Full Dark House

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Nobody knows about the unit,’ said Bryant. He raised his voice. ‘Come in, Mr Biddle. Don’t hover outside.’

  Sidney Biddle looked defiant. ‘I wasn’t listening,’ he said at once, thereby confirming he was. ‘I was coming to see you.’ He warily ventured into the cluttered sepia office.

  Bryant threw his partner a questioning look. ‘Oh? What’s on your mind?’ Biddle’s tie was knotted so tightly under his collar that it appeared to be choking him.

  May stretched back in his chair. ‘Why don’t you take a seat, Sidney?’ he prompted.

  The young man twisted awkwardly round to look at each of the detectives in turn. ‘I want to transfer out of the unit, Mr Bryant.’

  ‘You’ve only just got here. Can we ask why?’

  Biddle looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t believe I’m suited to this kind of operation.’

  ‘Could you be more specific?’ asked May, sensing what was coming.

  ‘Mr May, my aim was to get inside the Home Office end of the London force, reach the important stuff, and I thought I’d hack it by working for an SIO. I knew Serious Crimes only handled murder cases. I was told how different this unit was to anything else currently available. I didn’t realize working practices would be so—not how things are supposed to be.’

  May peered at him in what he hoped was a manner of surprise. ‘Would you care to give me an example?’

  ‘Even the most basic procedures aren’t followed. Take custody of evidence.’ Biddle began to grow heated. ‘I was taught to maintain continuous control over crime-scene evidence from signing and dating of possession to court introduction, keeping copious notes throughout the process. Mr Bryant walks into Dr Runcorn’s lab and pokes about, and takes whatever he likes out of the property room. Half the time he doesn’t even secure it as he leaves. When I remind him of protocol, he shouts at me, or he laughs.’

  ‘So this is about Mr Bryant,’ said May solemnly.

  ‘Yes, sir. I was always warned that we would have to work reactively on suspects, eliminate or associate them according to the likelihood of their involvement in a crime. Mr Bryant doesn’t do that, sir. He doesn’t share information, and he starts with the unlikeliest scenario. He won’t cold-type fingerprints or correlate his data with colleagues. He starts writing up reports before he even receives blood-typing results. Mr Finch should have run epithelial cell checks on the lift doors, the globe cable and the balcony seat backs by now, but Mr Bryant doesn’t even seem interested. It’s like he thinks he’s above the law.’

  ‘I understand your concerns. You must bear in mind that no fingerprints other than the victims’ have been found at any of the three crime scenes. Still, sometimes Mr Bryant fails to respect the fact that criminology is a modern science.’

  Bryant was keeping quiet. He had known this moment was coming, had seen it in the boy’s disillusioned eyes.

  ‘I’m sure Mr Bryant does not consider himself above the law,’ May continued. ‘His mind just takes him off the beaten track.’

  ‘Think about why this case came to us,’ suggested Bryant, relishing Biddle’s discomfort. ‘Does it appear to involve any of the elements present in your college case histories? Domestic violence, burglary, spousal assault, alcohol-related crime, pick-pocketing, grand larceny?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You see, Biddle, our cases get prioritized for the wrong reasons: they have a higher profile, meaning there’s an influential relative somewhere in the background, or there’s a more complex political element involved, or they’re a publicity risk, or they’re against the public mood. Most importantly, they’re cases that can cause damage to public morale during a time of conflict. Thanks to Hitler, we are no longer living in a world that cares about the death of someone because they were loved in the past. It cares only if that death can do damage to the future. It’s a grim truth, Sidney. Like Orpheus leaving Hades, we are rushing headlong into the light of a terrible new world.

  ‘There is a way of providing accountability, though. You get a grant from the Home Office to run an autonomous unit like this, one that siphons off the publicly embarrassing cases during wartime and takes the heat, and you head it up with men whose operations run so contrary to traditional methodology that once in a while they produce the goods. That’s what everyone’s baying for now, the press, the state, they’re only interested in culpability. Take a look at the witch-hunting that’s going on out there, most of it whipped up by rumour and conjecture. We lump everyone we don’t like in with the Germans, most of whom are probably as decent as you or me, and God help you if you disagree, because you’ll be tarred and feathered along with them.’ Bryant fumbled about in his waistcoat for some matches. ‘Tell me, Sidney, are you aware of the recent troubles in Greece?’

  ‘Greece?’ Biddle looked thrown. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Last week some British soldiers got into a fight on a border checkpoint that they had no right to be on in the first place. It ended up with a local man being tortured and killed. The man was a Greek national suspected of collaborating with the Italians. When that happened, his family was shipped off and his private property was seized. The victim was probably innocent, but he was travelling without the right papers, and had bribed our boys to let him through. The British ambassador to Greece extradited the men, and the blame for the death was placed on an extremist Turkish national group. There have been quite a few violent incidents in Greece inspired by Turkish national activity, and relations between the two countries are poor. Meanwhile, we have a British building programme going on in Istanbul. Is this starting to make sense to you?’

  Biddle stared furiously at his hands. ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘Let me spell it out. The Orpheus production company is owned by the son of a Greek shipping magnate, and has its headquarters in Athens. The closest thing we have to a suspect is an illegal immigrant who happens to be a Turk. What will the Foreign Office’s position be if it can be proved that a powerful Greek company deliberately framed an innocent Turk for murder?’

  ‘You’re telling me that this is about keeping building contracts in Istanbul?’ asked Biddle.

  ‘Add to this mix a powerful Austrian with Mosleyite connections in London, a man whose only daughter has died in mysterious circumstances, and a theatrical production, of all things, that simultaneously demonstrates international solidarity and co-operation while challenging the nation’s moral dignity. Is it any wonder that the matter is attracting attention in high places? You see, Biddle, you have to look at the broader picture. Four days and three murders on, we’re no further forward than when we started, so I’m going to handle the case in the manner I think fit. I know I’m an unlikely-looking subversive, but it’s people like me you have to watch out for. I won’t toe the party line and I don’t have to cover my back against losing a court case over technical irregularities—’

  ‘You’re talking about contaminated evidence, failure to observe—’

  ‘—because,’ Bryant cut across him, ‘our cases get solved before they ever reach a public court, something you’d have realized if you’d studied the unit’s history a little more thoroughly instead of worrying about logging procedures on trace evidence.’

  He rose, bringing the meeting to an end. ‘Now you may want to reconsider your transfer. You seem like a smart chap. Put your talents to good use. Check out the spot where Darvell was butchered. Ask Runcorn about the blood patterns in the aisle. Forget the paperwork and get stuck in. That’s where you’ll be best used. Don’t let your ambitions pull you in the wrong direction. I know you asked Davenport down here today. But think about what I’ve said. You can let me have your answer by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Biddle, looking at Bryant as if he was mad, ‘but my mind is made up. I’m requesting a transfer from the unit at the first available opportunity.’

  He’s angry that John saw action and he didn’t, thought Bryant suddenly. He wants to be out there rugby-tackling the villains. It w
as all he needed to understand to get Biddle back on track.

  37

  THE VOICE OF THE ABYSSINIAN

  Arthur Bryant stood outside the café lost in thought as the rainwater slipped through its blast-damaged canopy, dripping onto the shoulders of his gaberdine. Some office girls dashed across the road with newspapers held over their heads. A taxi splashed past with a dirt-smudged child sitting on the running board. A tramp in a torn cardboard hat was carefully stepping in and out of a large puddle at the kerb, his head bowed in concentration. The safe canopy of inclement weather had brought life back to the night streets. Bryant checked his watch again, and decided to give Elspeth five more minutes.

  Like Geoffrey Whittaker, Harry, Stan Lowe and Mr Mack, Elspeth belonged to a brigade of workers whose lives were lived in darkness, a perpetual night divided into sections that ran concurrently from one production to the next. Bryant was surprised how little they knew of the world beyond their own circle. They were the real theatre angels, happy to remain in the shadows beyond the footlights, only tangentially attached to the stage, essential to its survival.

  He checked his watch again. She must have known that she’d be too busy to break for supper; that was why she had insisted on meeting him outside the café. She had not wanted to hurt his feelings by refusing him outright. He pulled his scarf a little tighter round his neck and sniffed the cold air. For a brief moment he thought he had been given a shot at finding himself a new girl. But it was clear where Elspeth’s loyalties lay. After repeatedly choosing work over women, he felt as though he was getting a taste of his own medicine.

  At moments like this, the memory of Nathalie returned. He missed her so badly that he wanted to cry. As he stepped back into the foggy drizzle, he decided to avoid the theatre in order to spare Elspeth embarrassment, and walked off into Soho to buy himself a mug of cocoa.

  When he reached the corner, something made him stop and glance back at the theatre. He looked up at the pairs of mullioned windows, and had the briefest impression of being watched through the mist. A pale twisted face, a fleeting presence, like the fading heat of a handprint on glass. It dipped back from the window, and the thought of his aberrant imagination chilled him. He was starting to believe that buildings held ghosts.

  ‘There’s something in there I don’t understand,’ he told May later. ‘I want to take someone in with me after dark.’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ warned May. ‘Don’t tell me you want to go ghost-hunting in a theatre at midnight with one of your clairvoyant pals.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do, how did you know?’ asked Bryant innocently. ‘Edna has a good sense for these things.’

  ‘Not your alternative theologian, the woman with the cats,’ groaned May. DS Forthright had told May about the eerie afternoon she had once spent with Bryant and Edna Wagstaff in a rundown slum flat filled with feline familiars.

  ‘We’re lucky she’s had a cancellation and can fit us in so soon. She doesn’t normally make house calls.’

  ‘You’ve already spoken to her? What have you arranged?’

  ‘She’s meeting us outside the stage door at midnight tonight.’

  ‘No, Arthur, you promised Davenport you wouldn’t. No mumbo-jumbo, he said.’

  ‘I think she might be able to do some good. Sensations of pain and harm are as visible to her as the walls around us. She doesn’t charge, but I usually drop her something. Mrs Wagstaff is tormented by her gift. Past, present and future are all the same. Everything crosses over. The only way she can relieve the pain her gift causes is by using it to help others.’

  ‘And you really believe this?’ asked May.

  ‘With all my heart.’ Bryant’s pale blue eyes were so wide, so honest that he had to be telling the truth.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late. The blackout and the fog. I had to follow a tramline to get here, and then I followed it too far.’ Tall and ascetic, wrapped in a frayed black coat and carrying a cat box, the old lady looked considerably more frail than when Bryant had last seen her.

  ‘Hello, Edna,’ he said jovially, ‘I hear you’re still living on the Isle of Dogs.’

  ‘Oh yes, Arthur, one of the last. I’ve been bombed out twice now, and I lost my Billy, my proud boy, at Dunkirk. At least he saw service.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Bryant, taking her hand.

  ‘He was happy to be mobilized. The air force and the navy have no chance to stop and think because they stay on duty around the clock. My boy spent so much time confined to barracks, he was so terribly bored with the endless drills. At least it was an active end.’

  ‘But how are you?’

  ‘Oh, they keep trying to rehouse me. I had people round from the council, telling me my cats were insanitary. I explained they were all dead, what harm could they do? How could you catch fleas from them? They were sprayed for parasites when they were stuffed. They want me to go to a home in Stepney. That’s miles away.’

  ‘Can’t your daughter take you in?’

  ‘She’s gone to the WRNS. I’m very proud. I wouldn’t want to bother her.’ She made her way up the stairs with awkward slowness. ‘You know, I haven’t been to the theatre in years.’

  ‘Edna, this is my new partner, Mr May.’

  She reached over and shook his hand, then hastily released it.

  ‘I do beg your pardon, Mr May. What a jolt. I get very strong feelings from some of the people I come into physical contact with, mostly the young ones.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said May, rubbing the static shock from his fingers with some embarrassment. ‘What did you get from me?’

  ‘Best not to say, just in case I’m wrong,’ said Edna mysteriously. ‘Let’s not dwell on what hasn’t happened yet. I brought Rothschild with me. He’s an Abyssinian, the lion of cats.’ She raised the cat box high.

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ whispered May.

  ‘Edna sees things.’

  ‘And I can smell something.’ May grimaced. ‘I think it’s her.’

  ‘I just need to pick up the psychic scent,’ she called over her shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know how she’ll do it, she’s wearing so much of her own. She needs a bath, Arthur. And she’s got her wig on back to front.’

  ‘You’re a sceptic, Mr May. I don’t mind.’ Edna gave a throaty chuckle. ‘The world will need sceptics after the war is over. Too many people are ready to believe anything they’re told. Where do you want me?’

  Bryant led the way up the painted concrete staircase until they reached a set of red double doors. ‘The dress circle will do,’ he told her, ‘there are—’

  ‘Four floors, yes, I know, upper circle and balcony above us, stalls below.’

  ‘You can sense the building’s layout?’ asked May.

  ‘No. I saw No, No, Nanette here. I’ll go down to the front, if I may. Perhaps one of you could carry Rothschild.’

  May reluctantly took the cat box and waited as Bryant showed the old lady to the front of the balcony. He raised the box to eye level and peered inside. Something glittered blackly back at him.

  ‘Do you still have your familiars, Evening Echo and Squadron Leader Smethwick?’ asked Bryant, seating her on the aisle.

  ‘Sadly no.’ Edna arranged the folds of her coat about her. ‘The German bombers come right over my house and interfere with the signals.’

  ‘You make it sound like tuning in a wireless, Mrs Wagstaff,’ said May.

  ‘Well, it’s not dissimilar,’ said Edna. If she detected the scepticism in his voice she gave no sign of it. ‘Ever since they put a barrage balloon at the end of the street I’ve been getting terrible reception.’

  ‘From your spirit guides?’

  ‘No, on my wireless. I keep missing Gert and Daisy.’ She leaned forward and looked about. ‘Of course, London theatres are filled with ghosts.’ She smiled, patting Bryant’s arm. ‘Mostly just echoes of emotional experiences, drawn out by the intensity of performance in such buildings. Any actor will
tell you. They’re terribly vulnerable to mental distress, you know. Unstable pathologies so often lead to cruelty and suicide. You know about the “Man in Grey”, I suppose.’

  ‘He appears in the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, just before the run of a successful production, doesn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right, dressed in a three-cornered hat, a powdered periwig and a grey riding cloak. He always follows the same route along the back of the upper circle, starting from the bar and vanishing into the far wall. Even the firewatchers have seen him, and they’re not as prone to nerves as theatre folk. Workmen supposedly found his corpse bricked into a wall on the Russell Street side of the theatre. He had a dagger in his ribs. You can read about him in any cheap guidebook. I don’t suppose there’s much truth to the story, but there’s no denying the fact that such houses attract collective hysteria and magnify the emotions. After all, that’s what they’re intended to do.

  ‘There are lots of lesser-known spirits, though. The Haymarket has the ghost of the dramatist John Buckstone. Margaret Rutherford had to spend the night there once during a rail strike, and found him in the wardrobe. Or hasn’t that happened yet? Time plays such tricks on me.’ She thought for a moment, relaxing her watery green eyes.

  ‘We’re more interested in sensations, Edna.’

  ‘I understand. Could there be another animal in the building apart from Rothschild? A tortoise, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ said May, looking at his partner in puzzlement.

  ‘I thought so. I was getting a distress message.’

  ‘He has insomnia,’ explained Bryant.

  Edna stroked her knuckles restlessly, anxious to help. ‘There’s so much humanity here. So many people have passed through. There are few public places left in London that are as psychically rich as its theatres. The interiors don’t change. The walls absorb. I wonder if you’d get Rothschild for me?’

  Bryant brought over the cat box and opened the wire door.

  ‘I must be careful with him,’ said Edna, ‘he’s getting rather fragile.’ Her long, tapered fingers felt around the edges of the cat and pulled him out. Rothschild was a leonine sandstone-coloured Abyssinian, and had been stuffed in crouching position, as if watching a mouse. His ears were tattered with handling, one glass eye had sunk back into his skull and there was sand coming out of his bottom. She carefully set him on the edge of the balcony, facing the stage.