On the Loose

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Not necessarily. They might have timed their work order to commence from the date of expiration.’

  ‘Is there any way of finding out the actual expiration date?’

  ‘Give me a minute.’ Tremble disappeared.

  ‘Corporate skulduggery,’ said Maggie while they waited for his return. ‘You’re thinking they turned to murder, aren’t you, Arthur?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. Thousands of people displaced and relocated, billions spent on contracts, funding raised and companies created for Europe’s biggest development project. Suppose one difficult man stood in the way of all this progress? Imagine how easy it might have seemed to simply get rid of him. What if something went wrong, resulting in the deaths of two others?’

  ‘If you think captains of industry colluded to quietly remove one blockage in the system,’ said Maggie, ‘why would they draw attention to themselves by cutting off people’s heads?’

  ‘I have no answer for that.’

  ‘I do. They’re following this area’s ancient tradition of severing the heads of sacrificial victims, in order to win themselves favour with the pagan gods of the forest who are the real owners of the land.’

  ‘Dear Lord.’ Bryant ran a hand over his face. ‘I’m the first person to back you up when it comes to spiritual matters, Margaret, but I really can’t see myself explaining that to the Home Office.’

  ‘Fair point,’ said Maggie with a shrug. ‘Let’s keep looking.’

  ‘Here you are,’ said Tremble, returning with a yellowed sheet of paper. ‘It’s unusual for such a deed to have a specific expiration, but in this case it appears to be exactly one hundred and twenty years after the original land purchase.’

  ‘That’s in three days’ time,’ said Bryant, attempting to whistle through his false teeth.

  ‘St Pancras Day,’ said Maggie, awed. ‘A day of great mystical significance. A time for the greatest sacrifice.’

  37

  HEALTH RESTOR’D AND PRESERV’D

  Oliver Golifer, the unfortunately named owner of the Newman Street Picture Library, was digging the dirt from his dado rail with a golf tee when Arthur Bryant knocked on the window.

  ‘It’s open,’ Golifer mouthed through the glass. ‘I’m having a spring clean. Help me down, will you?’ He leaned on Bryant’s shoulder while lowering his massive bulk from the ladder. ‘I’ve found what you’re looking for. We have a lot of photographs taken in King’s Cross because it was often used as a film location.’ He pulled out a box of photographs from behind his counter. ‘Here, the jam factory, the Tothele Manor Tavern, and further back, the house that was there in 1939.’

  Bryant found himself looking at a sharp monochrome photograph of number 11, Camley Lane. He turned to the second picture, which showed a cellar surrounded by blackened timbers and smouldering bricks.

  ‘They were unlucky. Read the back.’

  November 12th 1940 Mrs Irene Porter lost her husband when her home suffered a direct hit from a Luftwaffe incendiary bomb last night. Her son was away on army manoeuvres at the time of the raid. She was taken in by Harold and Beatrice Barker, who lived in the house opposite, at number 14, Camley Lane. The King’s Cross community consists largely of railway workers, who were quick to pull together and rehouse Mrs Porter and the others who survived the attack. (Daily Sketch)

  Golifer took the picture in one meaty fist. ‘There’s a companion shot to this. I’ve seen it somewhere. I think it’s filed under “King’s Cross History.” Your Mr May has been nagging at me to transfer the library electronically, you know.’

  ‘Why would you want to do that? This way you know where everything is.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Golifer agreed, rooting in a shoebox full of sepia snapshots. ‘Here we go. The same Daily Sketch photographer.’

  The photograph showed a brick circle with a dark centre. ‘What am I looking at?’ asked Bryant.

  ‘Turn it over.’

  November 12th 1940 The bombing of Camley Lane reveals the remains of St Chad’s Well. This ancient well stood on the once sacred ‘River of Wells’ at Battle Bridge in King’s Cross. Valued for its healing properties, water was drawn up and heated in a great cauldron to restore the well-being of the many visitors to the pump room and elegant spa gardens constructed on the site. Beneath a sign reading ‘Health Restor’d and Preserv’d’ stood the Lady of the Well, dressed in her traditional black bonnet and gown.

  It is said that the well appeared to spring from the ground at the bidding of Edmund Ironside’s sword as he vanquished King Canute in 1016.

  St Chad’s Well was considered the oldest and most important well in all of London. St Chad became Bishop of Mercia in 669 & was ordained the Patron Saint of Springs & Wells. St Chad’s Place is still to be found in King’s Cross.

  ‘Mrs Porter’s house was built over a sacred well,’ said Bryant, ruminatively chewing a piece of carrot cake. ‘So what site was Delaney clearing just before he died?’

  At 5:20 on the same evening, Leslie Faraday put in a call to Jack Renfield’s cell phone.

  Faraday: Ah, Mr Renfield. I’m glad I caught you.

  Renfield: You rang my mobile. I always answer.

  Faraday: Yes, well, be that as it may, I was rather hoping you were about to call me.

  Renfield: I didn’t see any point in ringing if I didn’t have anything to tell you.

  Faraday: Well, I thought you would, you see. A rather alarming report has reached my ears.

  Renfield: (impatiently) What about?

  Faraday: Somebody at Camden Council rang to tell me that Mr Bryant had been in questioning officials about building plans.

  Renfield: Yes, he’s conducting your investigation. He’s following a lead.

  Faraday: He had a witch with him.

  Renfield: A what?

  Faraday: A witch, Mr Renfield. Cauldron, pointy hat, talking cat, you know, a woman who consorts with the devil and believes she can cast spells.

  Renfield: I have no information on that.

  Faraday: Oh. I find that very disappointing. I recall specifically requesting that you keep an eye on Mr Bryant, something you’ve singularly failed to do.

  Renfield: I’ve reported to you every night on the progress of the investigation.

  Faraday: And you would have me believe that nothing unusual has happened.

  Renfield: That’s right.

  Faraday: You don’t call witchcraft unusual?

  Renfield: Bryant takes friends along to help him sometimes.

  Faraday: Friends, plural? Who else has he brought along to this private investigation? A wizard, perhaps? Some performing dwarves? Are you laughing?

  Renfield: (coughing) No, sir.

  Faraday: Do you understand that my report will go to Mr Kasavian, and if he finds anything untoward, he will take steps to bring prosecutions against everyone involved in this investigation?

  Renfield: If that’s the case, it’s not in my interest to report to you, is it?

  Faraday: But I’ve issued you with a formal request.

  Renfield: Yeah, and I’m ignoring it.

  Faraday: It’s a command.

  Renfield: Well, which is it—a request or a command?

  Faraday: (heatedly) It’s a—it doesn’t matter what it is, you have to do what you’re told.

  Renfield: I’ve got a better idea. You can stick your request—and your command—up your arse.

  Faraday: I find your attitude highly unsatisfactory, Mr Ren-field, and what’s more I fully intend … Hello? Hello?

  Outside London, beyond the great grey saucepan lid of cloud that covered the metropolis, it was a raw, beautiful day. Ragged white scraps of cloud tumbled across the Sussex downs, and even Brighton’s faded appeal was partially restored when viewed from the end of the Palace Pier. Fifty years earlier, the pink pavements and sky-blue railings had signified a town of civic heraldry in which a generation of vaguely lost spinsters and disappointed colonels had made their homes. Now the resort had been designated a ci
ty, with all of the ills that such status conferred. The burghers of Brighton had neglected the parts they disliked until those parts simply went away, and had added on bits that made them money, leaving windswept concourses filled with chain stores that could be found in any town, anywhere.

  Maddox Cavendish had lived in a new development overlooking the ruins of the collapsed West Pier. The porter refused to believe that DuCaine and Longbright were police officers, and it took several phone calls to get them inside the building. The apartment had been built to showcase its main feature, a wooden deck overlooking the sparkling sea. ‘He was making good money,’ DuCaine noted, thumping around the flat in his size twelve boots.

  ‘His employment record has him down as single. No photos anywhere, very impersonal.’ Longbright stood in the centre of the living room and turned slowly. ‘Very tidy. Gay, maybe.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I’m just trying to get a mental picture.’ She started opening drawers. ‘I love snooping through other people’s lives, don’t you?’

  ‘Not really,’ DuCaine admitted. ‘Not when they’ve just been murdered.’

  ‘He’s hardly a typical victim.’ She riffled through a book of cheque stubs and turned out a pile of ATM receipts. ‘He drew out two thousand pounds in cash just over two weeks ago.’

  DuCaine searched the closet and bookcases, but found only business suits and volumes on accounting, architecture and self-help.

  Longbright opened a black leather calendar and checked the pages. ‘Oh, you’re going to love this,’ she said, reading. ‘LUNCH T.DELANEY. One P.M. Maddox Cavendish had lunch with Terry Delaney three days before Delaney died. Delaney was meeting him at the ADAPT Group headquarters, but it doesn’t say where they ate, so presumably it wasn’t somewhere that needed a reservation.’

  ‘What the hell was an architect doing having lunch with a construction worker?’

  ‘When two people of different social status break bread together, it’s usually because one of them wants something.’

  ‘Cynical.’

  ‘No, pragmatic. What would Cavendish want from a day laborer? Did he fancy him?’

  ‘I dunno. Maybe he was having some construction work done at home.’

  Longbright called in their discovery to the team, who set about talking to restaurant staff in the building-site area. Meanwhile, the two detectives divided Cavendish’s apartment into sections and searched every square on the grid, but turned up nothing else.

  ‘If we catch the fast train back, we can give ourselves an extra hour,’ Longbright told DuCaine.

  ‘Why, is there something you wanted to do?’

  ‘Yeah, I want to go on the pier.’

  ‘It’s a murder investigation, Janice.’

  ‘I haven’t been out of London in more than a year. I hardly ever get a good night’s sleep in town. I’m knackered. I just want to get some sea air into my head. Can we do that?’

  ‘Come on, then.’

  DuCaine offered to buy her cotton candy but Longbright preferred a plate of whelks smothered in vinegar and white pepper. They leaned on the railings watching the seagulls screeching and wheeling over the remains of the fishermen’s bait buckets.

  ‘Do you ever get times when you feel really lonely?’ DuCaine asked.

  ‘Everyone in the force does.’

  ‘You dated a copper, didn’t you?’

  ‘For eleven years. A bloody nightmare. I hardly ever saw him.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t do it again?’

  ‘Meera said that the nurse who sutured her arm had gone into the profession because she heard doctors were good kissers. My mother used to say that people in the emergency services were more passionate lovers because they saw so much death that they needed to celebrate life. And that it also made them really untidy at home, because keeping things neat wasn’t important.’

  ‘You think that’s true?’

  ‘What is it with all the questions?’

  ‘I want to go out with you.’

  ‘What, on a date?’ The idea caught her by surprise.

  ‘On a boat. On a bike. Yes, on a date.’

  Longbright narrowed her eyes, appraising him. ‘Don’t you think you’re a little young for me? Besides, you don’t know if I’m a good kisser.’

  At the end of the pier, beside the rattling of the ghost train and beneath the diving white gulls, PC Liberty DuCaine found out.

  38

  SHADOW FIGURE

  Harry was my old man,’ said Keith Barker. ‘He lived in Camley Lane right to the end of his life. He was a station guard at St Pancras, and his wife worked in the ticket office. Not my mum, you understand, she died in 1964—his second wife. You’ll never guess what my grandfather’s job was: He collected the holes from bus tickets. He used to box ’em up and sell ’em outside the church for confetti—at least that’s what he told us.’

  At five on Saturday, Arthur Bryant had arrived at the Barker household. That was twenty minutes ago, and Mr Barker had yet to pause for breath. The little flat off the Holloway Road was filled with trophies and awards for keeping tropical fish, but there was no room in the place to put an aquarium. Bryant decided that it would be a good idea to keep Barker away from the subject of fish, or he’d be there all day. There was a time when men like Mr Barker would have sat at home in suspenders and a collarless shirt. The old man seated before him was wearing sneakers and a shiny blue track suit.

  ‘I’ve got a heart condition so I don’t get out now,’ Mr Barker explained. ‘All our family lived around Camley Lane, generations of us, which was handy ’cause you could keep an eye on the old’uns. It turned into a rough area, though, ’cause a lot of traders moved into the arches after the war, and so many people were bombed out that the quickest way to make a bit of money was to open a lodging house. Every house in King’s Cross had a dozen boarders in it, and naturally you got trouble, what with them all living on top of each other.’

  ‘I’m particularly interested in the Porters’ house,’ said Bryant, attempting to guide Barker back on track.

  ‘Bombed to matchsticks, that place,’ said Mr Barker. ‘When Mrs Porter lost her husband and her home, she went to live with Granddad. Later on, she came to live with us, ’cause she was like one of the family by then. There hadn’t been a warning that night, see. Granddad said the ARP wardens were quick enough to turn up if you had a light showing through your curtains, but they were so busy ticking things off in their little books that sometimes there was no-one manning the sirens. The nearest siren to us was on the roof of the St Pancras Old Church, but half the time they kept the churchyard gates locked at night, ’cause they didn’t want no-one sleeping in the graveyard. Four flying bombs fell around here. Some streets were totally bombed out of existence.’

  ‘Why didn’t they rebuild Mrs Porter’s house?’ asked Bryant.

  ‘There was nothing to rebuild. Plus, there was the problem of the well.’

  ‘The house was built over St Chad’s Well.’

  ‘That’s right. None of us knew it was there, although Auntie Reeny—that’s what we called her—she complained it had always been damp, and she swore that her husband had known it was there, because he’d talked to her about it but she didn’t really listen. The authorities sent some bloke from the historical society down to look at it, but he didn’t do nothing, then the rubble from the bombing was used to block it up and they put prefabs on top for the families who’d been bombed out. Trouble is, they was made of asbestos, so they had to come down. Then they extended the old jam factory over the land, but that wasn’t successful, so finally they turned the extension into a pub—for a while it was called the Stag’s Head. I moved here, but I still went back, of course, ’cause all my old mates were around there. They hung on waiting to be bought out, ’cause there was talk of the railways buying the land.’

  ‘Then it was finally sold to the ADAPT Group.’

  ‘I figured that’s why you’re here, because of Terry Delaney.’
Bryant was brought up short. ‘You know him?’

  ‘He came to see me, ’cause ADAPT decided to go ahead and clear the site completely, and they brought him in, ’cause he knew the area. They brought the bulldozers in but there was a question over who owned the land. Terry was hired to tear down the remains of the Stag’s Head. He told me he was a bit of an amateur historian, and knew a lot about the street. He tore up the foundations and found the well, but of course it had been filled in with bricks and then concrete had been poured over it, so there was nothing much left to see.’

  ‘So how did he end up coming to you?’

  ‘He found the deed. See, old Mr Porter never got around to putting his house deeds in the bank. A lot of people didn’t, in them days. He kept his important documents in a tin box in the basement. Nobody ever went down there much ’cause it was too wet, and bad for the chest. I suppose when the house was bombed the box fell into the well. It couldn’t have fallen very far, though, or Terry would never have found it. They’ve been turning up all sorts of things on those old properties, but apparently you only get a short time to dig up the site before they’re covered by the new buildings.’

  Bryant thought of the remains of London’s Roman basilica, now only viewable from the basement of the hairdresser’s off Gracechurch Street that had been built over it, and the sportswear shop that had housed the ancient and venerable London Stone for so many years. Notoriously, archaeologists had been given just six weeks to uncover treasures beneath a part of the London Wall before it was concreted into an office car park.

  ‘You’re telling me that Mr Delaney found the original freehold property deeds to number eleven Camley Lane and traced them to you?’

  ‘He used a pile driver to break the well open, and there was the box. Terry thought it was a bomb at first. He told me there’s over five thousand unexploded bombs still buried in London soil. He said he wanted to return the deeds to their rightful owner. Thought that way they’d have a chance to claim the land before the registration date passed, ’cause it was due soon.’