Bryant & May 09; The Memory of Blood

by Christopher Fowler

  “Jack chased someone across a field and got cut off by a stream.”

  “A stream? Tell me you’re joking. He couldn’t cross a stream?”

  “It’s pitch black out there and raining hard, and there was quite a drop by the sound of it.”

  “Did he at least get a good look at him? Where’s the nearest light?”

  “Sevenoaks. Nine miles away. No, he didn’t. Couldn’t even be sure it was male. Just somebody running in a big coat and boots.”

  “Well, here’s a how-de-do. Dan, have you got anything else?”

  Banbury looked up from his position beside the dummy. “You could say so.” He held up something in a pair of tweezers. “He makes his own labels. Stitched into the top of the dummy’s spine.”

  “What does it say?”

  “AM Ella Maltby Original.”

  “That does it. Let’s get back to London. We can stick Maltby in one of the lock-ups in Islington and resume in the morning. Make sure she’s not left alone.”

  “You’re sure this is over, Arthur?”

  Bryant folded his sweet wrapper into his pocket, thinking. “The target of all this torture is dead. The killer is, we hope, about to be apprehended. There’s nothing more we can do except watch the Unit crash and burn after Kasavian gets wind of this. I guess we should all start looking for jobs again. Oh, and by the way, I’m having my home taken away from me tomorrow. All in all it’s the end of a perfect week.”

  ∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

  43

  Admission

  The Sunday morning sky was milky and soft, its light blurring the buildings and fading the edges of the streets. It was the kind of early summer’s day London excelled in, burning off to a clear blue hemisphere by eleven, clouding again by three, finally clearing for a golden sunset.

  At seven a.m. in the warehouse at 231 Caledonian Road, the Unit staff began sleepily arriving. Meera boiled spiced tea and Longbright made fresh coffee. Colin brought croissants and sausage rolls. Bryant stood on the tiny back balcony sucking at his pipe, his forehead creased in thought. Renfield was on the top floor hitting a punchbag Bimsley had rigged up from the ceiling. And Ella Maltby was brought down from Islington police station for questioning.

  “I have never seen such unprofessional behaviour in my life,” said Maltby’s lawyer, Edgar Digby, an oleaginous young man with a mane of slicked black hair, a Turnbull & Asser shirt and an air of outraged entitlement. “You take my client to a police station and leave her there for collection by your unit without any explanation of her rights or what’s going on, and now you expect her to cooperate with you?”

  “We had to act quickly in the interests of public safety,” May explained. “Your client is the chief suspect in an investigation involving four deaths. Her explanation for her whereabouts during the times of these events is uncorroborated, and items belonging to her were found at the sites of three of the crimes. I think you’d better let her answer our questions, because any further silence from Ms Maltby is merely going to build the case against her.”

  “My client’s silence is no indication of her guilt. Under British law – ”

  “Drop it, Edgar,” said Ella Maltby. “Let’s hear what they have to say.”

  “Robert Kramer was killed last night, and this was found beside his body.” May opened the plastic bag containing the dummy. “Your label is sewn into the back of it.”

  “This is our most popular model,” said Maltby. “We sell them all over the world. Madame Tussauds have around thirty, which they use in background scenes. The New Strand Theatre has two. Let me see.” She took a look inside the bag. “These are supplied naked. Our clients add the clothes.”

  “Dan, get the skirt and jacket off and find out where they’re from,” said May. “In your statement you say – once again – that you were home all evening.”

  “Yeah, I don’t go out much. Is that a crime?”

  “Did you talk to anyone?”

  “No, I was working on some new designs. I don’t email or use the phone when I’m working, it’s too distracting.”

  May knew he was on shaky ground. Ella Maltby’s car had not been driven in days. Banbury had found no mud or dirty clothes at her house. There was nothing to indicate that she had left her home in twenty-four hours. “Somebody is clearly anxious to place you at the crime scenes,” he pointed out. “Do you have any idea who that might be?”

  “Is this the part where you ask me if I have any enemies?” Maltby scoffed. “No, I don’t to my knowledge. People just dislike me in general. I’m not a sociable woman, but to my knowledge that’s not a punishable offence either.”

  “We’re going to get nowhere here,” Longbright whispered in May’s ear. “Let her go. Jack can arrange for someone to keep an eye on her.”

  “You’re right,” May sighed. “I’m stuck. How can this have happened? We have four bodies and no investigation. This is humiliating.”

  After Ella Maltby’s release had been secured, May went back to his office and sat on the edge of his partner’s desk. “I hate to say this, Arthur, but for once I really need one of your crackpot ideas. We’re getting nowhere.”

  Bryant looked at him steadily. “How much are you prepared to trust me?” he asked.

  “Right now, I’ll go anywhere.”

  “All right. What do we know about our killer? He’s very angry, and very good at hiding his temper most of the time, but sometimes it erupts and becomes uncontrollable. He lost control with Noah, and again with Kramer himself. That means we might be able to goad him into an admission of guilt. Remember, everything hinges on what took place that first night at the party. What could have happened to make the killer calmly go upstairs and attack a child? And how the hell did he do it, assuming he did and a puppet didn’t just come to life and shake a baby to death?”

  “I don’t know, but I imagine he saw the puppets and they gave him an idea.”

  “I suppose so. Then he followed the idea through, thinking it was a way to rattle Kramer. And now that everything’s behind him, he thinks he’s got away with it. But he can never stop being vigilant, because he knows we’re after him and will stay on his case – at least, for as long as we and the investigation are still open. But it could happen again; he’ll have the confidence to act on his anger, knowing that he managed to deceive everyone before. What we have to do now is lure him out into the open.”

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  “I thought at first we could attend Robert Kramer’s funeral, because I assumed Judith Kramer was going to invite all his colleagues, but I hear she’s not. It’ll be a small, private family service, and she’s specifically asked for none of us to be in attendance. We can override that, of course, but we’d have to keep a low-key presence.”

  “I hear she’s taking her husband’s death surprisingly well.”

  “That’s not much of a shock, is it? He was having affairs and she was in love with someone else. In a way, his death has solved everything for her.”

  “You don’t suppose –?”

  “She killed her own child? I don’t know. Janice doesn’t think so. We know Judith was at home in bed when Gregory Baine and Mona Williams died, and that her child’s nanny was sitting with her, so unless she was working with an accomplice like Marcus Sigler…”

  “This is all guesswork, Arthur. It won’t get us anywhere. Without Kramer and his producer the show will shut and the players will all disperse. We have no powers to keep them close by.”

  “I know. That’s why with your help I can take action before it’s too late.”

  “What do you propose to do?”

  “We’re going to throw a little end-of-show party. The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king. Killers often lack social skills, but theatre folk are social animals. Therefore we have to put them in a social situation where they feel comfortable. If we handle it correctly, no one will dare to stay away for fear of drawing attention to themselves.
If we can’t force our murderer out into the open and goad him into admission, we’ll have lost him for ever.”

  May shook his head. “Oh, I can’t wait for Raymond to hear about this,” he said.

  ∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

  44

  Intruder

  On Monday morning, Janice Longbright took time off from the investigation to visit the Marquands’ house in Bermondsey once more. She had not been able to concentrate on the Kramer case for days, knowing that someone was prepared to kill in order to keep Arthur’s memoirs hidden.

  Whoever was behind the plot knew the players well. They had followed Anna Marquand’s routine, and knew enough about Bryant to understand that even he would not be able to remember what was in his notes. All he possessed was a book of proofs with the most contentious details missing. Everything hinged on finding the disc that contained the missing sections of the manuscript. Rose Marquand’s helper had not been able to finish searching the house – now it was up to Longbright.

  She arrived to find Mrs Marquand in a state of extreme nervousness. “I just called,” she told Longbright, “but the police said they were too busy to deal with it right now.”

  “What happened?” asked Longbright, coming in, but she could already see. The kitchen window had been smashed and opened.

  “I can’t move about quickly. I heard the glass break and tried to get back here. It was that Hagan boy. I scared him off.”

  “How do you know it was one of the Hagans?” Longbright asked.

  “Who else could it be?”

  “When was this? Did you see where he went?”

  “It was about ten minutes ago – that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t know where he went. He didn’t go off down the garden. I think he might still be in the house. I’ve been too frightened to move from here.”

  Janice searched the ground floor, then went to the foot of the stairs and listened. There was no sound from upstairs. The house was less than a decade old and nothing creaked. She peered up and watched the light in the hall above, searching for shifting shadows. She rarely felt nervous when she understood the kind of person she was dealing with, but the anonymity of the intruders invading Rose Marquand’s house made her uneasy.

  “I don’t think there’s anyone here now.” She looked through the rear hall window and saw the magpies hopping into the garden. Rose had been complaining about them. Suddenly Longbright realized what she was looking at: Mrs Marquand had strung CDs on her clothesline. It was a tried and tested deterrent. The glittering discs were meant to scare off the birds.

  Instead of venturing upstairs she went to the back door and out into the garden. She recognized the spidery handwriting at once. Bryant’s disc was there, strung on the line along with Shirley Bassey and Neil Diamond. As she was trying to free the clothesline she looked up and saw the face in the window, watching her. A man whose outline was familiar, late twenties, heavy, well over six feet tall, cropped hair and scrub beard, hard army build. She knew in an instant that the tables were about to turn.

  Unable to free the line from the tangle of knots Mrs Marquand had made, she pulled out her penknife and sawed through the nylon, catching the CD in her hand as the back door opened and he came running for her.

  She saw his boots leave the grass and the distance he covered was astonishing. He barrelled into her with such force that she was knocked off her feet. Before she could begin to rise, she sensed she was in serious trouble. His grip felt mechanical, his bulk unbelievably solid. He closed his hands around her wrists and forced her back. She brought her knee up between his legs but he closed his thighs, blocking her.

  Then he punched her in the side of the head.

  The disc jumped out of her hand and rolled across the wet grass. She felt herself blacking out. Without even climbing from her he was able to reach back and seize the disc. As he concentrated on slipping it into his zipped pocket, she brought up her elbow and smashed his nose.

  Turning his attention back to her, he punched her hard in the solar plexus. Longbright vomited into the lawn, the pain burning across her ribcage. He was astride her now, studying her. Wiping his bloody nose, he raised a fist over her face and brought it down.

  She shut her eyes hard, readying herself for the blow, knowing he would shatter bone.

  But nothing happened.

  There was a dull thud, and she felt his weight suddenly ease from her. When she opened her eyes, she saw Mrs Marquand standing beside them with a brightly painted concrete gnome in her hands. There was blood dripping from its pink hat.

  Longbright’s attacker was out cold. Blood oozed thickly from a cut on the back of his head. She shoved him aside with difficulty and dug her hand into his padded black nylon jacket.

  “That’s not one of the Hagans.” Mrs Marquand set down the gnome. “I don’t know who he is.”

  Longbright found the CD, but nothing more. He was carrying no wallet, no personal belongings of any kind. She tried his outer pockets and his trousers, her fingers closing around a slender slip of paper in his back pocket. As she rose with it, the garden swam before her. The side of her head was already starting to swell and there was a searing pain in her stomach. Mrs Marquand held out her arm and helped Longbright inside. Longbright knew she had to make a call to ensure that the intruder was taken into custody, but she needed to sit down for a moment – just thirty seconds, to get her wind back.

  Helped to the lounge sofa, she fell into soft cushions and closed her eyes. She awoke nearly ten minutes later. Mrs Marquand had locked the back door and was standing by it.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Longbright, puzzled.

  “He just got up,” she whispered, peering out. “I thought I’d killed him.”

  Longbright looked through the lounge window and saw the empty patch of grass where her attacker had lain. The garden gate hung open. She unlocked the door and ran outside, but the alley beyond the garden was already empty.

  Remembering the slip of paper she had taken from him, she pulled it from her jeans and read it. Her heart sank.

  Most modern offices in Whitehall operated on electronic swipe cards which had to be returned after you had visited the building, but a few of the older departments still used visitor slips. You signed yourself in, adding the time, date and the name of the person you were visiting, and were meant to return the slip as you left, but most people forgot to do so.

  The white slip had a government crest on it. Underneath was a name: Mr T. Maddox, timed in at 7.45 p.m. a week ago, at the Department of Internal Security, Home Office, 50 Queen Anne’s Gate, London SW1.

  Next to the box that read ‘Person Visiting’, the receptionist had written Oskar Kasavian.

  ∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

  45

  Genesis

  “You cannot throw a cocktail party for a bunch of murder suspects and charge it to the Unit!” Raymond Land shouted, outraged. “In all my time serving at this lunatic asylum, this is the stupidest idea I’ve come across, even worse than that suspect line-up you held on the Somerset House ice-skating rink.”

  “I was thinking we’d serve Bloody Marys,” said Bryant, not listening. “And little sausages on sticks. Mini-burgers are always popular.”

  “Could we have some decent Indian snacks?” asked Meera.

  “And chicken wings with barbecue sauce,” Bimsley added.

  Land shut his eyes and held up his hands for silence. “For the last time. We are not. Having. A. Party!”

  “There’s a little more to it than that,” said May. “We’re going to tell the invited guests we’ve made an arrest. They’ll think the pressure is off and they’ll drop their guard.”

  “Who are you going to palm off as the arrestee?”

  “An outsider. An unfamiliar name. We’re going to make the killer think we’ve been misled. Arthur has the whole thing planned.”

  “I know it sounds completely crazy, but just listen to him,” Banbury suggested.

  “Nob
ody’s going to know we’re behind this,” said Bryant. “If you agree, Ray Pryce will help us rig the whole thing up, script the event with exits and entrances. Nobody would dare stay away. The show closes without Robert’s company funding it and it’s the last time they’ll all be together. After this, they’ll be going their separate ways. It’s traditional to end a run with a farewell party. The timing’s perfect.”

  “How are you going to arrange it?”

  “Tomorrow night there was going to be a charity performance of the play to raise money for the Variety Club of Great Britain. The idea is to now go ahead with the performance. The crime scene has been cleared, so the obligation can be honoured. There’ll be a dedication to Robert Kramer at the end; it’s an old theatre tradition. Marcus Sigler will say a few words, and so will Judith Kramer. Ray will send a text to everyone hinting that there’s going to be some kind of revelation during the course of the after-show party. We’ll reveal that we’ve arrested someone as a potential suspect. John and I will have some carefully worded questions prepared, and we’ll be watching everyone. And we want the facts of the investigation to be subject to full disclosure – no withheld information.”

  “You absolutely can’t do that.” Land was outraged. “It’s unethical and contravenes just about every rule in the book. Besides, what if still nothing happens?”

  “Then we’ll be no worse off than we are now.”

  “We’ll just be messing with a few people’s heads,” said Meera. “It’s worth a try, isn’t it?” With a shock, Bryant realized that, for the very first time, the entire team was behind him.

  “All right,” said Land finally. It was worth giving in just to stop them all staring at him. “But we’d better have someone stationed there in case this goes wrong.”

  “I’ll put Fraternity DuCaine on standby,” said Longbright.

  ♦

  An hour later, Ray Pryce came by to sort out the invitation wording with May. “How’s this?” he asked. “I’ll personalize all the texts. I’ll tell them that you and your partner wanted to thank the company and pay your last respects to Robert. I’ll mention that you’re going to be on hand to explain that you’re now ready to press charges.”