England's Finest

by Christopher Fowler - Bryant

  * * *

  —

  Jack Renfield studied the address on his phone. The bay-windowed Victorian houses in Mount Street hid their true identities. It was hard to tell which was a private club, an expensive restaurant, a consulate, a sultan’s apartment. Many were merely elegant shells for shifting money around the world.

  ‘I read some pretty brutal comments from Howard Flint about the British police,’ said Renfield, checking the door numbers. ‘Didn’t he accuse us of being soft on terrorism? I thought consuls are meant to be nonpartisan.’

  ‘They are, and so is the ambassador. It’s here.’ Longbright climbed the tiled steps to an elegant redbrick mansion with closed grey blinds. ‘He’s heading back to Boston soon. We’re lucky we caught him.’

  The door was opened before they could ring the bell.

  ‘We’re from—’ Jack began.

  ‘We know who you are,’ said a Secret Service agent, stepping back. Longbright raised an eyebrow at Renfield and stepped inside. The black-and-white tiled hall and oak-panelled rooms beyond offered the perfect simulacrum of a wealthy Mayfair house in the 1930s, but there were telltale signs of hidden technology. Sharp blue LEDs were embedded in the skirting boards, and tiny black cameras winked from the corners of the ceilings.

  ‘DI Longbright, DS Renfield, come through.’ Howard Flint beckoned to them with a welcoming smile that did not reach as far as his eyes. He had the air of a harried diplomat trying to organize the evacuation of a colonial outpost before the eruption of a volcano. His untidily parted red hair almost hid the white plastic button in his right ear. Every now and again he paused, listening to it, before glancing back at them. ‘We were expecting somebody more senior. I can’t spare you much time tonight. Everything I have to say is in the official report. I’m putting my wife on to you.’ He made it sound like a threat. Leading the way to a bare office where two chairs had been placed before a desk, he indicated that they should sit, then left the room.

  ‘Awkward,’ Renfield mouthed at Longbright. A gold antique carriage clock pinged on a black marble mantelpiece. The door opened and in came Kate Flint. Longbright goggled and thought, This woman means business; hair set hard, jaw set firm, a square-collared grey moiré two-piece suit, discreet pearls, clear nail varnish, patent-leather heels. If her home was a fortress, she was definitely its guardian. Janice realized she was much younger than her fashion sense suggested, certainly a generation later than her husband. Formal introductions were effected. The consul’s wife tapped her foot and appraised each of them unnervingly.

  ‘There were a few points not covered in the report,’ Longbright began.

  ‘Why don’t I just talk,’ replied Kate Flint, not phrasing a question. She paced the room, leaving them to twist about in their seats. ‘My husband and my son were not in contact with one another. Jericho chose to remain in London after his gap year rather than return home to begin an internship in a legal firm. During this interim period neither of us maintained close contact with him, although my husband made extensive inquiries as to his whereabouts. We held on to his passport because he could not be trusted to take care of himself. We need to know what happened to him between August tenth and the discovery of his remains on your premises. We should have been apprised of your role in his death, how he gained admission to your building and which of your officers may be culpable.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand the situation, Mrs Flint,’ Longbright interrupted. ‘Your husband’s tenure in the consulate has now expired, so while we will still do everything within our power to help you discover the truth about your son, we have to conduct the investigation in accordance with our own jurisprudence and the procedures set down by London’s Homicide and Serious Crime Command.’

  Flint stared at her in brutal silence for a few moments, then continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘What we need you to do is find out who killed our son and why, and to do so before his official service so that we may grieve with closure. We will need a full timeline of your Unit’s accountability in this matter, and further to that we will need—’

  ‘You are required to aid us in the official investigation, Mrs Flint,’ said Longbright, raising her voice. ‘We’ll have questions concerning your relationship with your son. For example, why did you have no contact with him?’

  Flint’s face stayed emotionless. ‘Our relationship with Jericho is no concern of yours. What should worry you more is that he was found dead inside your Unit, which places every member of your staff under suspicion of direct involvement in his death.’

  Renfield tried to calm the situation. ‘When can we expect to be informed about the findings in the coroner’s report, ma’am?’ he asked.

  ‘My husband has decided that you should not be allowed access to the report, as it was conducted outside of your jurisdiction.’

  ‘That could be seen as obstruction,’ warned Longbright.

  ‘Howard never wanted you to handle the case. Apart from the ethical issues raised by a potentially culpable department investigating itself, your Unit’s track record is a matter of grave concern to us. Your senior detectives are past retirement age. They fail to run their investigations according to national statutory regulations. They have a history of evidence contamination and rights abuses. They openly share privileged information with undesirables and have been the subject of countless internal investigations. I understand they’ve repeatedly ignored Home Office guidelines and were prosecuted for releasing illegal aliens into the community.’

  ‘They get results, Mrs Flint,’ said Renfield.

  ‘They burned down their own Unit, didn’t they? Yet somehow, despite all of this, they’ve managed to renew their charter and continue in office. Clearly they have some kind of special relationship with the City of London Police Commission.’ Like her husband, she had mastered the art of the menacing smile, which she now used to devastating effect. ‘Under the circumstances, we are unable to share any information concerning our own independent investigation, and feel it is better that you reach your own conclusions. Your detectives will find out that their network of special relationships does not extend to the international consulate of the United States of America. We are leaving at the end of the week. You have until then to submit your own findings.’

  Dismissing them with a brief raising of her hand, she left the room.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Renfield as they left, ‘was she trying to put the frighteners on us or what? What do you think was going on there?’

  ‘Either she thinks we’re complete morons or they’ve got something to hide,’ Longbright replied as they crossed the road. ‘It’s going to be tricky working without the coroner’s report. I wonder what will happen if we apply for their phone records.’

  ‘Janice, we’re on our own. Whatever happens, they’re going to hang us out to dry. If you think they haven’t already reached their own conclusions you’re underestimating them. Our investigation is a technicality, nothing more.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to surprise them,’ said Longbright, setting her jaw.

  * * *

  —

  Bimsley and Mangeshkar had changed from their black PCU uniforms into jeans, sweaters and dark jackets. Market Road had a wild, unkempt look. It was the kind of area where you kept your phone in your pocket. They stopped before the only remaining vehicle parked at the kerb. Colin cleaned a patch of glass with his fist and peered through the filthy windscreen.

  ‘VW Dormobile, 1971. It would have been blue and white originally, probably worth about twelve grand after a bit of panel work. It was found unlocked. Someone’s nicked the tyres.’ He opened the door and slid it back. ‘Blimey, it’s a bit fragrant inside.’

  ‘He was living in it,’ Meera replied. ‘I’m sure others have been since then.’

  Once, the street that ran between Tufnell Park and Pentonville had been lined with gap-year camper vans
up for resale, just as Warren Street had once been filled with used cars. Both markets had existed on the borderline of legality and had been closed down.

  The interior of the vehicle was plastered with colourful pages from art books. Colin poked his fingertip into the corner of the dashboard and showed it to her. ‘Print powder. Looks like Mr Flint’s team has been over the interior. Their tech is probably better than Dan’s. We won’t find anything here.’

  ‘How can we determine a cause of death without the body? If his people have already conducted their own investigation, why use the PCU at all? And how are we expected to file a report when someone else has already trodden over the evidence?’

  ‘As I see it, the PCU has one advantage.’ Colin climbed out and dusted himself down. ‘We don’t work the same way. We take our cue from a couple of detectives who don’t just think outside the box, they tear off its hinges, smash it flat, stamp on it and start the investigation somewhere else. Sort of thing.’

  ‘Thank you, Colin, for that erudite explanation of the Unit’s philosophy,’ Meera said, pulling the van door shut. ‘Let’s try the Vinyl Café.’

  It was a ten-minute walk to Tileyard Road, a dead end of new orange-brick boxes that existed on the fault line between Pentonville and Somers Town, an odd no-man’s-land created by a rough triangle of railway cuts, embankments and arterial roads. It was an area that had long been suited to grey skies and rain, but lately the factories and warehouses had been replaced by rows of cloned apartments.

  ‘My dad wouldn’t recognize this place now,’ Colin said. ‘The air’s almost clean.’

  ‘What did he do?’ asked Meera.

  Colin smiled to himself. ‘He was a patterer. That’s what my great-granddad used to call it. A newspaper seller. They shouted out the headlines, and the gorier they made the stories sound the more papers they sold. He had the gift of the gab all right. That’s why my mum fell for him.’

  ‘It’s funny, you don’t have that at all, do you?’ said Meera.

  ‘Are you saying I’m inarticulate?’

  ‘No, I’m saying you’re honest.’

  ‘He had other jobs but they were all a bit sketchy.’

  ‘Sounds like Mr Bryant’s old man. No wonder you two get on so well.’

  The Vinyl Café was clearly operating in its own creative ecosystem. The customers were unpretentiously fashionable, with the easy-going air of industry creatives who had seen it all before.

  They headed to the coffee counter. ‘Glad I found this place,’ Meera told the barista. ‘A mate of mine recommended it. Jericho Flint, used to come in here sometimes, do you know him?’

  ‘Meera, what’s the point of us being undercover if you act like a copper?’ Colin whispered.

  The girl handed over two soy decaf flat whites. ‘This is my first week.’

  ‘Who’s been here longer? What about your regular customers?’

  The barista pointed to a table in the corner. ‘They’re session musicians, been coming here since it opened.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Meera dropped some coins into her tip saucer and beckoned Colin to follow.

  ‘Who am I supposed to be?’ he asked as they approached the table.

  ‘You don’t have to be anyone, we’re not making small talk. Hi. Can I have a word?’ She waved at the table and dropped on to a spare chair without asking. Colin hovered awkwardly behind her. The group broke off its various conversations and studied her. ‘My name is Meera, and I’m looking for this guy.’ She thumbed open the photograph on her phone and showed it to them. ‘We think he used to come in here sometimes.’

  ‘That’s the artist,’ said a young girl with a blue ponytail and one side of her head shaved. Elegant tendrils of a pastoral tattoo crept up her right arm and over one bare shoulder. ‘I’m Abi, I’m one of the sound engineers here.’ She raised a hand. ‘He used to come around selling his paintings. Sort of like surreal circus posters. Very cool. I bought one.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’ asked Meera.

  ‘Are you friends of his? He’s a nice guy. I wouldn’t want—’

  ‘We’re police officers,’ Colin announced.

  The temperature around the table dropped a degree or two. Meera mentally slapped a hand on her forehead. ‘Do you remember his name?’ she asked.

  ‘Jericho,’ Abi replied. ‘Not a name you forget. I haven’t seen him for a while.’

  ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘August, maybe. Definitely summer.’ She looked to the others for confirmation. ‘Is he missing?’

  ‘I’m afraid he died,’ said Colin. ‘We know very little about the circumstances. We’re trying to help his parents.’ It wasn’t a lie. ‘Did he have any friends, anyone he came in with?’

  ‘No, he was always alone,’ said Abi. ‘Wish I could help you.’

  ‘Abi, he sold a painting to the café,’ said one of the session musicians. ‘It’s in the other room.’ Abi shot him a poisonous look.

  They trooped through to the tables by the hot food counter, behind which were arranged dozens of pictures. Meera spotted the primary-coloured poster at once: a human rhinoceros in chains, surrounded by cobra women. ‘Is that one of his? Quite a vivid imagination.’

  ‘He had a whole portfolio of artwork like that,’ said one of the other engineers. ‘They’re based on old Barnum and Bailey posters but they all feature mythical creatures.’

  Colin turned the poster on its hook and looked at the back. In the corner was a sticker. ‘He had an agent?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so,’ Abi replied. ‘He was selling them in pubs and cafés. I saw him in the Star of Kings one evening with a portfolio full of photocopies.’

  ‘That’s the framer’s sticker,’ said Meera. She knew the place well, just under the arches opposite the platforms of St Pancras Station.

  It took ten minutes to walk to Bill & Ben’s Framing Emporium. Within the Victorian redbrick arches were a handful of dusty old shops, including the frame-makers. Opposite, the modern glass-tiled wall of the station rose up, two halves separated by a century and united by a single road.

  ‘It makes sense,’ Colin said. ‘He was living in the van and selling his work in the same area. He had no transport so he would have used the nearest place.’

  ‘We should have been allowed to file the first report.’

  ‘Meera, we’re the crime scene.’ Colin pushed open the door in the arch and stepped into a chaotic geometry of hanging frames. ‘Afterwards they’ll compare the two investigations. It’s an old tech trick, setting up a duplicate procedure to keep your own data clean.’

  Bill and Ben were obviously brothers, working beside each other in old-fashioned brown carpenters’ aprons in the shop’s cluttered studio. They scrutinized the picture on Colin’s phone and conferred.

  ‘He came in here quite often,’ said Bill. ‘Music hall posters, circuses, strange artwork. Produced guerrilla street art as well. The council paid him to brighten up some of the tunnels around Waterloo. Wasn’t very struck by those pieces myself. He looked a bit on his beam-ends, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, living rough,’ Ben agreed. ‘You know how people get a sort of frayed look after a while? But clean, though, and always cheerful. Young, of course. American. We must have framed half a dozen of these for him. We did floaters and box frames with natural veneer finishes, a couple with nice mouldings. He was selling them and making a living, I’ll tell you that.’

  Bill opened the order book on the counter and turned it around. ‘Business must have been picking up, because he started coming in regularly last summer. And he was choosing more expensive frames.’

  Colin showed them the photograph again. ‘Would you go on record with an identification?’

  ‘It’s definitely him,’ replied Ben. ‘I remember because he always sent his girlfriend to collect the finished pictures
.’

  ‘She was a real looker,’ said Bill. ‘Young, though. Probably not much more than eighteen or nineteen.’

  ‘He had a girlfriend?’ Meera was surprised. No one at the Vinyl Café had mentioned her.

  ‘We haven’t seen either of them for a while now.’

  ‘How long?’

  They consulted again. ‘A few months?’ said one, and the other nodded. ‘A few months. August or September.’

  ‘How were the frames paid for?’ asked Colin.

  ‘Cash, she always paid cash.’

  ‘Can you give us a description of her?’ Meera asked.

  ‘Long dark hair, fancy dresser,’ said Bill. ‘There’s never much you can say about pretty people, is there?’

  ‘She had an accent,’ said Ben. ‘She sounded Eastern European.’

  ‘Did you find out her name?’

  ‘It might be on one of the old receipts. She had to sign to collect.’ He checked the counterfoils in the receipt book. ‘Here you go. Rose something. Bill, what does that say?’

  They all studied the handwriting. ‘What is that last name? Clavi, Slavi?’

  ‘I think the first letter is a C,’ said Meera.

  The rest of the receipt read: ‘For collection 7 September.’ ‘She never picked it up. It’s still here. Hang on, I’ll get it for you.’

  Bill came back with a small bubble-wrapped rectangle eighteen inches by twenty-six inches, then cut it open with a Stanley knife. The artwork showed a bikini-clad girl on a Lambretta scooter, 1950s-style. Her glossy black hair was tied back in a ponytail.

  ‘That’s her,’ said Ben. ‘It’s a really good likeness.’

  ‘So his girlfriend modelled for him. Can we take this with us?’

  ‘Sure, if you pay a hundred and twenty quid.’

  ‘Keep the frame—the picture’s evidence.’

  After looking uncertainly at his brother, Bill turned over the painting and set to work. ‘You know, we just knew him as Jerry. A nice lad.’ Bill removed the picture and rolled it up.