This presented me with a challenge, as Mr Bryant seems quite capable of remembering things that happened before he was born, or to other people. Verification was made tricky by the fact that many of the places he mentioned did not exist, and some of the people he recalled meeting had died a hundred years earlier, or were fictional. It wasn’t until I looked through the books on his shelves that I realized he’d somehow muddled what he’d read with what had actually happened at the Unit. Oscar Wilde said that memory is the diary we all carry about with us, but I fear Mr Bryant’s diary has a few pages missing.
With this in mind I have had to ‘decode’ his version of events by visiting his old friends in Scotland Yard and the Metropolitan Police. Unfortunately what they had to say about him was libellous, so I had to make some bits up using old copies of the Police Gazette I had ‘liberated’ from the London Library. I hope my accounts of the following cases catch some of the flavour of life at the Peculiar Crimes Unit, if not the veracity.
I am given to understand that the Unit’s first biographer was herself murdered, and that the second, an unpopular midlist author by the name of Fowler, proved most unsatisfactory, so I am aware of the pitfalls that lie ahead. Mr Bryant has appointed me under a state rehabilitation programme, and I hope to prove worthy of his trust. I also hope I get paid sometime soon. I sent Mr Bryant the bill but he’s forgotten what he did with it.
—Cynthia Birdhanger, King’s Cross, London
Bryant & May and the Seventh Reindeer
Oluwa stood in the Ship pub in Wardour Street, Soho, watching the other Nigerian, fascinated.
The boy was about the same age as him, but couldn’t have been more different. His body shape was extraordinary; he had to be over seven feet tall and was extremely thin, a Giacometti figure with lengthy arms and thighs and a small, round shaved head. He wore a shiny grey suit jacket, too-short jeans with ironed-in creases and snakeskin boots. He smiled and laughed a lot, but when he moved his limbs he almost ceased to be human. He was a wave in the air.
Everyone who wanted to work in films went to the Ship. It was a known hangout for producers, directors and casting agents. Oluwa had written a script, but in the meantime he was trying to find work as an extra. He’d been planning to talk to the other Nigerian for a couple of weeks now. Both their families must have got out of Lagos when it disintegrated. He wondered how this towering, skeletal student had ended up here. It was 1978, and countrymen were rare on the London streets.
Oluwa had never been much of a conversationalist but curiosity drove him to ask the lad about his background. The student introduced himself politely and formally. His name was Bolaji, and he was the son of the director general of the Nigerian Broadcasting Service.
‘It sounds better than it was.’ Bolaji laughed. ‘My father says the British used it to blast public areas with BBC propaganda. That was before the civil war. Our family moved to Ethiopia and I came to London. I’m studying graphic design. How about you?’
Oluwa explained that he too had come to build a new life here, and was hawking around a script for a science fiction film he had written, but so far he’d had no luck and was fast running out of money. He had foolishly thought that producers were the gatekeepers to fortunes. He didn’t mean to sound quite so desperate.
Bolaji bought them beers. He seemed flush with cash and was good company. After this meeting they made it a habit to meet at the end of each week in the same spot, to discuss the progress of their respective careers.
Then, on a rainy Friday night a month later, when the little man with the ridiculous cigar came into the pub and looked around, catching sight of the pair of them, everything changed. Oluwa had the distinct feeling that the customers were being weighed up by the man at the door. Moments later he joined them at the bar. Hands were shaken, drinks were purchased and cigar smoke wreathed the pair of them like a constricting snake.
The man was a casting agent with a fat wallet, and quite clearly legitimate, judging by the estimable names he dropped. But he wasn’t interested in them both, only in Bolaji. He couldn’t take his eyes off him. ‘How tall are you?’ he asked. ‘Seven feet?’
‘Seven two,’ Bolaji replied, grinning. ‘Everyone in my family is tall.’
‘I’m nearly six foot four,’ said Oluwa, drawing himself up to his full height and wishing he had worn boots with a taller heel. The agent was clearly looking for a specific body type. Oluwa felt himself being gently but firmly closed out of their conversation. He left the pair in deep discussion and went home feeling vaguely aggrieved.
That summer, Bolaji disappeared for six weeks. When he returned he was in even higher spirits than usual. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ asked Oluwa, back at the bar and poorer than ever. When Bolaji excitedly explained what had happened, Oluwa felt a bitter jealousy claw at his bones. He was pleased about his friend’s good fortune, but devastated by his own corresponding lack of success.
Oluwa thought that as the years passed he would feel differently. He believed it was only a matter of time before his big break also arrived. Surely one success would be followed by another. But nothing ever seemed to go right for him after that. London had opportunities to offer to the hungry and eager, but not, it seemed, to him.
* * *
—
‘It’s a day of peace,’ said Alma Sorrowbridge, glancing out of the window at the falling snow. ‘Relax, have a glass of sherry, eat some mince pies and watch Bruce Forsyth.’
‘As it seems the entire country has been doing since the old king died,’ complained Bryant, pulling his ratty maroon dressing gown around him and sinking further into his armchair. ‘It’s not like this on the Continent. They don’t spend the day wearing paper hats and moaning about pine needles. All the cafés are open, everyone’s laughing and drinking champagne. I’m stuck indoors stuffing myself with nuts and being made to watch Strictly Come Dancing because you like the frocks. I hate Christmas. Your turkey was so dry it made my fork squeak. And look what Janice sent me.’ He held up her annual Christmas card, which depicted Santa Claus on his sleigh, racing through a starry sky above a manger scene, the three wise men and their camels all covered in rainbow glitter. ‘She makes them herself. I made the mistake of rubbing my eyes after I opened it and now I look like a drag queen.’
‘My friends from the church will be over later,’ said Alma, unwrapping another Terry’s Chocolate Orange.
‘Oh, wonderful. A bunch of old dears shovelling in Christmas cake and caterwauling their way through “Silent Night,” followed by farmyard impressions and Auntie Doris’s lecture on Pelmanism. No thank you. I bet John’s not stuck at home; he’ll be at a glamorous party somewhere full of starlets.’
‘Why don’t you call him?’ Alma suggested.
‘What, and make him think I’m bored? He wouldn’t want to see me’—Bryant sniffed—‘not when he can be out having fun. What would I say—come over and have some of Alma’s famous elasticated turkey gravy while we watch the Queen’s Speech for the third time?’
‘Very well,’ said Alma, heading for the kitchen. Her lodger was an unpleasant old man at the best of times but he was always at his worst over Christmas. She closed the kitchen door and picked up the phone.
* * *
—
John May sat in his bare white apartment in Shad Thames and looked out at the deserted river. He had hoped that his son might call from Canada, but the phone had remained silent. There were two Christmas cards on his mantelpiece, and one of those was from BMW reminding him about his MOT. He was wearing his best suit, polished shoes and a tie. He had never truly known how to relax by himself. This is what happens when you get older, he thought gloomily. Your friends all die or move somewhere horrible. Arthur’s probably snuggled down beside a roaring fire, Alma cooking, the Christmas tree twinkling.
When the phone rang he assumed it was a wrong number.
* * *
—
‘If that’s carol singers throw a bucket of water over them,’ called Bryant as Alma went to answer the door.
‘Surprise,’ said John May. ‘Happy Christmas.’ He held out a brown cardboard box. ‘I didn’t have time to wrap it.’
‘Well, isn’t this nice, you just turning up like this,’ said Alma, hopelessly unable to feign surprise.
‘She called you, didn’t she?’ Bryant accepted the box as May seated himself beside the fire. ‘She’ll wheel in half a ton of Christmas cake now. What’s this?’
‘The private notes on the Dagenham trunk murder,’ said May with pride. ‘It was never solved.’
‘As it happens, I’ve got something for you,’ said Bryant, reaching under his armchair. ‘The witness reports for the Shepherd’s Bush blowtorch killings. Clear a space on the table.’ He rubbed his hands together with ill-disguised glee. ‘I feel a mince pie coming on.’
They settled in and had just finished laying out the evidence in both investigations on the dining room table when the phone rang again.
‘It’s a Sergeant Dickie Hathaway from Covent Garden Police Station,’ said Alma. ‘I reminded him that it’s the Lord’s day but he insists on speaking to you.’
‘Mr Bryant, I remember you from way back in the Bow Street days and realized I still had your number. I’m only contacting you because I couldn’t get hold of anyone else,’ said Hathaway.
‘How nice of you to eventually work your way down to me,’ replied Bryant coldly.
‘I do hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘You are.’ Bryant unwrapped a chocolate-covered Brazil nut. ‘This had better be good.’
‘A vicious attack, right in the middle of Covent Garden Market,’ said Hathaway. ‘I can’t make head or tail of it, and I can’t get hold of anyone to help me. They’re all off until Boxing Day. She’s famous, for God’s sake; it’ll get out and everyone will come to us demanding to know what happened. But the station is closed and everyone’s gone away for the holidays.’
Bryant could hardly turn the opportunity down. Going through cold cases at home was one thing, but proper crimes were becoming rarer and rarer in a city that was slowly being smothered with fish-eye lenses. Lately they had started to sprout on stalks from every building or sat on the tops of poles in squares, keeping a mindful eye on London in ways that Orwell could never have imagined. It was 2005, and over the coming years the nature of policing would change until there was a camera for every thirty people in the country. On one hand it was a good thing. The Peculiar Crimes Unit would no longer need to maintain a network of not entirely reliable informers. But from a purely selfish point of view it spoiled the fine art of detection.
‘We can be there in fifteen minutes,’ Bryant promised, trying not to sound too eager.
May’s BMW zipped down a deserted Gower Street towards Shaftesbury Avenue. Almost every set of traffic lights was on green. There were hardly any cars in the cross streets. All the pubs were shut; a sign that London had truly closed down for the day. ‘No congestion charge on Christmas Day,’ said May.
‘Oh, that’s just a money-making wheeze,’ said Bryant airily. ‘We don’t have to pay it anyway, we’re rozzers.’
‘No, you’re supposed to pay it, then get it signed off and claim it back.’
‘I cut out the red tape by simply not paying in the first place. I’m saving the taxpayer money.’ Bryant found a tube of Polo Mints and opened them. ‘The poor chap sounded desperate. Do you remember old Hathaway? His wife always sang at dinner parties, utterly charming woman. I wonder why we all hated her. Turn left here.’
‘You mean right.’
‘Yes, your other left.’ Bryant had always been hopeless with directions. His brief stint running a Cub Scouts’ wilderness group had ended in traumatic scenes after he walked his troop into an abattoir.
‘I’ll have to go around. Covent Garden is pedestrianized,’ May warned as they entered King Street.
‘Oh, rubbish, no one will mind. Here.’ Bryant tried to take the wheel.
‘Can you please not do that?’ May brought the BMW to a halt on the cobbled walkway that ran past the covered market. ‘He’s over there.’
The market was festooned with giant green and silver sprigs of mistletoe, but the stalls were all shut and concealed under red and white striped awnings. The portly sergeant was standing in front of a grey nylon tent that had been placed over a section of pavement in the northeast corner of the market square, beside its new pillared walkway. He shook their hands in gratitude.
‘Mr Bryant, Mr May, thank you for coming down here. She’s been taken to University College Hospital and has gone straight into surgery. She’s under sedation but expected to make a full recovery. I thought you needed to see the crime scene.’
‘Who was attacked?’ asked May.
‘An opera singer by the name of Anna Perigorde. Does that ring a bell?’
‘No,’ said Bryant. ‘We’re detectives, we don’t know anything about opera singers.’ Although he did, of course.
‘Apparently she’s very well known,’ said Hathaway. ‘She was leaving a rehearsal of…Hang on.’ He fished a bit of paper from his pocket. ‘It was full of divers.’
‘You mean divas.’
‘No, divers. That’s it, The Pearl Fishers. A big lass. I suppose it’s all lungs.’
Bryant peered into the tent and studied the spot where the opera singer had fallen. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘That’s a fair-sized patch of dry ground. Whoever’s playing Nadir would have had to brace himself when she fell into his arms.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Bizet.’
Hathaway looked around. ‘You don’t expect it to be on Christmas Day.’
‘No, you clod. The composer. He wrote Carmen.’
‘Oh, I’ve seen that. A load of birds rolling cigarettes on their thighs and bullfighters and that.’
‘Toreadors,’ said Bryant absently. ‘What happened?’
‘It looks as if something came up from behind and, well, sort of clawed at her. It’s all very strange.’
‘What do you mean, clawed?’
‘She had these nasty-looking bruises and cuts across her right shoulder, and fell there, concussing herself on the cobbles.’
‘There’s no blood.’ Bryant stepped out, turned on his heel and looked back. ‘She came out of the rehearsal rooms over there, yes? What time?’
‘Just after five.’ The sergeant checked his watch. ‘A little over forty minutes ago. She attended a meeting with the wardrobe mistress, popped out for some air and was attacked.’
‘A meeting on Christmas Day?’ said May. ‘Isn’t that odd?’
‘No, they have a performance tomorrow afternoon,’ Hathaway explained. ‘There’s all sorts working today. Opera singers. Bin men.’
‘Why would she need some air?’ asked May.
‘Apparently she always does because the heating gives her a dry throat.’
‘Was she still in costume?’
‘Yes, a sort of gauzy white gown and lots of necklaces. The EMT say she was more frightened than anything, babbling about some kind of beast.’
Bryant leaned back and examined the edge of the walkway. ‘She must have been caught on a dozen cameras.’
‘I imagine so,’ said Hathaway, ‘but I can’t get access to any of them. No one’s answering phones, it’s—’
‘Christmas, we know,’ said Bryant impatiently. ‘What was taken from her?’
‘That’s the thing—nothing. She still had her wallet and handbag.’
‘Yet he must have gone through her things,’ said Bryant, pointing to something glinting on the ground nearby. ‘There’s about five pounds in loose change on the pavement. Anyone else around?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Hathaway.
; ‘What do you think I mean? The square couldn’t have been completely deserted.’
‘Not at the time when she came out of the rehearsal rooms, no. There were a couple of coachloads of tourists wandering about, photographing old stuff. By the time I arrived they’d gone.’
‘Did you talk to anyone? Call a forensic team, check for reports of disturbance? Good God, man, what have you been doing for the last forty minutes?’
‘I’ve been stood here trying to find someone, then waiting for you,’ the sergeant said hotly, pointing at the ground. ‘I couldn’t leave this spot until you got here.’
The new demarcations around the West End had all but wiped out local police stations. Too much time had been wasted by casual callers complaining about Leicester Square’s pickpockets and Covent Garden’s food outlets, so the stations were being closed. It meant that when a serious assault occurred on Central London’s quietest day of the year, finding anyone to cover it was well-nigh impossible.
‘Is this what it’s come down to?’ Bryant fumed to his partner. ‘An attack in the centre of London and all we get is a local sergeant? Times have changed. We used to get a bigger turnout for a cat stuck up a tree.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, I couldn’t leave,’ said Hathaway. ‘I took a picture of the snow.’
Bryant looked about. ‘What snow?’ he said. ‘I don’t see any.’
‘We had a flurry here earlier. It had already started to settle when I arrived. That’s why I told you it was so strange. Here.’ He dug out a tiny pocket camera and searched through his photographs. ‘I borrowed this from a French tourist. He needs it back for Stratford.’
‘Why, what’s there?’
‘Shakespeare.’
‘Oh, I thought you meant Stratford East. There’s no rush, seeing as he’s French.’
Hathaway held up the camera. ‘I managed to get half a dozen shots off before the snow melted away. First, here’s the victim in situ. Then—well, see for yourself.’
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