mother, Rose Marquand, reckons there was something odd about it. Her daughter was attacked on the way home by some local hoolies, kids from a criminal family. They snatched her mobile on the front doorstep, not for the first time, either. She’d been having a running battle with them for a couple of years. Rose says her daughter was terrified and couldn’t calm down after. She thinks maybe her heart gave out and the doctor misdiagnosed.’

  ‘Frightened to death? Sounds unlikely.’

  ‘I suppose that’s what she’s implying. She didn’t want to talk to the local constabulary, says they were aware of the problems Anna had been having but never did anything about them. Mrs Marquand didn’t know who else to call, but Anna had talked about you.’

  ‘Where did they take her? St Thomas’s?’

  ‘I believe so. Want me to talk to the doctor?’