Bryant & May and the Bleeding Heart

by Christopher Fowler - Bryant

  ‘Nothing, so long as he’s cared for correctly by the hospital.’

  ‘And if he isn’t?’

  Ersoy brightened. ‘Ah, that’s an interesting question. In theory all kinds of terrible things could happen. Bacterial growth in the liquid waste, neurological damage, necrosis—’

  ‘You mean you could start to rot?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes – but we’re not talking about academic theory here, are we?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Bryant admitted quietly. ‘I think I’ve got someone who returned from the dead, even after his body began to decay. Have you ever heard of such a case?’

  The doctor was pensive for a moment. ‘You’re talking about the Lazarus complex.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The spontaneous return of circulation after all attempts at resuscitation have failed. There have been only some forty cases documented in the whole of medical literature worldwide. There was talk of one such case, a Turkish farmer who had suffered a stroke and impaled himself on a piece of machinery. He was buried and dug his way back to the surface four days later. But by then his neck and shoulders had rotted away because of the bacteria present on the iron spike of the equipment he fell upon.’

  ‘Then you concede it is possible,’ said Bryant insistently.

  ‘It was a story, Arthur. Hearsay. From Turks.’ Ersoy leaned over and patted the detective’s arm. ‘If you can find me a documented case, I might be able to make medical history.’

  ‘I think I may have one.’

  Ersoy’s eyes lit up. ‘Can I meet this patient of yours?’

  ‘It wouldn’t do you much good. He’d dead now.’

  ‘Then remember what John always tells you. Don’t force the facts to fit the theory.’

  ‘I have nothing else to go on, old kuru fasulye. Ta for the tea. Try to cut back on your sugar intake.’ Bryant rose with some effort and jammed his hat back on his head.

  ‘If I were you, I’d get an expert to check out this doctor’s diagnostics,’ Ersoy said. ‘He could have missed something. There’d have to be an inquiry and a possible criminal prosecution. If your medical man neglected to make the correct diagnostic tests, he’ll have buried his patient alive.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I think happened,’ said Bryant gloomily.

  Ersoy studied his old friend. Bryant appeared quite shaken by the thought. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘You don’t look so well.’

  ‘It’s just—’ Bryant opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. ‘Nothing. I don’t want to tempt fate,’ he decided, and abruptly took his leave of the mystified neurologist.

  12

  LOSSES

  John May wondered what he was doing here, poking about in the life of a man who had died by his own hand.

  It wasn’t as if he had been asked to find Wallace’s killer. The others were running checks on vehicles in the Bloomsbury area and Bryant had wandered off to talk to some kind of medical expert, leaving him to interview the client who had supposedly driven their risen corpse to suicide.

  Krishna Jhadav was a slender young British Asian with severely cropped hair and a twitchy, intense manner exacerbated by the protuberance of his large eyes. He had agreed to meet May with obvious reluctance, and paced about his minimalist glass box overlooking one corner of Threadneedle Street with the attitude of a cornered animal. He froze when May explained the purpose of his visit, and sat up like a meerkat whenever anyone walked through the open-plan office outside. In these jittery times many people would prefer to meet the law in their own homes rather than have them come to the office.

  ‘I can’t have the police turning up on these premises,’ he said, glancing out anxiously at his staff. ‘Luckily you don’t look like an officer. If our staff thought for a moment—’ He broke off, fidgeted with his fingers, tried again. ‘When you’re doing deals at this level, Mr May, anything remotely suggestive of irregularity can upset the equilibrium …’ He tailed off, realizing perhaps that he was encouraging suspicion.

  ‘I’m just filling in some final details in a case,’ said May. ‘It’s purely routine.’ He eyed the brushed aluminium logo on the far wall that read: ‘Defluotech Management Systems’. ‘What is it you actually do here?’

  ‘We’re waste brokers,’ Jhadav explained, sliding over a corporate brochure covered in sunflowers, mountains and happy children. ‘Let’s say your factories produce glycerine or ethanol as a by-product of your production process, or you have catering waste like cooking oils. We broker deals with companies that will remove, recycle or dispose of them. We also take care of ABPs.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Sorry. Animal by-products. They’re entire animal bodies, parts of animals, products of animal origin or other products obtained from animals that aren’t fit for human consumption. They must be dealt with in accordance with strict regulations designed to prevent harm to human beings, wildlife or the environment. Waste is an increasingly precious commodity. Northern Europe is building generators that recycle garbage, and they’ve already run low and are having to import it. There’s a lot of money to be made.’

  An overweight colleague with thinning ginger hair leaned in at the open door. May tick-boxed the bulging shirt, nicotine-stained fingers and red cheeks that marked him as a likely candidate for a stress-related coronary before his forty-fifth birthday. He had an alarmingly high voice. ‘Everything all right here, Mr Jhadav?’

  ‘Yes, fine, thank you. This is Mr May, a – friend of Mr Wallace’s,’ he said. ‘Mr May, one of my fellow directors, Justin Farthingale. Sorry, we won’t be long if you need to use the meeting room.’

  ‘I suppose I can come back in a few minutes,’ said Farthingale, who seemed suspicious that something might be occurring that didn’t directly involve making money for the company. Jhadav was looking more nervous than ever. He glanced helplessly at May as his colleague hovered undecided at the doorway. ‘Mr Farthingale, either come in or go out,’ said May. ‘I’m a police officer. I’m here to ask Mr Jhadav about his relationship with Thomas Wallace.’

  ‘Oh.’ Farthingale looked as if he’d just had a trouser accident. ‘Perhaps I’d better stay.’

  ‘Thomas Wallace used to represent our firm,’ said Jhadav. ‘He made quite a packet out of us. It was a very large account for one small law practice to handle.’

  ‘Then why did you go there? Why not pick more heavyweight legal representation?’

  ‘We wanted a more personal level of service,’ said Jhadav. ‘You can get lost in the larger firms, and they’re more expensive. Has Mr Wallace been saying something about us?’

  ‘No, but I’m looking after his concerns. I’m afraid Mr Wallace is dead. He killed himself last week.’

  Jhadav didn’t appear unduly surprised. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

  ‘What exactly did he do for you?’

  ‘We put him in charge of handling our legal issues here in the UK, in Europe, India and the Far East. It was a position of great responsibility.’

  ‘And when did you decide to end the relationship?’

  Jhadav studied the neon ceiling panels, anxiously calculating. ‘About six weeks ago. We were reaching the end of a two-year contract. It was up for renewal.’

  ‘But you made the decision not to renew?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Honestly? It was a lot of work, and there were certain doubts—’

  Farthingale cut in. ‘We weren’t convinced he could handle it, Mr May. He never filled us with much confidence. He started suffering from panic attacks. They were affecting his behaviour in meetings. There were some slip-ups that cost us a lot of money, and a couple of embarrassing incidents, so we decided to review the arrangement.’

  ‘What kind of incidents?’ May pressed.

  ‘He’d make simple mistakes and fly off the handle. Sometimes he became extremely agitated. As I said, he was making good money from the account, although it�
�s fair to say we were demanding clients.’

  ‘Do you think his stress was caused by something in particular?’

  ‘No,’ said Jhadav, ‘I think he was just that kind of person.’

  ‘Did you ever socialize with him?’

  Farthingale seemed keen to take control of the conversation. May sensed the kind of power struggle between partners that marred so many business practices. ‘Once or twice,’ he said, ‘only in the early days.’

  Jhadav shot him a look. ‘That’s not strictly true. We played golf at Sunningdale sometimes. There were the usual dinners, of course. Thomas didn’t really enjoy discussing business. He always seemed to have a lot on his mind.’

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’

  ‘About two weeks ago. He came here to return the last of our files. He told me there was a strong likelihood that his practice would go into administration. I think he blamed us for taking away our account.’

  ‘His wife said he’d been troubled for some time.’

  ‘Well, he had personal problems, too …’ Jhadav wavered for a moment, as if seeking permission to admit something indelicate. ‘When he started behaving erratically we ran a background check and discovered he’d been treated for depression several times in the past. He had this thing, this issue, kind of a recurring subject. He’d mention it whenever he’d had a few drinks.’

  May patiently waited for him to continue. Jhadav looked mischievous. ‘It was sort of an obsession. He said he was worried about being buried alive. He told me that in the event of his death he had arranged for someone to come and dig him up, just to make sure there hadn’t been a mistake.’

  ‘There you go, clearly mentally unbalanced,’ Farthingale added superfluously, determined to own the tail of the conversation. ‘It’s all very sad. Some people just can’t take the pressure. An old, old story. Perhaps if I could have the meeting room back now?’

  ‘He loved old horror films. He read a lot. Books with titles I couldn’t even pronounce. He was kind to others. He was a good boy.’

  DS Janice Longbright held the woman’s fingers lightly between both hands and waited for her to stop crying. Louisa Curtis sobbed with hardly a sound, her large shoulders rising and falling, her face dropped in shame. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, gently disentangling herself and wiping her eyes with the tissue Longbright had given her. ‘It’s just – he had so much going for him. Not like some of the other kids around here. Romain was different. He was only a skinny little lad, and got picked on. He wanted to make something of himself. He didn’t want to end up like his father.’

  They were seated in Louisa Curtis’s small, neat lounge, where bright cloths covered the more knocked-about furniture, giving the flat a homely air. ‘Where is Mr Curtis?’ Longbright asked.

  ‘Gravesend, I think. He got a job down there as a warehouse foreman. He hasn’t been around here in a long time. Hasn’t seen his son since – well, two years at least.’

  Longbright sensed a hidden story. ‘Since what?’ she asked.

  Louisa gave her a plaintive look. ‘They argued. Lenny – his father – he wanted him to get a job but Romain had already decided on college.’

  ‘So I was told. Fashion design.’

  Louisa gave a sad little laugh. ‘Can you believe it? Of course, his father was against it. Too feminine, not the right sort of work for a man. I think he was jealous of Romain having a talent. Lenny ran away from school at fourteen to work on the fairgrounds. He could read the Sun and add up, and that was about it. Romain was worried about how much college would cost. He bought himself some old pattern-cutting equipment from the tailor’s down the road and made clothes for some of the parents around here, just to earn a bit of money. He was saving hard. He wouldn’t let me help him, said, “No, Mum, I’ll pay my own way.” And now that dream has been taken away. He was my only son.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Louisa,’ said Longbright. ‘May I call you that? I can’t imagine what you must be going through.’

  ‘You don’t have children?’ Louisa looked up. ‘A handsome woman like you? I feel so sorry for you.’

  She’s just lost her only son and she feels sorry for me, Longbright thought. ‘We’re going to find who did this,’ she promised. ‘We’re searching through footage for the car’s licence plate right now. There must have been witnesses. We’re doing everything we can.’ She tried to sound confident. ‘Do you have someone who can stay with you tonight?’

  ‘My sister’s coming over when she finishes work. I’ll be fine.’ Straightening her T-shirt, she held out the material to Longbright. ‘He made this for me. Look at the stitching. He found a picture of a tiger and copied it on to the front in special dyes, ’cause he knew I liked tigers. He had a very visual eye. He could have really been someone.’ Louisa decided that the time for pity was over. She rose and patted herself down. ‘I suppose I must get on. Was there anything else I could help you with?’

  ‘Did he have any real enemies? I know boys form allegiances and cliques but I was wondering if there was someone who took a particular dislike to him.’

  ‘No, no one. He didn’t have an enemy in the world.’ She looked down at Longbright’s feet. ‘You’re wearing high-heeled shoes,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it difficult if you have to run in those things?’

  Longbright smiled. ‘Most of the time I don’t have to. I keep a brick in my handbag and I have a good aim.’ She turned her ankle, letting Louisa see the red patent-leather heel. ‘I shouldn’t be wearing these to work. We all do things that make no sense. It keeps us human. I’ll come and see you again, not on business, just to make sure you’re all right.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Louisa said.

  ‘But if you do think of anything else—’

  ‘Actually there was one thing, but it seems so unlikely …’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘When I went to identify him. He was wearing jeans and a pale blue T-shirt.’

  ‘I believe so, yes, something with a brand name. Superdry, I think.’

  ‘He hated Superdry shirts. He went to the club in a black shirt. I’m sure of it. I just saw his back as he went down the stairs, but the light was on and it was definitely black.’

  ‘You think he could have changed it in the club?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was very particular about his clothes. He wasn’t carrying anything to change into.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Longbright. ‘I’ll make sure we check it out.’

  As she walked away from the flat, Longbright felt a sorrow deeper than any she had felt for a long time. She was upset for Louisa Curtis of course, but comforting the bereaved had been part of her daily routine for years. The melancholia she felt was of a different kind.

  She detoured past St George’s Gardens. It looked as if the casket had been reinterred, because the police tent had come down. A group of Middle Eastern children were happily playing ball, watched by their mothers. She stood and watched them for a few moments.

  Three years earlier, she had undergone a hysterectomy, and the world around her had grown a little greyer. To raise a child – and possibly to lose one – was to feel a connection to the world, even at the expense of unbearable pain.

  Recalling Louisa Curtis’s attitude as she paced away from the park, Longbright felt as if she had seen too much death in her life. She needed to start living again.

  13

  COINCIDENCES

  At a little after 6.00 p.m. on Tuesday evening, as other office workers were checking the weather and stepping out into the littered streets to head for King’s Cross Station, the Peculiar Crimes Unit got permission to step up its hunt for the killer of Romain Curtis. Giles Kershaw’s report had helped to change the status of the case.

  Time was of the essence. There was a threat of overnight rain in Central London, which meant that vehicles could be cleansed of evidence. In hit-and-run cases, especially when pedestrians ran across roads trying to beat the traffic, it was common for the victim to place
a hand on a vehicle, and that meant fingerprints.

  Arthur Bryant opened the window a crack and lit his pipe.

  ‘Do you really have to smoke that thing in here?’ asked May.

  ‘Gone six, old sock. European law, I’m allowed to in my own home.’

  ‘This isn’t your home.’

  ‘It’s as good as. Right, do you want to compare notes?’

  May squinted at his screen. ‘I’ve got half a dozen interviews left – Curtis’s schoolfriends, some doorstep work with neighbours, trying to find out who he hung around with, whether anyone was out to get him, who saw him at the Scala club. According to Janice, the mother is adamant that he didn’t take drugs or drink to excess, so it would be useful to know where he got the MDMA. Then there are the Congestion Zone cameras on vehicles entering Britannia Street – nothing so far, but there are still a few hard drives to check – and another check on the street’s office CCTVs to see if they might have picked up anything happening on the pavement outside. We’ve set up an online callout for witnesses. I had some data back on grave desecrations but there have been no major cases for years. I still have to see Wallace’s doctor and talk to his law partners, then I’m pretty much done. What have you got?’

  Bryant sucked at his pipe, checking a scrap of paper on which he had made some illegible scribbles. ‘I’ve quite a few people to consult myself: experts on the resurrection of corpses, star constellations, astrology, voodoo, deciphering messages from the dead, the semiotics of Satanism, the works of Edgar Allen Poe and the country’s foremost expert on burial techniques.’

  May thought for a moment. ‘Quite a variance in our methodology.’

  ‘Yes, I would say so.’

  ‘Do you want to explain your thinking at all?’

  Bryant looked up with blank blue eyes. ‘About what?’

  ‘Why, for example, you need to consult someone about the semiotics of Satanism?’