England's Finest

by Christopher Fowler - Bryant

  ‘I knew as soon as I opened the door,’ Mrs Granville explained, ducking between them to wipe a spot of spilt tea from a polished tabletop.

  May looked around. Judging by the way her clothes hung on her Mrs Granville had been larger than she now was, and quite recently; the clothes were still fairly new. She was tentative and dainty of manner; she needed to be, in order to avoid breaking anything in the overcrowded flat. A stack of metal rails stood in one corner, cardboard boxes in another. May surmised that the Granvilles had not long ago moved from a house to this flat. The support rails had been removed from the bathroom and the toilet following the recent illness and death of Mr Granville. The living room looked like a stage set minus one of the principal cast members. May had seen such makeshift arrangements in many a newly widowed woman’s home, and the sight always made him sad.

  ‘There was a cup lying on the floor,’ she explained. ‘A single cup. Nothing else was out of place. You feel so invaded. I was too frightened to go all the way in so I called on my neighbour, but she was out. There’s never anyone at home in this building. I should never have moved here.’

  ‘What was missing?’ May asked, looking around at the immaculately tidy shelves.

  ‘I keep my money in my bedside table. I don’t trust banks these days. It was all gone. Nearly seven thousand pounds.’

  ‘Could you show me where you kept it?’ He followed her to the polished table beside the bed and its forlornly empty drawer.

  ‘It had been opened and pushed shut after, very neatly.’

  ‘Why did you have so much on the premises?’

  ‘I got three thousand, two hundred pounds for our car. My husband died, Mr May, and I don’t drive. The rest is my savings—all the money I have. I can’t even pay next month’s bills.’

  ‘You told the police about this?’

  ‘No, because what can they do? When I had my phone snatched by some boys on bikes they did nothing. I told them they lived just up the road, that I’d seen them before, but we don’t even have a local constable around here anymore. The money won’t be found, will it? They’d just come in and make a mess and do nothing except tell me off for keeping it here in the flat. It’s all so humiliating.’

  The local police had a poor success rate with burglaries. Even when they took someone into custody they rarely managed to return goods and never recovered cash. Clearly, Mrs Granville valued her privacy above all else.

  ‘How did he get in?’ called Bryant, examining the jamb of the front door. ‘This hasn’t been forced.’

  Mrs Granville came back and pointed to a small, fiddly box of grey brushed metal attached to the wall outside the front door. There were a dozen illuminated buttons arranged in rows of three, numbered one to twelve.

  ‘There are twelve flats,’ Mrs Granville explained. ‘The main gate has a similar key pad. It’s terribly annoying because when visitors call flats eleven and twelve they often try to put the numbers in separately. Everybody knows the main entrance code because all the delivery lads use it. So I have this as well. It’s a key box. There’s a separate four-digit code for it. When you enter the code, a spare door key is released. It’s in case I ever lose my keys. I changed the code earlier in the week.’

  ‘What’s the number for the key pad at the main gate?’

  ‘I don’t need to keep that one written down because it only changes once a year. It’s two—eleven—seven—nine.’

  ‘What was your old code for the key box, and what did you change it to?’ asked May.

  She thought for a moment, a hand tapping nervously at her neck. ‘All I can remember is that I changed it.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘On Wednesday, I think. Let me see.’ She rummaged in the magazines on her table and produced a minuscule slip of paper. ‘There. It’s two—eleven—four—six now.’

  ‘Please think very carefully, Mrs Granville. Did you change it before or after the burglary?’

  ‘Before.’

  ‘Who else has the code to this box?’

  ‘Nobody except me.’

  Bryant narrowed his eyes. ‘You haven’t shared it with anyone?’

  ‘Not a soul.’

  ‘But if the door wasn’t forced, someone else must have known the number. What about the porter—does he have it?’

  ‘No. I swear to you, I haven’t given it to anybody else. William, my husband, told me never to share such things with anyone. We moved here so he wouldn’t have to climb stairs, but he died soon after we arrived.’

  ‘When did you last see Mr Haranai?’

  ‘Four days ago.’

  ‘Why do you think he is involved?’

  ‘I went to his evening service and talked to him over coffee, and he asked me all about where I lived. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.’ Mrs Granville’s hand flapped at her chest like a moth behind glass. ‘He wanted to know all about this place.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He said it helped him to understand more about his parishioners. I told him some of the things I didn’t like about the block. Afterwards Alma ticked me off for being so open with him. I didn’t see the harm—after all, he is a pastor—but then I did wonder about some of his questions.’ She looked flustered. ‘I don’t want to point the finger of blame at anyone. That would be wrong. But it seems such a coincidence, me describing my home and then being burgled.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him you kept money here, did you?’

  ‘Well, no, not in so many words. But I may have implied…Oh, I don’t know.’ She tapped at her neck again.

  ‘Would you say you’re a regular at Mr Haranai’s services?’ asked May.

  ‘Yes. I’ve been going several times a week for the last two months. Since I lost William I’ve found it a great comfort.’

  ‘And you’re absolutely sure you didn’t give Mr Haranai your code in any of your meetings?’

  ‘I’m very careful about that sort of thing. I’m a private person, Mr Bryant. Besides, I changed the front-door code just after I saw him. He couldn’t have known what it was.’

  ‘I think we need to change it for you again, just to be on the safe side. You don’t think there’s any way Mr Haranai could have got information from you without you realizing it?’

  ‘I don’t see how. I never normally write the number down. I wish I could remember what I changed it from. It was something to do with the Bible, I’m sure. Everything has been so confused. How could I have lost my life savings? I’ve been such a stupid old fool.’ She passed a hand across her face. ‘I have nothing left. Nothing.’

  ‘Then we have a conundrum to unravel.’ Bryant got to his feet. ‘Is there anyone who can help you, Mrs Granville?’

  ‘No one,’ she said forlornly. ‘In any case, I couldn’t accept help. I feel so ashamed.’

  ‘You have nothing to feel ashamed about, believe me. Thank you for your hospitality.’ He signalled to May. ‘John, perhaps you could help Mrs Granville conduct a thorough search here, just in case.’ In case she’s made a mistake and the money’s still here somewhere, he implied. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on. It’s time I paid Mr Haranai a visit.’

  * * *

  —

  The vaulted church hall was empty now and the lights were turned up, revealing peeling green paintwork and tattered red drapes. Old smells stung Bryant’s nostrils: mildew, beer, something darker; the space had previously been used as a meeting house, a bar, a sex club and a cinema. At first he thought the stage was empty, but then a sliver of shadow rose and came towards him.

  ‘Mr Bryant—well, well, this is a surprise.’ Manoj Haranai had his hand outstretched. Bryant found it hard not to flinch. He had always been astounded by the gullibility of the general public. There was nothing about Haranai that rang true, even for a moment. The lay preacher’s smile was so masklike that it shou
ld have made even the most naïve member of his congregation uncomfortable. ‘Would you like me to get you a chair, old chap? You look so tired.’

  ‘I’m quite capable of standing, thank you.’ Bryant looked around. ‘You’ve come down in the world.’

  ‘From little acorns, isn’t that the expression?’ Haranai’s smile widened but his eyes remained hard and cold. ‘Every new ministry has to start somewhere.’

  ‘Well, I’d rather it didn’t start in my backyard.’ Bryant looked up at the peeling ceiling.

  ‘I can do some good here. This is a deprived area.’

  ‘Yes, and I don’t want you depriving them of anything else. I hear you’re back in the game.’

  ‘To which game are you referring?’

  ‘The confidence game, Manoj. I don’t want you practising it here, or anywhere else.’

  Haranai threw his hands high. ‘I am trying to give the people hope.’

  ‘It’s what you’re taking from them that worries me. You were a street hypnotist once, remember?’

  ‘I did a lot of things to get by, Mr Bryant.’ Haranai’s smile never wavered. ‘And you know it’s impossible to get anyone to do something that’s against their will.’

  ‘I know that,’ Bryant agreed. ‘You talked to a Mrs Eustacia Granville the other day.’

  ‘I talked to many of my parishioners.’ The word still jarred with Bryant; it sounded as if Haranai was attempting to align himself with properly trained ministers.

  ‘You see them in private consultations. Why is that?’

  ‘There are things they feel uncomfortable discussing in front of the rest of the congregation,’ Haranai explained reasonably.

  ‘These consultations.’ Bryant swiped at the air as if trying to locate the thought. ‘Are they based in theology, psychology, what?’

  ‘They’re just chats,’ said Haranai. ‘You should know, Mr Bryant; the people of London once shared their problems with their neighbours, but now they have no one to talk to. I encourage them to open their hearts.’

  ‘And wallets, no doubt. Mrs Granville has neighbours.’

  ‘She tells me they are never there. Often she is the only person living in her building. Loneliness is a terrible modern disease.’

  ‘What did you tell her was the cure?’ asked Bryant.

  ‘What do you think?’ replied Haranai, pushing the detective to argue with him.

  * * *

  —

  ‘I think he read her mind,’ said Bryant as they strolled towards Piebury Corner, the white-tiled pie shop on the Caledonian Road.

  That was enough to stop May in his tracks. ‘Please don’t drag the supernatural into this,’ he warned. ‘I searched Mrs Granville’s flat and there was no sign of the money. If Haranai stole it, there has to be a simple, logical explanation.’

  ‘First of all, mind-reading involves increased perception, not ghosts. And (b), there are proven techniques.’

  ‘Like what?’ May asked, pushing open the pie shop’s door.

  ‘You start with observational clues about what the other person is thinking,’ said Bryant. ‘People get more enthused when they discuss their personal interests. It becomes easier to ask them questions. You decode the nonverbal signs to see where their passions lie. Millennials don’t like expressing personal opinions face-to-face because they’ve grown up glued to their screens and walkie-phones. Older people can often be more confident and challenging because they’re used to giving opinions.’

  ‘So you’re an expert on neurolinguistic programming now, are you?’ asked May sceptically.

  ‘There are hundreds of techniques you can study,’ Bryant explained. ‘There’s a thing called the Barnum Effect, where you watch your subject’s reaction to a series of seemingly bland statements and slowly refine your diagnosis. We employ over three thousand different microexpressions a day—well, Raymond doesn’t; he probably has about four—but an expert can ascribe precise meanings to them. Haranai started out as a street hypnotist. There’s a very simple “interrupted handshake” technique that wide boys were using in the West End just after the war. You can find instructions for it all over the interweb. I could do it on you right now. You don’t have to put anyone in a trance to get them to do as you say.’

  ‘So you could hypnotize me?’

  ‘Watch.’ Bryant grabbed his partner’s right hand and stared into his eyes. ‘You hear nothing but the sound of my voice.’ He waved his free hand over the counter. ‘You are going to pay for my pie.’

  ‘Didn’t work,’ said May, pulling his hand free. ‘How do you think Haranai does it?’

  ‘I think he just engages subjects and gently leads them to tell him more than they intend. When he’s not performing, he stays very still and watches everything. I’m sure he extracted some nugget of information from Mrs Granville and used it against her.’

  ‘What, he came up with a way to get into her flat? What did they talk about, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘The Devil.’ Bryant studied the menu. ‘What are you having?’

  ‘Steak and oyster pie,’ said May.

  ‘I knew it,’ said Bryant.

  * * *

  —

  The following week, as soon as he opened the door of number 17, Albion House, Harrison Street, Bryant knew that something was wrong. Alma always baked on Sunday afternoons but today there was no scent of warm spices coming from the kitchen. He found her in the living room, snuffling around the fireplace.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘I thought you were going to bake gingerbread pudding today.’

  When she turned to him, he saw that she had been crying. ‘Eustacia,’ she said, and started crying again. He accepted a hug and, not knowing what was expected of him, patted her gently on the head.

  * * *

  —

  ‘She took sleeping pills,’ Bryant explained over the phone. ‘There’s no suspicion of foul play. I think it’s clear why she did it. She’d lost her husband and her life savings.’

  ‘What if it wasn’t Haranai?’ May asked. ‘Did you consider that? The evidence against him is purely circumstantial.’

  ‘Alma says she was Mrs Granville’s only friend. Nobody got on with the husband.’ Bryant put one finger in his ear. ‘What is that dreadful noise?’

  ‘I’m in a pub.’

  ‘Well, can you step outside?’

  ‘The street is noisier.’

  ‘There’s no CCTV near the entrance to the flats. If only we could find proof that she gave Haranai the entry code details. What about the porter? He wasn’t in his booth when we met her.’

  ‘Arthur, you may have to let this one go,’ said May. ‘Haranai’s an old pro. He won’t let us bring him in without a very good reason. All you have is a confused, vulnerable old lady who was depressed over the death of her husband. I don’t see how we can make any further advances.’

  ‘He’s a manipulator,’ said Bryant doggedly. ‘You searched her flat and I questioned Alma, and we both came up blank. So let’s swap places.’

  * * *

  —

  Rain was sifting gently across the road as Bryant approached the flat in Canonbury. When he reached the outer door of the block, he entered the code of 2—11—7—9 into the key pad and was automatically buzzed inside. Before entering, he ducked back and stared at the panel for a moment. ‘Interesting.’

  Then he headed to see the porter, a young Indian man who sat in a claustrophobically small glass booth, like a plant in a terrarium. ‘Did Mrs Granville have many visitors?’ he asked. ‘Do you keep a logbook?’

  ‘No,’ replied the porter. ‘Nobody came to see her much. Another old lady, once or twice, but not for a while now.’

  ‘Do you know her name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about this fellow?’ Bryant slapped
a photograph of Manoj Haranai against the glass.

  ‘No, I’ve not seen him, sir. I’m on every day until six but sometimes I’m away from the desk.’

  ‘You’re a smoker,’ Bryant noted.

  ‘I need a break from that glass box sometimes.’ The porter let him into the apartment.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know what Mrs Granville changed her spare-key code to last week, do you?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’ With his smoking habit exposed, the porter was now anxious to get back to his post. ‘The residents are encouraged not to share their codes with anyone.’

  ‘Of course not. Very sensible.’ Bryant paused. ‘Did you talk to her much?’

  ‘Not very often. She was—private. Very religious.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘She gave me this.’ He felt inside his shirt and produced a tiny gold crucifix. ‘She was giving them to everyone. You know how old ladies get funny ideas.’

  ‘Can I see?’ Bryant examined the cross, which was made of gold-sprayed plastic. ‘What sort of funny ideas?’

  ‘She told me we had to keep the Devil away,’ the porter explained. ‘She was worried that Satan would invade the building.’

  ‘Why would she think that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think she was easily influenced by what people told her. She believed everything she read in the papers. She asked for the outer door code to be changed. I told her I couldn’t do it. Then she gave me the neck chain and made me put it on.’

  There was nothing out of the ordinary about the cross that he could see. After the porter left, he took a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and tried to use the spare-key box next to the front door. Then he walked around the flat for a while, reenacting the theft that had caused an ashamed old lady to take her life. Bryant left the building a little less mystified than he had been when he arrived.

  * * *

  —

  After a verdict of suicide was recorded the case was closed, and although no evidence came to light that Manoj Haranai was in any way responsible for the robbery, the detectives in their stubbornness presumed it was simply unprovable. Such cases were splinters that remained embedded in the flesh, impossible to dislodge. A few weeks later, news filtered through that Haranai was moving to a new ministry in West London.