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

by Christopher Fowler

  “Mrs Whitstable, every person here today has a police detail,” intervened May. “Your houses are being watched around the clock. Until we find the information we need to make an arrest, there’s nothing more we can do.”

  “Well, there’s something I can damned well do,” she hissed, thrusting her livid face forward. “I’m going to make sure your little experimental unit is closed down and this investigation is turned over to someone with an ounce of competence. You’ll wish you’d taken the police pension, because believe me, both of you, this was your very last case.”

  She turned on an elegant high heel and stalked from the churchyard to the waiting Bentley parked beyond.

  ∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

  31

  Purpose

  As their last two dates had ended with Joseph being locked up in the dark, it didn’t augur well for a third try. Jerry wondered if he had come to the Gates home to say good-bye. He stood in the doorway before her. “How’s your hips?” he asked.

  “And good morning to you. I have a bruise the size of Belgium.”

  “Well.” He looked around. “I could stay here on the doorstep, but in this neighbourhood someone will call the police if they see a black guy hanging about.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Come in. I’m having a bad day.”

  “Coming from you, that’s one omen I’d take notice of.” He entered the foyer, marveling at the domed ceiling above the entrance hall. “Nice place. What days do you open it to the public?”

  “Around here, we are the public. In this neighbourhood the carolers sing in descant and get a tenner for their troubles.” She was smoothing back her hair and smiling too widely. The effort might kill me, she thought.

  Still, she was very pleased to see him. “It doesn’t feel like Christmas, does it? Can I pour you a seasonal toast?” She led the way through to a large, light kitchen adorned with outsized copper saucepans. “My mother had all this installed, but she can barely boil an egg,” she said, removing a bottle of whisky and two tumblers from the cabinet.

  “You never have a kind word for her.”

  “Defence reaction. How are your war wounds?”

  “I’ll live.” He gingerly touched the plaster below his left eye. There were two more, one on his chin and another across his forehead. “I feel like I had an incredibly bad dream.”

  “She really had a go at you, didn’t she?” Jerry passed him a glass and raised her own. “Merry Christmas.”

  “I hear you handled the bike pretty well.”

  “So well that the Met are going to press charges. Listen, I think I’m going to need your help again.”

  “You’re out of your mind. Forget it, Jerry. You don’t need me. I came by to tell you that I’m going back to San Diego.”

  “You can’t do that!” She turned on him angrily, betrayal on her face. “You’re the only friend I have! The only one I can trust.”

  “You know, I felt sorry for you when I first met you. Poor kid, I should make an effort to be friendly – ”

  “I didn’t realize it was an effort,” she said, bridling. “I was right, though, about the murders and everything.”

  “Okay, I admit it’s been very weird since I met you, but you’re just trying to stay involved to bug your parents.”

  “I thought you were on my side.”

  “It’s not a matter of sides, Jerry.” He was losing his temper with her. “I can see how you live. You’re bored and searching for the next game, and I’m not going to play.”

  He sat down at the breakfast bar with his drink. “Why did I listen to you? I’m living in a bug-infested room in Earl’s Court. I’ve no money left. I can’t find a job. I don’t have a future. I don’t even have the fare to get home. Give me another whisky.” He held out his empty glass.

  She poured his drink, then opened the refrigerator.

  “Want something to eat? There’s cold pheasant, foie gras, roast veal. Us rich folk have everything.”

  “That stuff’ll kill you. Got any eggs?”

  Jerry made them cheese omelettes. “How are you going to get anywhere if you don’t have any money?” she asked.

  “I’m figuring this out as I go along,” he told her through a mouthful of toast. “I threw my clothes into a bag and slipped out of the boardinghouse without paying the bill. Considering the amount of insect life in my room, I don’t feel bad about it. The BBC could have shot a wildlife documentary on the bedroom carpet. I’ll manage – I always do.”

  “Maybe you could stay here while I get some money together.”

  “No, I’ve made up my mind. I’ll take a few bartender jobs, get some money together. I’m sorry, Jerry. It’s been fun in a perverse, self-torturing way, but I have to figure out what I want now.”

  She took a mouthful of omelette, petulance masking her desperation. “Come on, you could help me and I could help you. I can’t do it by myself.”

  “And I can’t do it for you.” He pushed back his plate and rose to leave.

  “All right, but I really want to give you some money, just to tide you over. Take what you need.”

  “I’m still not going to help you, Jerry.”

  “So you said.”

  “It’s disadvantageous to my health.”

  “Please, Joseph, just give me ten minutes.”

  He gave her a suspicious look. “You’re not going to explain another one of your whacked theories, are you?”

  “No,” she replied. “I promise.”

  Ten minutes later, he sat on the floor in her father’s study while she sorted through the contents of the desk’s lower drawers.

  “Suppose your father comes back?”

  “They won’t be home until later. I found this when I was looking for Jack’s contracts with the Whitstable family. I was fourteen when they were sent.”

  She unfolded a sheet of white vellum and passed it across. He studied the handwriting for a moment and began to read:

  Dear Gwen,

  You said not to use the phone. I barely know what to say to you about Geraldine. Naturally, I am horrified by what has happened. If only there was some way to undo the harm that has been caused. As her mother, you must decide what is best for all of us.

  “Christ, what did you do, murder somebody?” he asked, handing back the letter.

  She passed him another. “This is dated a few days after, also unsigned.”

  Dear Gwen,

  Everything has been arranged as you requested. She can start on Monday. She’ll be entering during mid-term, but that can’t be helped. No one will ask questions. It is unsafe to visit her. I am only thinking of Geraldine’s welfare. I only pray she remembers nothing of what has transpired.

  Jerry sat back, carefully smoothing the envelope. She looked up at Joseph, waiting for him to comment. “You don’t remember any of this? Who are they from? What the hell happened when you were fourteen?”

  “I told you, I had a breakdown. Gwen had a Steinway piano that belonged to her mother. I took a chisel and carved my name in the top, then cut all the wires. They put me in therapy, and then when I got too violent they sent me to a special school. I was tranked up for weeks at a time. I’ve blocked most of what happened.”

  “From the tone of these letters there’s something else you’ve blocked. They’re so incriminating, why would anyone save them? What made you hate your mother so much?”

  That year had passed in a blur of pain. Jerry never spoke of it to anyone. Wayland, her therapist, was in her mother’s pay, and her father avoided any kind of emotional commitment.

  “Gwen was always concerned about my behaviour,” she explained. “Once she had to cancel a lunch date because I threw up in the living room. I can’t remember the first time I did it, but I was surprised how easy it was. She’d drop everything and come home. Make me soup, put me to bed. But she never stayed for long. Motherhood hadn’t turned out to be as satisfying as she’d expected, so she went back to social climbing. She watche
d families like the Whitstables getting all the respect, and was eaten up with jealousy. She never got the social standing she felt she deserved. This isn’t about money at all, it’s about breeding. My mother makes the right moves, but she’s still shut outside with her nose pressed against the glass. That’s my fault. Just when she started receiving the right invitations, I began to behave badly.

  Soon people started turning down my mother’s charity luncheons. They never knew what they might find when they got here. I took a somewhat theatrical stab at cutting my wrist in the middle of one of her little soirées. That’s why she sent me to a therapist. Even then, she couldn’t resist showing off. He was the most well-connected doctor in town. She could tell everyone I was being treated by Lady So-and-So’s shrink.”

  “You sound almost as bitter as you make your mother out to be.”

  “Why not? That’s where I get it from.” She hunched herself forward, dark hair falling into her eyes. “There’s something else, though. The letters prove it. I could ask Gwen, but if it’s as bad as it sounds, I’m not sure I want to know.”

  “What makes you think you can change anything? The past can’t come back.” Joseph climbed to his feet and picked up his backpack. “I’m leaving all my designs in storage. I won’t need them now. I can’t stay any longer. I need to get on the road.”

  “Joseph, you can’t just go.” She had really believed that he would stay with her. She had never been denied anything before.

  “Jerry, how can I say this?” He smiled awkwardly at her.

  “The Savoy suits you. It’s not my style. There’s too much of a gap between us.”

  “No, there isn’t,” she said, wanting to add, Not when you’re in love with someone. “Please, I’m scared of what might happen. I don’t want to stay here alone.”

  “You’re not alone. Leave the investigation to the police. You could have been killed the other night.”

  “Why won’t you help me any more?” she asked him again, standing at the open front door.

  “Because,” he said, embracing her, “now you have a reason to help yourself.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek, then stepped out into the falling rain. “I’ll call you.”

  “You won’t,” she called back. “People always say that but they never do.”

  He raised his hand in salute, waving without turning back.

  He’s gone, she thought. I’m on my own. But as she closed the door on him, her sadness was replaced by a growing sense of purpose.

  ∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

  32

  Ensemble

  The frost that had begun to fern the windows of the Mornington Crescent PCU that evening was felt inside the building as well as out; the workmen had still not managed to fix the central heating.

  In the streets below, gangs of home-going secretaries sang drunken Christmas carols, undeterred by strikes and threatened blackouts. The traffic dissipatéd as commuters returned home to be with their families. But within the unit there would be no Christmas. All leave had been canceled. A few miserable paper chains had been strung across the operations room. Bryant’s desk displayed two Christmas cards. May had dozens, but had not found time to open them.

  The detectives returned from another uneasy Met briefing to find Raymond Land seated in their office with a mortified look on his slack, tired face. One glance told them that his patience, and their deadline, had both come to an end.

  “Sit down, you two,” he said, waiting impatiently while Bryant extricated himself from a new Christmas scarf, a gift from his landlady that appeared more suited to Hallowe’en than yuletide.

  “What can we do for you?” asked May casually. Bryant took the cue from his partner and offered his acting superior a careful smile.

  “I’d like to know why you contradicted my report to Faraday.”

  Bryant raised a tentative hand. “We didn’t think you’d contact the arts minister before discussing the matter with us. As it happens, we disagree with the inferences you seem to have drawn from the forensic reports.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to tell me what conclusions you think I’ve reached?”

  “All right,” said Bryant, steadily eyeing his partner. “You told Faraday that this man Denjhi is responsible for the death of William Whitstable, whom you presume was killed in some squabble over the painting. You know there’s no forensic proof connecting Denjhi to any other member of the family besides Peggy Harmsworth.”

  “But it’s only a matter of time. We’re tearing that man’s house apart, and until – ”

  “You’ve ordered that?” asked May angrily. “You had no right.” Denjhi’s widow had been through enough without having the indelicate hands of the Special Branch ripping her sofa cushions open.

  “Until you can present me with some solid evidence, I have every right to supersede your orders,” said Land with a faint air of desperation. “You may have ruled the roost at Bow Street and West End Central. Here you take orders from me until I’m replaced by a permanent officer.” He rubbed bitten fingers across a sallow brow. “You have to understand the kind of pressure that’s being exerted on us. These are calculated assassinations, for God’s sake. Front page of the Daily Mail, page three of the Express. The Mirror had four pages on us this morning: maps, diagrams, baby pictures. If it wasn’t for the prime minister’s mess with the unions we’d be splashed all over the broadsheets. Isobel Whitstable is attempting to sue the unit for deliberate obstruction during the course of the investigation. She’s also suing you both personally for incompetence in the wake of her daughter’s trauma.”

  “You know it’s impossible to reconstruct the events surrounding the girl’s abduction without being allowed to talk to her,” said Bryant. “She was kept in a disused railway arch, but we’ve found nothing except a few silk fibres on her clothes. We can’t give her mother theories that we cannot prove.”

  “This morning our legal department received a letter detailing outlined lawsuits from several other members of the Whitstable family,” Land went on.

  “Charging us with what?”

  “Failing to protect and uphold the law, among other things.”

  “Can they do that?” wondered Bryant.

  “I’ve been asked to close the PCU down. But I’m determined to avoid that course of action. Know why? I can see that you’re holding out on me. After all, I’m not an idiot.” Land filled the contradictory silence that followed by trying to appear stern. “There’s no chance of wrapping this thing up today, but I know you have something. Do you understand that you’re about to lose everything you’ve ever worked for? The only possible way you can stay on is by giving me total access to your information. Even then, I’m not sure I can keep this within our jurisdiction any longer.”

  “Oh, Raymondo, old chum, the only reason we’re holding out on you is because you’d find it impossible to believe what we’re uncovering.”

  “Try me,” said Land. “I’m pretty gullible.”

  Bryant shot his partner a look, then proceeded to explain their findings. After he had watched the incredulous expression spread across Land’s face, he sat back in his chair and waited for a reaction.

  “You’re saying some kind of century-old satanic ring is killing off the family?”

  “Your terminology’s a little contentious, but – ”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Bryant.”

  “Then I’ll tell you something else,” offered Bryant. “I think Denjhi kidnapped Daisy Whitstable and couldn’t bring himself to murder her. He disobeyed his orders.”

  “This is madness. A satanic circle, and the Whitstables all know about it?”

  “I never said satanic. But somebody must know, certainly.”

  Land slapped his hands on to the desk. “How can I tell the H.O. about any of this?”

  “Now you understand our predicament,” said May. “We need you to keep the pressure off for just a little longer. That means retaining all the case files here in the building. Nothi
ng more to go to the Met.”

  “But what about the Whitstables?” asked Land, chewing a nail.

  “You can leave them to us,” replied Bryant with a reassuring smile.

  ♦

  When they heard the detectives’ demands, the Whitstables’ reaction was predictable – total, steaming outrage.

  It was May who had thought of moving them all into William Whitstable’s house. The property was enormous and standing empty. It would be easy to secure from both outside and within. Also, considering the elaborate security operation that was currently in force, it would stop resources being stretched over the yuletide season and save the taxpayers a considerable amount of money.

  Twenty-four members of the family had remained in England for Christmas, despite the threat of power strikes. Of those, two were in nursing homes and one was bedridden. That left twenty-one Whitstables to be rehoused and settled without fuss or publicity. The detectives informed the family that anyone wishing to opt out of the arrangement was perfectly free to do so, but they would find police protection no longer afforded to them at any residence other than the Hampstead house.

  Four of the younger family members – Christian and Deborah Whitstable and their children Justin and Flora – chose to remain at their home in Chiswick. The rest reluctantly accepted the deal, but not without letting their annoyance be heard and noted by anyone who came within earshot.

  Several unmarked police vans had succeeded in discreetly moving clothes, bedding, personal effects, security equipment, and food supplies into the house. The remaining seventeen Whitstables were driven to the rear entrance and installed within its gloomy brown rooms. Shortly after this, Bryant and May risked a visit to make sure that their reluctant charges had settled in.

  “No matter what they say, I don’t want you to lose your temper,” cautioned May as they passed the undercover surveillance car parked in front of the main entrance. “Try to remember that we are public servants.”

  “That shouldn’t be difficult,” muttered Bryant. “They treat everyone as if they’re hired help.”