She became annoyed that, once again, she had been given an assignment that would yield nothing useful or practical, and was thinking about calling it a night when one of the men grabbed her hands and pulled her onto the dance floor for 'My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys.'
For the next twenty minutes, Meera forgot her frustration and regret about moving to the Peculiar Crimes Unit as, much to her surprise, she discovered the joys of line dancing to the strains of Willie Nelson.
22
QUESTIONS & ANSWERS
I
n the film The Ladykillers, what was the screen name of the old lady Alec Guinness and his cronies were trying to murder? We're talking about the original British version here, not the remake.'
May looked around at the hunched shoulders and lowered heads. The room in The Old Dr Butler's Head, London Wall, where Joanne Kellerman had been found dead, was silent but for the scratching of 2H pencils. As he wrote 'Mrs Wilberforce' on the sheet before him, May accidentally caught the eye of the woman at the next table. She snatched her sheet aside, suspecting him of trying to cheat. They want to be back at school, he thought, each of them vying to be top of the class once more.
'Last question in our film round: Give me the name of the ancient kingdom discovered in Passport to Pimlico.'
May wrote 'Burgundy' and turned over his paper, ready for collection. He looked around the room at the assembled players, trying to see if any were alone. We always assume killers operate singly, he caught himself thinking. But what if there are two of them, perhaps even a man and a woman? Suddenly the
conspiring, whispering pairs in the room appeared more sinister. None of the victims had told their partners, relatives or friends where they were going. Was that in itself significant? If the attacks were completely random and their killer moved to a fresh venue every time, catching him became a matter of luck. There are nearly six thousand pubs in London, he thought. What are we expected to do, close them all down? Suppose he switches to another crowded public place, inside the tube, on rush-hour buses or crowded city pavements?
The case had resonance with a number of other, more extraordinary killings that had occurred in London over recent years. A Bulgarian dissident, Georgi Markov, had been poisoned on Waterloo Bridge with the sharpened tip of an umbrella. Roberto Calvi, the Vatican banker, had been found hanged in a convincingly staged suicide underneath Blackfriars Bridge. And former KGB agent Alexander Litvinenko was fa-tally dosed with radioactive thallium in a busy sushi bar. In all three cases there had been no guns, no knives, just the careful and quiet determination to end a life.
It was difficult to shake off a sense of impending failure.
May was inclined to disagree with his partner, who felt that the attacks were based on opportunity and location as much as on the women themselves, but the fact remained that they had uncovered no common denominators other than the link be-tween their cell phones. None of the calls had been under surveillance, so there was no way of tracing what had been said.
And there was another problem: Jazmina Sherwin's cell phone had been found on her body, so the killer wasn't using a consistent MO. If it can be proved that they all knew each other, May thought, it might be possible to discover the identities of other women in danger. He handed in his quiz form and sipped at his pint, watching the quizmaster at work. That's who I need to talk to, he decided. He'll remember everyone who's ever come here to play.
The kind of men who compile quizzes always do.
The Grand Order of London Immortals were, in their own words, primarily interested in London's most infamous characters: political brigands, celebrity criminals, unapprehended murderers and anyone else who had been stencilled into the city's collective memory by doing something notorious and getting away with it.
Dr Harold Masters knew that the order shared some members with his own Insomnia Squad, and had recommended it to Bryant as a group who might unwittingly shine a light on the path to uncovering a murderer. This month they were meeting in the Yorkshire Grey, Langham Place, a small green-painted Victorian establishment with hanging baskets, exterior tables and memorabilia from the nearby BBC on its walls. Workers from the garment district frequented the bar, but tonight the Immortals, a grandiose term for what was essentially a band of disgruntled scholars, were holding loudly forth in the rear of the saloon.
Bryant recognised a number of old friends who had helped him in the past, including Stanhope Beaufort, a bombastic architectural expert who volunteered advice on London's ancient monuments, and Raymond Kirkpatrick, a verbose English-language professor who had been banned from lecturing at Oxford because of his habit of playing deafening heavy-metal music while he researched. The Immortals attracted their own groupies, not as glamorous perhaps as those who lurked back-stage at rock concerts, but every bit as tenacious. Among these was Jackie Quinten, the maternal widow who had tried to tempt Bryant back to her larder with the offer of a steaming kidney casserole when they had met in the course of the PCU's investigation into the so-called 'Water Room.' He had turned her down, not because he disliked her cuisine but be-cause she seemed to view him as potential husband material, which could only lead to tears.
He had spotted her sitting in a corner reading, and was careful to skirt the edge of the room in order to avoid her. Unfortunately, as he was creeping past with his head drawn down into the folds of his scarf, he caught his foot in some-body's handbag strap and lurched forward, precipitating half a pint of Samuel Smith's Imperial Stout straight into her lap.
There was a detonation of yelping chaos followed by a commotion of mopping and sponging, during which time Bryant stood helplessly by, caught between profuse apologies and the desire to sprint for the exit.
'Really, Arthur,' Jackie Quinten cried in exasperation as she wrung out her skirt, which was woollen and perfectly designed for absorption, 'there must be better ways of announcing yourself.'
'I'm most dreadfully sorry, Jackie, I didn't see you sitting there. You're rather invisible in that corner.'
'Thanks, you always know how to make a woman feel special.' When she saw the look of mortification on his face, she relented. 'Come and sit down for a minute, at least.' Bryant squeezed in beside her, breathing in the yeasty scent of fermented hops.
'I suppose you're here on business.'
After a fashion. I'm trying to stop a most unusual murderer.' 'You always are, Arthur. That's what you do, isn't it?' 'Yes, but this one is particularly slippery. He corners middle-aged women in public houses and puts them to sleep.' 'I know an awful lot of men like that.' Mrs Quinten did not appear in the least surprised. If anything, she looked as if her worst fears had been confirmed. Perhaps, thought Bryant, the widow had considered herself to be in London's last safe place, only to find its status suddenly removed. 'I presume they die in the process; otherwise, you wouldn't be involved. Why would he want to do that?' she asked.
'Because he probably hears voices and is appeasing a desire, attempting to restore an equilibrium only he understands. Who knows? Ask why men kill and you open the door to one of life's most paradoxical mysteries.'
'So what are you doing here?'
'Trying to learn how you can make a pub disappear. What about you?'
'Oh, the usual, listening to a bunch of rambling old lecturers and writers talk utter rot. I have to get out occasionally, Arthur, otherwise I'd go insane. Besides, I've always had a soft spot for academics.'
'Their endless curiosity about the world does seem to keep them young,' Bryant admitted.
'And I can't stay indoors making chutney every day, you know. I refuse to watch the toxic drivel that passes for television these days. I thought that by coming to these sorts of events I might get a clearer understanding of the world. I won-der what it is that drives the old to such questioning.'
'These days the young accept the status quo to an alarming degree, but I find I'm getting more rebellious as I age,' agreed Bryant.
'So many of life's good intentions seem to go wr
ong, and I feel I'd like to know why. Have we merely been disappointed with our lives, do you suppose?'
'When I was young I fantasised about the future.' Bryant flicked a droplet of splashed beer from Jackie's sleeve. 'Now that I'm living in it, I find it all a bit tatty. I was expecting us to be on other planets by now. I wanted genetic transformations and orbiting cities instead of Internet porn and small improvements in personal stereos.'
'I know what you mean,' Jackie agreed. 'Take this lot. They have plenty of ideas but no application. At least you might find them useful. Stanhope Beaufort sounds like your best bet, over there. He's an architect.'
'Yes, I know,' said Bryant. 'Do you mind if I go and talk with him?'
'No, but before you go, perhaps I can hold you to the promise of dinner. I'm not trying to lure you, Arthur. I'd make a rather unprepossessing siren. I just enjoy your company.' She seemed hesitant about continuing. 'And I'd appreciate your opinion about a private matter. On a professional basis, you understand.'
'On that basis, I'll do my best to oblige,' Bryant relented, rising. 'I'm free on Saturday.'
Mrs Quinten looked disappointed. 'That's the one day I can't do. I'm meeting one of my gentleman academics.'
'Oh, what an enormous pity. Another time then.'
'Perhaps after I finished—'
'Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude and spoil your evening.'
He was aware of Jackie Quinten's eyes on his back as he moved across the room. I'll admit she's a not unattractive woman, he caught himself thinking. I rather admire a firm maternal bust, but I'm damned if I'm eating her kidney casserole.
23
VANDALISM
S
tanhope Beaufort drained his pint and wiped his white beard. He had put on an enormous amount of weight since Bryant last saw him. Squeezed into a shirt clearly pur-chased before this gain, he looked like a sheep in a corset. 'What the hell are you doing here, Arthur?' he asked with characteristic brusqueness. 'You only track me down when you want something, so what is it?'
'Actually I happen to be a semi-regular among this crowd,' Bryant pointed out. 'But seeing as you're here too, tell me, how long would it take a man to build a Victorian pub from scratch and then dismantle it again? Could he do it in a single night?' Bryant explained his predicament. Beaufort's initial look of surprise transmuted into concentration as he applied himself to the puzzle. 'It would be easier to go the other way around,' he said. 'Hide the pub behind a shop, because the Victorians built things to last. They used stronger mortar, thicker tiles, denser metals. But you could get a shop front up in an hour just by whacking a few sheets of coloured Perspex over the brickwork and holding them in place with a handful of screws. Cover the windows with posters, strip the interior furniture, hide the bar behind racks of magazines, hire some old guy to sit at a counter and fob you off with some story about how he'd been there for years. Pubs usually have the capacity to be brightly lit, because the lights are traditionally turned up after time has been called, so they wouldn't have to replace the lighting. I can see how that might just work.'
'I don't know,' Bryant admitted. 'It sounds loopy even to me.'
'I didn't say it was a sane idea, just that it's possible. There's one way to find out,' said Beaufort. 'I've got a crowbar in my car.'
Are you suggesting we try to take the front of the store off?' said Bryant.
'You're a police officer, aren't you? You can do whatever you like.'
'Sadly we can't,' said Bryant, 'I have a tendency to get caught.' But he was already rebuttoning his coat.
They found a parking space for Victor, Bryant's decrepit Mini Cooper, in the next street over, and Beaufort slid the crowbar inside his coat as they walked to the corner of Whidbourne Street. The Pricecutter supermarket was in darkness. After checking that the coast was clear, Beaufort slid the steel stave from his coat and applied it to the oblong of orange plastic that covered the base of the store. He levered the crow-bar back until there was a loud crack, and a two-foot-long triangle shattered, clattering to the pavement. Beaufort dropped to his knees and examined the brickwork underneath.
'The fascia is screwed directly into the stonework,' he pointed out. 'With the right tools it could be removed in a few minutes, all of it, but the bad news is that the stonework underneath dates from the 1970s. Nothing is left of the pub that used to be on this site.'
Are you sure?' said Bryant. 'Couldn't we get one of the upper panels off?'
'This amounts to vandalism, Arthur.' 'It's a murder investigation.'
'All right.' Beaufort hoisted his bulk up on the low window ledge and wedged his crowbar under the shop's nameplate. It came away in an explosion of brickdust and plastic. 'The same cement finish,' he tutted. 'Hopeless rendering, very disappointing. Still, the original structure of the building is intact. If you could get all this off, I suppose you'd be able to build a false front over the top of it, but you'd need several strong lads and plenty of specialist equipment. Help me down before I fall.'
'That's no good,' said Bryant, holding out a hand. 'I'm looking for a lone murderer, thin, slight build, late twenties or early thirties, not someone travelling around with a team of builders. Besides, even assuming that the killer arranged to meet his victim here, with all the real pubs in London to choose from, why would he feel the need to re-create one from the past? Damn, there's someone coming. We'd better get out of here.'
'I thought you'd be officially sanctioned to commit wanton acts of destruction,' said Beaufort.
'Er, no, not exactly,' Bryant admitted, looking around. 'Time to scram.'
Feeling like a pair of teenaged vandals, they shoved the broken plastic back in place and scooted across the pavement with Bryant using the crowbar as an impromptu walking stick. Dropping into the Mini Cooper, they struggled to regain their breath.
'Well, I'm stumped,' said Bryant, thumping his wheezing chest. 'I most definitely saw the victim in that street. The St Pancras clock tower was directly behind her like a full moon. Can I give you a lift anywhere? I'm driving back to the PCU.'
'You're not going to carry on working tonight, surely?'
'Just a few notes. I've asked everyone to come back. We need to create a more accurate profile for this gentleman.'
'And how are you intending to catch him?'
'That's the tricky part. He appears to have come up with one of the simplest killing methods ever devised, which makes him either very smart or incredibly stupid.'
'And which do you think he is?' asked Beaufort.
'Both,' said Bryant.
24
HANGOVERS
You've all been drinking,' said May, shocked. 'Look at the state of you, you're half smashed.'
He glanced around the briefing room. Raymond Land was nodding off, Renfield looked sloshed, Banbury was poking about in a packet of Cheese 'N' Onion crisps and Meera was wearing a suede fringed jacket with THE KING LIVES written across it in red, white and blue sequins.
'Only in the cause of research, sir,' said Banbury, crunching crisps.
'Has anyone seen Bimsley?' asked May.
'Outside, sir. On the street.'
'What's he doing out there, for heaven's sake?'
'Snogging a girl, sir. Tongues and everything. Pretty hot stuff.' Banbury wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and looked about the room. Meera attempted to kill him with a well-aimed stare.
'He gave me his notes,' said April, unfurling a ball of paper and smoothing it out. 'Well, at least you've all been able to turn some in. I think the evening has given us a chance to reflect on the events of the past few days. I know how these women came to meet their deaths. I want the why.'
'With all due respect, old chap, we're not going to be able to crack that nut overnight,' said Kershaw. 'We don't have any clear suspects.'
'We now have witness descriptions,' said April, looking up from the collated notes she had laid neatly across the desk. 'Naomi Curtis and Jazmina Sherwin were both approached by a man in his early thirties, attra
ctive despite the fact that he has a large wine-coloured birthmark covering the left side of his face. We think he might be a former North London barman who was fired from his job. It shouldn't be so hard to get a name.'
'That depends on whether he was using his own,' said Bryant. 'Bar staff sometimes pay substitutes cash in hand to take their shifts.'
'Then we have to hope this one was legally employed,' said May, glaring at his partner.
'There's something else,' said April. 'Three of the victims knew each other.' She held up a photograph that clearly showed Naomi Curtis, Jocelyn Roquesby and Joanne Kellerman standing together in a bar holding glasses of red wine.
'Where on earth did you get that?' asked Bryant, amazed.
April pointed across the room to Renfield. 'Jack found it among the photographs of drinkers pinned behind the bar in the Old Bell, although it doesn't look like it was taken there. The decor is different,' she told the group. 'Dan, perhaps you could examine the shot and get some clue to the location.'
'The barmaid thinks it's a recent addition, because she doesn't remember it being there when she started working be-hind the bar last month,' said Renfield.
'Then it's conceivable that the killer was drinking or working in a pub on the night they met there, and singled them out.' Kershaw tapped the photograph with a manicured nail. 'When it came to meeting up with them separately, he clearly had a way of posing as one of the other two, using Kellerman's cell phone. I'm guessing via text messages. Could they have all been members of the same pub club?'
The Victoria Vanishes Page 13