Bryant & May 03; Seventy-Seven Clocks b&m-3

by Christopher Fowler

  Bryant had been holding out at Bow Street, a small stab at independence that was really an excuse to make everyone miss him. “Are you still smoking those filthy cigars?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Have they told you who the acting superintendent will be?”

  “Raymond Land. I know you don’t get on with him, but he’ll only be there until a permanent replacement is decided upon.”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll be sorry to leave Bow Street.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Arthur. You know very well they’re going to close Bow Street down eventually.”

  “The word around town is that you’ll be able to choose your own investigations. People are already getting jealous.”

  “That’s not quite true. It’s strictly a high-profile murder squad, no more diamond robberies or gang beatings. It’ll include a lot of long-term unsolved stuff. That means research-heavy crimes.” They were Bryant’s speciality.

  Until now no permanent murder squad had ever been set up in Great Britain. This was partly because the country had a comparatively low per capita murder rate. There was virtually no gun crime. Squads were only formed to solve individual murders, with superintendents drafted in from an Area Major Investigation Pool (AMIP), supported by local detectives from other cases.

  Now the system was changing. If the freshly separated PCU worked out successfully, it could affect the structure of the Metropolitan Police. Other specialized units would be formed. John May was aware that quite a few of his colleagues in the AMIPs were happy with the system in its present state, and would be glad to see the new division fail. Consequently, he needed all the friends he could get. More than that, he needed his old partner back.

  “This office of yours,” said Bryant, “does it have decent-sized windows?”

  “Huge ones.”

  “Good. I need more light these days. Could I have the room painted? I can’t think clearly in tasteless surroundings.”

  “Choose any colour you like. How’s your present caseload?”

  “I’ll follow through this business with the National Gallery. The rest can be dumped on to someone I hate. I must say your proposal isn’t entirely unexpected. You took your time.”

  “I had to get the place up and running first. You didn’t think I’d leave you behind, did you?” May smiled. He knew how much the daily routine at Bow Street bored his old partner, and hated the thought of Bryant’s mind going to waste. As he rose to leave, the afternoon sun threw a lurid glare across the smeary windows of the café. We finally have a chance to make a real impact on the system, he thought. He decided not to tell Bryant that they had only a two-month trial period in which to do so.

  ♦

  “I made a standard Y incision from the shoulders to the chest and down to the pubis, as you can see,” Finch began, pointing at the splayed corpse in front of them, “and I couldn’t believe my eyes. The organic damage is quite phenomenal.”

  Finch was tall and thin, with spiky hair and bony raw hands, and his knee joints creaked like desk drawers when he sat down. A suntan gained on a recent holiday was all that prevented him from looking like Stan Laurel. As usual, the sickly smell of cheap splash-on deodorant rose from his skin.

  “I don’t see anything wrong.” May forced himself to study the body. The whiteness of the skin contrasted shockingly with the crimson hole that had been formed by pinning back the victim’s flesh.

  “I’ve seen an awful lot of insides, John, and I know when something isn’t kosher,” said Finch, wiping his hands on his lime-green plastic apron. “Tell me what you know about him.” He moved to the scales and made a note of the calibrations before removing a kidney from the tray.

  “Maximillian Jacob, fifty-nine years old, five feet eleven inches, fourteen stone two ounces, partner of the law firm Jacob and Marks, based in Norwich. He checked into the Savoy last Friday. He was visiting London on unknown business – at least, he seems to have given his wife and partner two different stories for leaving town. No history of medical problems, nothing much out of the ordinary, but we’re still searching.” He looked back at the corpse on the table. It seemed that the more cleanly a man lived his life, the harder it was to find anything out about him when he was dead. “At the moment he’s just a statistic, Oswald. I wish he’d been a criminal. At least we’d have somewhere to start.”

  “Well, you know that someone hated Mr Jacob enough to want to kill him,” said Finch.

  “Nobody mentioned murder.”

  “Then let me be the first. Take a look at this.” The pathologist beckoned May to advance on the cadaver. “Jacob’s stomach is a mass of dissolved tissue. Extensive haemorrhaging here, here, and here.” Finch prodded beneath a bloody flap of flesh with the end of his pen. Thick streaks of yellow fat surrounded an abdominal incision. “And here in the heart, the liver, and lungs.”

  “What are you putting down as the actual cause of death?”

  “Cardial dysfunction. The heart couldn’t pump properly because the vascular bed surrounding it had become riddled with lesions. It had to be some kind of corrosive fluid, but as there were no burn marks in the mouth or trachea I ruled out ingestion and started searching for an injection site. It’s not hard to see once you’re looking for it. Here.”

  He turned Maximillian Jacob’s head to one side and pointed to a spot below the corpse’s left ear. A swollen patch on his carotid artery was pinpricked with coagulated black fluid.

  “If you examine the wound closely, you’ll find not one puncture mark but two, like a vampire. Beauties, aren’t they?” He twisted Jacob’s head and revealed a pair of tiny livid pinpricks.

  “And it’s become gangrenous. The flesh around it has turned to diseased mush. I carried out the routine toxicology tests, checked for alcohol, cocaine, barbiturates, and so on; nothing much there. I didn’t want to run up a bill testing for more exotic stuff, but this had me beaten. I sent blood and tissue samples to the National Poisons Reference Centre for analysis, not expecting to hear back for several days.” Finch absently prodded the end of his nose with his pen. “Instead, the results were telexed back just over an hour ago. Seems this got them all excited. It’s a cottonmouth.”

  “Sorry, what?” John had been transfixed by the cadaver on the table. It was hard to believe that poor, putrefying Jacob would be stitched back together and buried beneath a headstone engraved with a soothing phrase like Just Resting. “Foot and mouth?”

  “Cotton mouth. That’s the common name. Latin, Agkistrodon piscivorus, from the family Crotalidae.” The pathologist’s enthusiasm was always more pronounced when he had just discovered something in an opened body. “It’s called a cottonmouth because it threatens with its mouth wide open, and the inside of the mouth is white.”

  “Oswald, what the hell is a cottonmouth?”

  “That’s the odd part.” He thoughtfully probed his left ear with his pen. “It’s a North American snake.”

  “You’re telling me this man was bitten by a snake?” John threw his hands up helplessly. “They must have made a mistake.”

  “No mistake. They cross-checked their results.” Finch pointed at the corpse. “You can see the extraordinary effect it’s had, even on the minor organs. This is a very particular venom, apparently found only in aquatic pit vipers.”

  “God, Oswald – a water snake? In the lobby of the Savoy Hotel?”

  “I must admit it’s a bit of a puzzle,” Finch casually conceded. “The cottonmouth is more commonly found in marshland.”

  “Don’t you find that just a little bit strange?”

  “Every unnatural death is strange, John.”

  “Did they give you an idea of the reaction time between infection and death?”

  “Oh, yes. Immediately after the bite, the wound turns itchy, then the victim gets irritable. After this he settles into a quiet aphasic state, and then he suddenly collapses and dies. Ten minutes in total. There’s one other thing I wanted to show you.” Finch raised a
plastic bag and gently emptied the contents into a bowl. May found himself looking at Max Jacob’s brain.

  “As you probably know,” said Finch, “the human brain has the consistency of a well-set blancmange. Fluid protects it from thumping into the skull wall. Look at this.” He touched his pen against a darkened patch on the frontal lobe of the brain. “When you’re hit on the head you get a bruise on the scalp, perhaps a fracture underneath it, and a bruise on the brain below that. All three are on top of each other; that’s what we call a coup injury. Jacob’s brain is marked at the front, but there’s no corresponding damage to his scalp.”

  “Why?”

  “Instead there’s a bruise on the back of his head. If someone passes out and the back of their head hits the floor when they collapse, the brain is driven forward and bashes itself on the inside front of the skull. That is a contra coup, and that’s what Jacob has. It looks like your man took a fall sometime shortly before his death.”

  “Thanks, Oswald, you’ve done a great job.” May hastily made his apologies and left the room. The combined smell of disinfectant and antiperspirant was starting to get to him.

  “Let me know how this one turns out,” said Finch with a cheery wave as he turned back to the corpse. “And John – don’t be such a stranger in future. I’m always delighted to see you down here.”

  ♦

  The lobby of the Savoy was in chaos. Commonwealth speakers had begun to arrive in force, and stacks of expensive luggage stood in corners among the arrangement of dried plants arranged to resemble harvested corn bales. Jerry had spent the morning easing guests into rooms with the aid of encouraging smiles and pidgin English.

  “He’s no spring chicken, is he?” muttered Nicholas disparagingly. “They could have sent someone a bit more with it.”

  “Keep your voice down,” said Jerry, embarrassed. “He’ll hear you.”

  “Intelligence is a compensation for the departure of youth, Sonny.” John May set a heavy Dictaphone on the counter. “As even you may discover one day. I need to talk to this young lady for a few minutes, so perhaps you could busy yourself dealing with the minor grievances of your guests.”

  Jerry smiled to herself. There was something instantly appealing about the detective. The old guy looked like a man who had retained much of his own youth by listening to the young. “There’s a room we can use behind here,” she said. “It’ll be quieter.”

  Once they were seated in the small cream-painted staffroom, May dragged his own transistorized recorder from his bag and switched it on. “I trust you’ve fully recovered, Miss Gates. It must have been a nasty shock for you.”

  “I fainted, that’s all,” she explained. “He was spraying blood all over the place.”

  “I’ve read your admirably lucid statement. There are just a few points I need to clear up. You checked Mr Jacob in last Friday, is that correct?”

  “I took his filled-in reservation form, gave him the carbon copy, and arranged for his baggage to be sent up. He was booked for a double room even though we had singles available.” She cleared her throat, more nervous than she had realized. “Nicholas – the other receptionist – made a remark at the time. He handled the actual room allocation because he’d taken the original telephone booking.”

  “You think Mr Jacob was planning to meet up with someone? A female companion, perhaps? He’d left his wife and family at home in Norwich. He didn’t sign in as Mr Smith, did he?” The detective’s friendly smile was designed to relax.

  “Mr Jacob didn’t look like an adulterer, if that’s what you mean,” she replied. “You can usually recognize them.”

  “Oh?” May cocked an eyebrow, obviously intrigued. “How?”

  “Small things. Their clothes are too sharp. You know, dressed up for a date.” She recalled some of the guests she had checked in. “Often they’re not at ease in a smart hotel. They don’t tip at the standard rate, usually go over. Mr Jacob wasn’t like that. He was old school.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Jerry shifted in her chair, trying to visualize the man who had walked toward her across the lobby last Friday. “He had a club tie, done up with a small knot. Very neat. Starch in the shirt. A wet-razor shaver.” She shrugged, hoping she didn’t sound foolish. “Well, it was late afternoon when he arrived, and he didn’t have any stubble. Short hair, brilliantined. Expensive shoes, carefully polished. Ex-military, I imagine. He had the look.”

  “You don’t miss much, do you, Miss Gates?” May smiled again, and re-examined his notes. Jerry wished she could see what he had written down.

  “Let’s move on to Monday. You say he was sitting in the lobby for about half an hour. Did you see anyone approach him in that time?”

  “No one. It was raining heavily, and hardly anyone came in or went out.”

  “Before he fell asleep with the paper over him, did anything happen that was out of the ordinary? Anything at all?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You seem like a bright young lady, so I’ll let you into a secret.” May beckoned her closer with his fingertips. “I have reason to believe that your guest did not die a natural death.”

  Jerry had not considered the possibility of murder. The concept seemed so alien and theatrical. “I thought he just had a heart attack,” she explained. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Try to recall the evening in the light of what I’ve just told you, and see if you can think of anything else that happened. Mr Jacob came downstairs, sat down in the chair, and died half an hour later. Knowing what we do, something else must have occurred. Take your time about it.”

  Jerry thought for a minute, pleased that the detective had clicked off the tape until she was ready to answer.

  “There was something wrong with the lights. They kept flickering. Because of the storm, I suppose. It didn’t disturb Mr Jacob.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Wait a minute – I think he went to the washroom,” she said suddenly. “He wasn’t gone for long.” She hadn’t mentioned this in her statement to the policewoman who had interviewed her yesterday. “I guess it’s not the sort of thing you really register,” she added lamely.

  “I quite understand,” said May. “Under normal circumstances it’s far too commonplace an event to take note of.” He had clicked the tape recorder back on. “Can you recall any change in Mr Jacob’s behaviour when he returned? Try to imagine him sitting back in the armchair…”

  “He was scowling,” said Jerry, surprising herself. “Fidgeting about. I remember looking up from the duty book several times. And he kept scratching his neck.”

  “Thank you very much for your time, Miss Gates,” said May, closing his notebook with another twinkling smile and rising.

  The abruptness of his leavetaking unsettled her. Having witnessed such a grotesque departure from life, she was anxious to know more, and to see what the police would do next. To them, it was just another unexplained death. To her, it was a window to a world she had no way of understanding.

  ∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

  5

  Malacca

  Thursday dawned with an unnatural hazy warmth, steam rising from the soaked streets of East London to form dragons of morning mist. Arthur Bryant paid the cab driver and dug into his jacket for his pocketbook, checking the Hackney address of Peregrine Summerfield. He was thinking that it would help to list his acquaintances in alphabetical order, when the art historian found him.

  “Up here, Bryant!” came a booming voice from above. He looked up to see Summerfield balancing at the top of an extended ladder, his rotund form leaning precariously out to hail the passing detective. The ladder was propped against the end wall of a decrepit terraced house, where Summerfield was supervising the painting of an enormous mural. So far, only the lower third of the picture had been filled, but the full scene was already discernible. Half a dozen schoolchildren armed with brushes and paintpots were working on the lowest portion of the design. Summerf
ield came thumping down the ladder, causing the surrounding scaffolding to tremble. He pumped Bryant’s hand with both of his, transferring a considerable amount of indigo paint in the process. “This is a pleasant surprise.” He turned to the children.

  “That’s enough, you lot. Back to the shed for brushwashing. You’ve done enough damage for one day.” There was a collective moan. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, indicating his clothes, which were smothered in every colour imaginable. “It’s a community project. I didn’t choose the subject matter.”

  The wall showed a thirty-foot-high psychedelic nuclear explosion, around which strikers marched with banners and clenched fists. “It’s the lack of imagination I find depressing, but the council reckons it’ll encourage community spirit.” Summerfield lost his hand within his bushy paint-flecked beard and gave his chin a good scratch. “I suggested a nice abstract, colours reminiscent of lakes and trees, plenty of natural shapes, something to cheer urbanites up a bit. They told me I was being reactionary.”

  “Why are the banners blank?” asked Bryant, studying the mural in puzzlement.

  “That’s so local people can write in their own grievances against the Heath government. Interactive art. Some bright spark in the planning department came up with that one, I suppose. We’ve already had a few people write things in. Brian shags dogs, Tracy is a slag, that sort of thing.”

  “Hmm. I think I prefer your idea of the abstract,” agreed Bryant. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

  “Certainly.” Summerfield examined the paint on his hands. “Give me five minutes to get the lads cleaned up.” He threw Bryant a set of keys. “I live over the road, number 54, the one with the sunrise gate. Make yourself a cup of tea.”

  ♦

  Summerfield’s house was cramped and cluttered, and surprisingly devoid of paintings. A great number of reference books were stacked in untidy piles throughout the ground floor. The historian’s knowledge of Victorian art placed him among the country’s top experts, and he was frequently called in to help organize national exhibitions, but Summerfield had eschewed a permanent post in favour of educating young minds at the local primary school. Arthur had always appreciated his directness and lack of pretension when discussing art. He had just located a battered kettle beneath a pile of old newspapers when the historian returned.