Seventy-Seven Clocks

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Anarchist,’ said May. ‘You’re as guilty as the rest of us. Look at the way you’ve been treating the workmen repainting the office.’

  ‘That’s different,’ sniffed Bryant. ‘They’re common as muck, for God’s sake.’

  ‘So what would you do? Machine-gun the royal family?’

  ‘Now that you mention it, that’s not a—’

  ‘So you’ve finally arrived to gloat.’ Berta Whitstable, a voluminous, overdressed woman in her fifties, was holding the door open before them. She had elected to wear all of her most valuable jewellery rather than leave it behind. She looked like a lady mayoress receiving unwelcome guests. ‘We’re freezing to death in here. The least you can do is show us how to start the boiler. I presume you’re good with your hands.’

  The detectives entered. In the hall, noisy children chased each other to the foot of the stairs, thrilled to be staying up so late. Several adults sat morosely in the parlour as if waiting to be told what to do.

  ‘Are there going to be pheasants?’ asked one pimply young man with a half-broken voice. ‘We always have game birds at Christmas.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Bryant truthfully. ‘Did you remember to bring any?’

  ‘Cook takes care of those things.’ The boy scratched his Adam’s apple, thinking. ‘There are people coming in to cook and clean, presumably?’

  ‘Surely there are enough of you here to handle the household chores.’

  ‘We never cook at home. Annie does everything, but they wouldn’t let us bring her because she’s just a domestic.’

  ‘Well, this will be an exciting experience for you, won’t it?’ said Bryant maliciously. ‘You’ll be able to write a book about it. How I Survived Without Someone to Make the Beds.’

  ‘Arthur . . .’ warned May angrily.

  ‘You mean we have to make our own beds?’ said someone else. Bryant turned to address the speaker, a young woman in a blue Chanel suit with blond hair arranged in an elaborate chignon.

  ‘I’m afraid so—Pippa, isn’t it? You’ll be roughing it for a while, putting on your own pillowcases, emptying the vacuum-cleaner bag, that sort of thing. It’ll be grim, but I’m sure you’ll pull through. We’ll bring supplies in to you, and you’ll be allowed out in pairs accompanied by a guard, but only for short periods. Like being in prison, really.’

  Everyone groaned. They wanted more protection, thought Bryant. That’s what we’re going to give them.

  ‘Of course, I will be allowed to attend my exercise class, won’t I?’ asked Pippa. ‘And I have to look after Gawain. He’s my horse.’ She turned to the others and smiled. ‘A Christmas present from Daddy.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem, providing of course that it’s your turn on the roster to leave the house,’ said Bryant, enjoying the sense of power. ‘Unfortunately, you won’t be able to telephone out, because of the risk that one of you may accidentally mention your whereabouts.’

  ‘Just how long do you propose to keep us here?’ Berta Whitstable’s voice overrode questions from the others.

  ‘Nobody’s keeping you here,’ replied May. ‘This is for your own protection. Until we find out why this is happening, and who is causing it.’

  ‘And just how long will that be?’

  ‘I hope it’ll be for no more than two or three days,’ Bryant said. ‘There will be a roll call every night and every morning. And a curfew.’ More groans. It was harder to protect the outside of the house at night. There were too many trees around the building.

  Once all the questions had been answered, the detectives ran through the name list, checking everyone off. Bryant looked at his notepad in puzzlement. There was one name he didn’t recognize. ‘Who is CH?’ he asked.

  There was an uneasy silence.

  Several of the men awkwardly turned their attention to their children. Bryant turned to Berta Whitstable. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘That would—probably—be Charles,’ she replied.

  Bryant frowned. There had been no Charles Whitstable marked on the genealogical table. ‘I don’t understand. I thought everyone was accounted for.’

  ‘Your family tree shows only the Whitstables living in this country. Charles is based overseas.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In India. Calcutta, to be exact.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure about this?’ asked May.

  ‘Of course I am,’ said Berta. ‘I should know. He is my son.’ ‘Do you have a number where he can be reached?’

  ‘Berta!’ called one of the men. ‘You have no right to bring Charles into this. It’s better to leave him where he is.’

  Bryant’s interest was piqued. ‘I think perhaps we should discuss this in more detail,’ he said, placing a hand on Berta Whitstable’s broad back and guiding her out of the room.

  33 / Into Darkness

  The Imperial overlooked the Thames, and was newly furnished to appear old. The restaurant’s floor-to-ceiling windows ensured that the rooms were airier and lighter than anything on the menu, and its waiters had been especially selected for their arrogance. The place had instant appeal for the kind of inherited-wealth forty-somethings who salted their meals before tasting them, and who referred to dessert as pudding. The seventies were not a good time to eat out in England, unless you liked coq au vin, trout with almonds, and half a grapefruit served as a starter.

  Gwen regularly dined at The Imperial without her husband. Jerry was surprised to find the restaurant so busy on Christmas Eve. She had donned a dark suit and blouse for the occasion. It was Gwen’s favourite outfit, purchased for a party that Jerry had spitefully failed to attend.

  Jerry spotted her mother sitting at a crimson-clothed table, morosely studying the centrepiece. Gwen looked thinner in the face, as if some private burden had begun to take its toll. She smiled wanly at Jerry’s approach.

  ‘Mother.’ Gwen accepted a light kiss on each cool cheek. She liked to be called that.

  ‘So.’ She studied her daughter as she unfolded a napkin into her lap. ‘I thought we should at least spend part of the holiday season together. Your father sends his apologies. He’s having one of his migraines.’ They both knew this meant Jack had drunk too much at his company dinner the previous evening. He always spent Christmas Eve sleeping it off in preparation for a major onslaught on his liver.

  Now’s as good a time as any, Jerry thought. ‘Mother, there’s something I want to discuss with you.’

  ‘It’s Christmas Eve, Geraldine. I’m too weary for another declaration of independence. Don’t tell me you want to study with the Maharishi or travel to Tibet in a camper van. Let’s just try to enjoy one another’s company tonight. Perhaps this nice waiter could get you something to drink. I’ll have another dry martini.’

  Jerry picked up a fork and pretended to study it. For a while they sat in silence. ‘I’m tired of working in the hotel,’ she said finally. ‘I want a job with some responsibility. I’ve proved to myself that I can do it, and I think I have some ability.’ She decided not to mention that she hadn’t turned up for work in days. ‘I want to join Dad’s company.’

  Gwen was in mid martini and looked as if she’d swallowed the olive. This wasn’t at all what she had been anticipating. ‘I don’t expect to be paid much at first. I’ll have a lot to learn, but I’m willing to try.’

  ‘Well—I don’t know what to say,’ said her mother, nonplussed. ‘You’ve always been so set against the idea. All those lectures you gave Jack about capitalist pigs. This is the last thing I expected to hear from you.’

  ‘If you don’t think it’s a good idea—’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ Gwen said hastily. ‘If this is a genuine change of heart then I don’t see why we can’t organize something. Are you sure about this? You know what it would involve.’

  They had told her often enough. It would mean being apprenticed in one of her father’s boring businesses, courses in bookkeeping, accountancy, or brokerage if she preferred. It would mean being
controlled.

  She had to allay any remaining suspicions her mother harboured. During the course of the meal Jerry attempted to explain her change of heart, describing her hopes for the future. By the time she had finished, Gwen was finding it so difficult to contain her delight that she looked as if she might spontaneously combust at the table.

  ‘Well, I think this is something to celebrate,’ she said, ordering a very decent bottle of Bollinger. ‘Would you like to tell your father, or do you want to leave it to me?’

  ‘Why don’t we both tell him?’ said Jerry, raising her glass with a smile.

  ‘This really is excellent news,’ said Jack, making a miraculous recovery from his headache. ‘You don’t know how much this means to us, Geraldine; to see you taking your future into your own hands. You’ll grow up overnight. I think you’ll soon discover that you’ve made the right choice. I never had a son . . .’ Her father broke off to blow his nose, then fumbled about with another bottle of champagne.

  ‘We always wanted the best for you,’ Gwen insisted, filling the glasses. ‘This will bring us closer together as a family.’ Her mother’s eagerness to employ her as a reentry point into decent social circles was palpable. She was like some horrible stage mother, using her offspring to wedge herself into the life she never had. Jerry felt no malice toward her father, only sadness. Jack had always done as he was told. She tasted a raw bitterness, and felt her hatred for Gwen deepening.

  Most of all, though, she felt the thrill of control. ‘So, what’s the next move?’ she asked, looking from one pleased parent to the other.

  ‘I think I can arrange some kind of apprenticeship for you,’ said her father. ‘You’ll get a chance to see what opportunities are available, and which company you’re best suited for. Did you have anything particular in mind?’

  ‘I thought perhaps there might be an opening with Charles Whitstable. I don’t suppose he’d remember me. After all, it was a long time ago.’

  Jack was silent for a moment. ‘Of course he’ll remember you,’ he said at last. ‘He used to bounce you on his knee. He treated you like a daughter. One of my best clients.’

  Jerry vaguely remembered an overstuffed Chelsea apartment, but little else. She had been accessorized to so many of her father’s colleagues. What was important was the link . . .

  ‘Of course, that was before he went to India. But I believe he’s back now.’

  ‘Then could you talk to him?’ Jack looked over at Gwen as if requesting permission. ‘We could catch him while he’s here.’

  Jack left the room to make a phone call, despite the fact that there was a telephone beside his armchair in the lounge. Gwen sat there patting Jerry’s hands and smiling at her, stumped for further conversation.

  No one had thought to probe the reason for her change of heart. She hoped they would not decide to do so.

  After a few minutes, Jack returned to the room. ‘Couldn’t have been easier,’ he said cheerfully. ‘There’s no point in wasting any time. You’ve some catching up to do. I’ve arranged drinks for you tomorrow morning.’

  ‘On Christmas Day?’

  ‘Just a seasonal snifter before lunch. I happen to know Charles is on the lookout for new blood. He’s terribly influential, and he’s still the chairman of the Worshipful Company of Watchmakers. Sounded jolly pleased to hear from me.’

  John May’s Muswell Hill apartment could not have been less like his partner’s. There was nothing in his surroundings to remind him of his past. The walls of the flat were bare and bright. Various pieces of gadgetry sat in nests of wiring: a fax machine, a state-of-the-art hi-fi with huge speakers, unkempt stacks of books and LPs, magazines, and an alarming pile of washing up, despite the presence of a dishwasher.

  He had returned home late that evening, depressed by Land’s attitude but thankful that they had managed to buy themselves a little more time. He was coming down with a cold. He’d probably caught it from Bryant, who managed to pass on the usual winter diseases without undue suffering himself, like Typhoid Mary. As the day went on his throat had grown sore and his head had begun to throb—he could tell that he had contracted this year’s mutant flu germ, and Longbright had finally sent him home, assuring him that she could easily finish handling the Whitstables’ security demands.

  It annoyed him that, far from feeling tired, he was nervy, irritable, and wide awake. He had specifically blocked the Whitstables’ more petulant requests in order to reduce distractions during the investigation, but now that they had been assembled en masse he knew that they would be far harder to ignore. Several of them were still ringing to protest vigorously, complain, and demand items from the PCU unit, despite the fact that they had been specifically requested not to tie up the division’s phone lines.

  The fact that they were under voluntary containment seemed to have escaped them; one of the Whitstable children had demanded that her pet rabbits be brought to the house, otherwise she would tell Daddy to have a word with the Home Office. It had been that kind of day.

  May stirred himself a hot lemon drink and poured a shot of brandy into it, looking out from the kitchen window across the misty panorama of London. The fourthfloor apartment was situated at the top of a hill, and commanded spectacular views of the city by day.

  Now the streets below were silent and deserted. Cars were garaged. Home lights blazed. It was the one night of the year when families could be relied upon to spend time together. The city death toll would be up tomorrow. It always rose on Christmas Day. Surprising how many heart attacks occurred after lunch and the queen’s speech, when rows between husbands and wives came to a head.

  May thought of Jane, his own wife, and wondered how long she would be away this time. He thought of his daughter’s disastrous marriage, and what he could possibly do to help her. And he wondered if it was selfishness that kept him working when he should have been with them.

  He had not heard from Bryant for several hours. The case was taking its toll on them both. An astonishing amount of paperwork had built up in the office and had yet to be cleared. The PCU differed from other experimental units previously tested by the Met, insofar as routine procedural elements could be farmed out to auxiliary teams, leaving the senior investigating officers free to concentrate on other aspects of the investigation. Hundreds of hours of interviews, forensic tests, fibre separations, evidence collections, blood and tissue typing, witness documentation, and many other daily activities were handled by groups attached to West End Central. This kind of specialization upset the Metropolitan force members who got stuck with door-to-doors and foot patrols. Something would have to give. . . .

  The sudden buzz of the telephone made May wonder if his colleague was calling to check on his health. Instead, he found himself speaking to Alison Hatfield at the Goldsmiths’ Hall.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you at such a late hour on Christmas Eve, Mr May, but your sergeant told me it would be all right to call,’ she explained.

  ‘Not to worry,’ he said. ‘Merry Christmas. I’m afraid I’ve rather lost track of the time.’

  ‘I’m not a big fan of Christmas, to be honest. All that eating. My flatmate’s a nurse and she’s working round the clock, so I’m enjoying the peace and quiet at home. I’ve turned up some information I think you’ll be very interested in. I mean, it looks important. Would it be possible for you to visit the hall?’

  ‘I could be there in half an hour,’ said May, brightening. At least it would take his mind off his cold. ‘Could you wait for me in the main entrance?’

  ‘No problem. I’ll bring a thermos of tea and brandy. At least we can toast the compliments of the season.’

  ‘What a very sensible woman you are, Miss Hatfield.’ After he had replaced the receiver, he called the unit, but Bryant had still not returned from Whitstable Central, as the older detective called it. May knew he shouldn’t be venturing out into the chill night, but felt sure that when the case broke, it would be through the findings of someone like Miss Hatfiel
d, and not because of a fibre match.

  Twenty minutes later he reached the main entrance to the Goldsmiths’ Hall. Alison was waiting for him. Once again she was dressed in heavy warm clothes that seemed too old for her, as if the sombre surroundings were trying to drain away her youthfulness.

  ‘I hope I haven’t dragged you away from anything,’ she apologized, shaking his hand.

  ‘I’m glad you called,’ May assured her.

  ‘Everyone’s gone for the holidays. The chambers are all locked up. I have the run of the building.’

  They walked across to the Watchmakers’ Hall through a deserted avenue of mirror glass and ancient stone. ‘Yesterday I received a call from a Mr Leo Marks,’ said Alison. ‘He wanted to know the whereabouts of certain documents pertaining to the guild.’

  May remembered asking the lawyer to check out the financial history of the Watchmakers. It sounded as if he was finally following up the request.

  ‘I’ve been with the guild for six years,’ said Alison, ‘and I still have no way of locating the older files that have accumulated here. This area suffered terribly during the Blitz. There must have been hundreds of stored documents. They were moved out for safety, but everything was done in such a hurry that no alphabetizing system was used. When the files were returned after the war, there was no one left who remembered how the temporary storage system worked.’

  They passed through the building to the basement goods lift, and May pulled back the heavy trellis, mindful of catching his coat between the oil-smeared bars.

  ‘I told Mr Marks that it would be difficult to locate what he was looking for, as my records are incomplete.’ Alison closed the trellis and pressed the brass wall stud behind her. With a shudder, the lift began its descent.

  ‘What exactly was he after?’

  ‘Oh, details of overseas payments made to religious charities, all sorts of things. I thought I’d come down here and have a look around for them. At least that way I’d be able to say I tried. I didn’t have much luck, but I found something else I thought you should see.’