In his younger days, Bryant had passionately supported marches, rallies and protests through the capital, even though as a public servant he was required to be non-partisan. His partner had managed to avoid taking sides, simply because he felt that the science of investigation should be considered away from distracting influences, and he regarded himself as an impartial technician. However, this stance had lately been eroded by the continued efforts of the Home Office, whose at-tempts to close the PCU had become tiresome and predictable, just another obstacle to factor into any protracted investigation.
Bryant leaned against the balustrade of Waterloo Bridge and looked across at the graceful glass span connecting St Paul's to the Globe Theatre. The new bridge had drawn attention away from mere stone river-crossings like Waterloo.
'I hate small-mindedness,' he suddenly announced after several minutes of contemplative silence. 'The notices everywhere warning us not to trip over or turn left or take our dogs off leads. That annoying recorded voice in post offices telling you which counter is free. I bought some peas in the supermarket last week and do you know what it said on the packet? "Does not contain nuts." I hate the endless admonishments of a nanny state that lives in fear of its lawyers. While colonies of dim-witted traffic wardens swarm about looking for minor parking infringements, nobody seems to notice that our very social fabric is falling apart.'
'What's brought this on?' asked May, puzzled. 'Have you got another court summons over your car?'
'Several, in fact, but that's not the point.' Bryant poked his pipe between his lips and lit up. 'Once our children played on bomb sites and collected unexploded shells. Now they're driven to school by paranoid parents in SUVs. The determination of dullards can always be counted upon to challenge the merits of innovators.' He noisily sucked on the pipe until the bowl's embers sparkled against the cloud-grey waters. 'To be popular in this city you have to be average, and the PCU's unusual approach to the attainment of excellence won't allow it to survive.'
'No-one else can handle a case like this,' said May. 'We'll be here so long as there are cases like this.'
'I don't think so. Have a chocolate banana.' Bryant pulled the pocket fluff from a sweet and passed it over. He felt guilty having a smoke without giving May a sweet. 'I bet Raymond can't wait to slam the lid on the Pellew investigation. He'll be able to let Faraday know that there's no more danger lurking in the capital's public places.'
'Kershaw reckons he's got a couple of unidentified skin flakes from two of the women, but I suppose it'll take a while to see if there's a DNA match with Pellew's tissue samples. We don't rank very highly in the queue for equipment use these days. You're not in any doubt Pellew's guilty, are you?'
'Me?' asked Bryant. 'Didn't you hear? Kershaw's also got a complete thumbprint from one of the emptied plastic ampoules Pellew left in his room at the Clock House. A perfect match. We just need to complete the link by making sure that the residue inside it has the same chemical composition as the drug we found in his victims' bloodstreams.' He tightened his collar against the early evening mist. 'No, it's not his identity that bothers me now, there's no question of that; it's his motive I find troubling. I went over April's background notes again. There's a very peculiar disparity I find myself unable to account for.'
'Perhaps I can help.'
Bryant raised himself to look May in the eye. 'What do we now know about Anthony Pellew? That he was a disturbed and lonely child, brought up in pubs by an alcoholic, unfaithful father and a mother who turned tricks when they were short of cash. As a kid I imagine he was probably left hanging about in the beery haze of the barroom while the girls flirted around his old man. Upon his father's death, he and his mother settled into the Angerstein, and later, after she'd been kicked out for prostitution, they moved to the Clock House. Anthony hit adolescence only to find himself ignored and un-able to talk to the opposite sex in any place other than the pub.'
'He also started drinking heavily.'
'So, after his mother was taken ill for the first time, he kidnapped a girlfriend of his own and kept her locked up in the basement of a boozer, staying with her, talking to her. Agreed so far?'
'I think so.'
'After his trial and incarceration Pellew supposedly underwent rehabilitation, and had frequent assessments. Somehow— we still don't know how—he managed to secure an early release. But unbeknown to the doctors, his desire to re-create the small comforts of the past had twisted into something darker. He knew that if he kidnapped another girl, the authorities would come for him and take her away, so it seems clear he decided on a new method of fulfilling his dreams. He could keep them with him forever by fatally drugging them. They would simply fall asleep by his side in a place that made him happy. No sexual assault, no violence, just the everlasting companionship he craved, and found he could create by taking lives.'
'You think the women he picked reminded him of his mother?'
'I wondered about that. But it would make everything so psychologically neat, wouldn't it? Even the phoney birthmark makes sense because the argument would be that he was using it as a mask, a way of proving that even though he had deliberately made himself unattractive, he could draw a woman to his side. What he was really doing, though, was marking himself out to us. Pellew could be regarded either as a tragic figure doomed to re-create the only moments of happiness he ever had, or as an arrogant grotesque preying on the lonely and vulnerable. With the exception of Jazmina Sherwin, he only selected women with maternal instincts.'
'Either way, Raymond is right to close the case,' said May.
'Except for one fact that unravels this neatly bow-tied little package. Three of these gentle, harmless ladies knew each other. So the notion of a lonely, embittered, mentally ill man wandering from pub to pub looking for random victims is suddenly thrown out, because his acts are carefully premeditated.'
'Unless it's sheer coincidence. Look at the makeup of city pubs and you'll find workers from the same professions, many of whom know each other.'
'A fair point. You can talk to someone in a pub and yet hardly acknowledge them in another environment. So many overlapping circles.'
'I should produce a set of Venn diagrams.'
'Please don't.' Bryant exhaled a wreath of blue smoke around his head.
'And what if one victim led to the next? He makes friends with Kellerman, and she leads him to Curtis, who leads him to Roquesby. Was any one of them aware of what had happened to the other two? Presumably not, or they'd have steered clear of doing the same thing, standing around alone in a pub.
Although no-one's ever really alone in a pub, are they? That's the attraction, to be counted as part of a social milieu.'
'Perhaps, but I'm not at all happy,' said Bryant firmly. And I won't let Raymond close this case until I am. I want to see the psychiatric evaluations that got Pellew released from the Broadhampton, I need to know how those women came to be in that photograph, and why their employment records were falsified over the same periods. We have to go back and take another look at the pubs. Why did I see a Victorian public house that didn't even exist under that name? Most of all, we need to find out how on earth an outpatient under observation was able to lay his hands on such highly toxic drugs.'
'That's going to take time,' said May, 'and Land wants this wrapped up fast.'
'Then he'll have to wait.'
'But if no-one else is attacked—'
'I don't care,' said Bryant stubbornly. 'We've missed something essential.'
'Not to the outcome of the case, Arthur, only to your personal satisfaction. You know we don't always get every last detail correct. It would be like suggesting we've solved the mysteries of human nature. It's not simply a matter of genomes, there are social variables and—'
'I know it's not an exact science, John, but there's something here that Simply. Does. Not. Make. Sense.' He thumped his walking stick on the pavement for emphasis.
'Then tell me, what do you think that is?'
&nb
sp; Bryant punched him in the chest with a mittened hand. 'What have I always told you? The kind of crimes that reach our little unit can best be appreciated and resolved through a consideration of the laws of paradox. Pellew himself led us to him, then fled when we arrived. Why? Although he wanted— needed—us to catch him, why did he run to his death on a busy motorway?'
'He was trying to get away and made a mistake.'
'No. You saw him hesitate and look back. He knew that we couldn't be allowed to take him alive. If we did, he would find himself charged and interrogated, and he couldn't afford to let that happen.'
'Why in God's name not?' asked May, mystified.
'Because under interrogation he would incriminate someone else,' said Bryant, looking out into the incoming mist.
'But Arthur, there isn't anyone else. He operated alone, acting for the private gratification that he alone could receive.'
'So it would seem. And we are presented with the textbook apparatus to understand his motivation. In fact, there's little left for us to do beyond conducting a few scientific matches and placing the case in archive. The Broadhampton's medical faculty will be at great pains to justify their decision to release Pellew into the community. Everyone walks away with their hands clean.'
A police launch passed beneath them, a white arrow cleaving sepia waters.
'And there's something else. I thought about the drawing Bimsley found on the floor of Pellew's makeshift hiding place at the Angerstein Hotel. That scrappy rendering of a black-and-white bird with a long tail, sitting on a tree stump. Bimsley gave it to me when I visited him at the hospital.'
'What of it?'
'It only took me a few moments to come up with the pub name, the Magpie and Stump, opposite the Old Bailey, but I was a little slower in making the connection. Pellew left us a more deliberate clue than any of his clumsy earlier attempts. What does the name Thomas Spence mean to you?'
'The Cato Street Conspiracy,' said May. 'Spence was a former schoolteacher who believed that if all the land of Britain was shared out equally, every man, woman and child would get seven acres each.'
'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 fast-flowing 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.
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 so
me 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 out-side 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 now reasons to assume that the Metropolitan Police Force could handle this kind of work with greater cost-efficiency.'
The Victoria Vanishes Page 19