Bryant & May and the Bleeding Heart

by Christopher Fowler - Bryant

  ‘Shirts. Romain Curtis was wearing a satanic cult band shirt when he was held up by the comedy-cop on Sunday night. Something called “death metal”, I believe. He’d designed it himself. I suspect he merely dressed like a rocker to take the curse off the fact that he was about to train as a fashion designer. Preparing the way with his peers, reassuring them that he wasn’t about to lose respect through his choice of profession. But maybe there was something more to it, and he upset someone who took his use of symbols more seriously.’

  ‘OK,’ said May slowly. ‘And the deciphering-messages-from-the-dead thing?’

  ‘The dead or possibly undead Wallace named Ursa Minor rather than the constellation they could see overhead, Ursa Major. I don’t know what that means, but maybe someone else does.’

  ‘And voodoo?’

  ‘Ah. Graveyard visitations, popularity of, in the preparation of spells. Necromancy.’ He inscribed the last word with a flourish of his pipe stem.

  ‘I see. I probably wouldn’t mention any of that to Raymond at the briefing session.’ That was the nice thing about John May; the fact that he refused to criticize his partner’s approach, even though he could not bring himself to agree with it. Bryant’s methodology was an exercise in disarray, and his peculiarly lateral thought processes defied logical analysis. It was far safer to leave him for a while and only complain when things started burning down.

  Although the thought was not voiced by either of them, there was an underlying urgency about the death of Romain Curtis. Every investigation was counted down from its initiating act, and each tick of the minute hand erased evidence, changed stories, obscured culpability. In a city like London, the truth was scuffed away with every footfall.

  ‘All this is assuming we ignore the two most likely scenarios,’ May added. ‘Those of coincidence. Thomas Wallace committed suicide and was dug up by crazies. Or he was subsequently misdiagnosed, and the boy who witnessed his revival suffered a tragic drunken accident. The events were probably linked by geographical proximity, nothing more.’

  ‘No, something doesn’t make sense,’ said Bryant. ‘Somebody sat the boy up against a lamp-post. A hit-and-run driver wouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t a burglary. He still had his wallet and mobile. So it must have been a grudge.’

  May checked the time. ‘The briefing’s about to start. Remember—’

  ‘I know, keep it clean, pipe out, no funny stuff.’ Bryant sighed. ‘My life was never intended to be one long slow descent into respectability. Lead on.’

  ‘Right, you lot, it’s time to stir things up a bit,’ said Raymond Land, drawing himself up to his full height of five feet seven inches and pacing across the front of the common room. ‘I’d like to remind you that we were shifted from Home Office jurisdiction because we caused them so much trouble that they were glad to get rid of us. We’ve got new bosses now, so I think it’s time to restructure.’

  ‘What does that mean, exactly?’ asked Bryant. ‘There are only nine of us, not counting the cat and the two Daves. Actually, there’s only one Dave this morning.’

  ‘Where’s the other one?’

  ‘Apparently he dropped a cistern lid on his foot and got replaced by someone with an entirely unpronounceable name.’

  ‘I don’t want you working in your old teams any more,’ said Land. ‘We should jumble you all up a bit. Colin and Meera are always complaining that they get stuck with stakeouts. Jack always forgets to fill out his team status reports. Nobody ever does what they’re told. Even Crippen changed sex behind my back. Well, I want a little order around here from now on.’

  ‘Look, Raymondo, we all enjoy a laugh, especially when it involves you trying to exert your authority,’ said Bryant, ‘but you’re not going to change the way we work. It’s not your fault that we have no respect for you. We all know you got stuck here with us after your transfer application was turned down. We like you – well, some of the others do – but we’re never going to be able to take you seriously.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Land with determination. ‘Right now we’re reliant on Orion Banks to feed us cases, but judging from our workload, which amounts to a traffic accident and a case of public affright, we’re going to be starved out of existence unless we do something about it. There are plenty of ongoing investigations in the CoL that we could help out on—’

  ‘City crimes? You’re talking about a bunch of office thefts and financial scams,’ scoffed Renfield. ‘It’s not our field.’

  ‘It is now,’ Land warned. ‘I’ve told Ms Banks that we’ll take on anything she deems fit. So I want you to deprioritize the Wallace case, such as it is, and concentrate on whatever she feeds us, quick stuff—’

  ‘Boring stuff,’ Janice corrected.

  ‘Yes, perhaps, but they’re cases that could raise our performance ratings and secure our future. Which brings me to you, Bryant. For the time being I’d like you to concentrate on this business with the stolen ravens.’ Somebody sniggered. ‘It’s no laughing matter, I assure you. The English Tourist Board is very worried by the implications. Do you know how much revenue visitors add to the British economy? About 115 billion quid per annum. It’s hard to believe, but people actually come here for the fun of it. And the Tower of London is our biggest single attraction. It’s a symbol of stability, and we cannot afford to have our most venerable institution turned into a laughing stock.’

  ‘Why don’t they just get more ravens and forget about it?’ Colin shrugged at the others, thinking the question was reasonable.

  ‘They can’t just do that,’ said Land, as if it was obvious. ‘That would defeat the whole point, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Actually, that’s exactly what they’re doing,’ said Bryant.

  ‘Then what is the point?’ Colin persisted.

  ‘That there’s a very serious breach in national protection. Someone’s made a mockery of the security system, not once but seven times over. They’re trying to show that the nation’s most venerable institution is as impenetrable as a tobacconist’s shop. So, Bryant, that will be your priority. As for the hit-and-run, unless I hear a good reason why we should waste resources pursuing—’

  ‘I’ve a good reason,’ Bryant interrupted. ‘Romain Curtis wasn’t alone in St George’s Gardens. He was with a girl called Shirone Estanza. She saw Wallace’s body as well, and she wasn’t stoned. If there’s even the slightest possibility that Curtis’s death was a consequence of what happened in the park, then she could be at risk and we have to protect her. There are omens here, and superstitions, and premonitions of death. But there’s also a real risk from persons unknown. We need to continue the investigation.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Land. ‘Don’t worry about the omens, Mr Bryant, let us handle those. You just concentrate on finding a birdnapper.’

  ‘The bloody cheek – palming me off with missing ravens,’ fumed Bryant as he stalked back to his office. ‘Raymond might as well have sent me away with a colouring book.’

  ‘He didn’t mean it like that,’ said May, attempting to sound placatory. ‘You can see the awkward position he’s in. He needs fast results.’

  ‘And I’m too slow, is that it?’

  ‘No, Arthur, you know that’s not the problem. It’s your tendency …’ He hesitated.

  Bryant’s eyes popped wide. ‘What tendency?’

  ‘To get sidetracked.’

  ‘It’s the way I work, the way I’ve always worked. This case is not as straightforward as everyone seems to think it is. There’s no obvious causal link between Wallace and the dead boy beyond what he witnessed. We know from the girl that he went back into the park. He saw something there, did something – and it got him killed. Jhadav said Wallace was frightened of being buried alive and he was. Somebody wanted to hurt him very badly.’

  May threw his hands wide in frustration. ‘Can’t you see the false assumptions you’re making? Wallace was a suicide. He hanged himself in his family home. Nobody killed him or rendered him comatose. It
has to be coincidence.’

  ‘Another coincidence? Really? They’re stacking up, aren’t they?’ said Bryant. ‘At what point do they stop being coincidences?’

  ‘There’s no pattern,’ May insisted. ‘It’s like your constellations. We draw lines between the stars and make pictures we’ll remember so that we can identify them, but there’s no real connection between one star and the next.’

  ‘We’ve missed something,’ Bryant insisted. ‘I think Wallace’s widow knows more than she’s letting on. I think Romain Curtis knew more, too.’

  ‘Romain talked to the police – why didn’t he say something?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Bryant, his jaw set. ‘But I’m going to find out.’

  ‘You can’t.’ May dropped his voice. ‘Do you want to play into Raymond’s hands? Do you want to give him a reason to remove you?’

  ‘Remove me? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Orion Banks. She told Land she wants you out. She thinks you belittled her in front of the others.’

  Bryant stopped and turned. ‘Why didn’t she tell me to my face? Why is everyone so scared of speaking their minds all of a sudden? We used to nearly come to blows in the old Mornington Crescent offices. We had fights at least once a week and nobody took offence. It was part of the process of investigation. Longbright once dangled a thief out of the window. I tied a vicar to a chair. Colin used to settle arguments by arm-wrestling Met constables in the Nun & Broken Compass. The losers had pints poured over their heads. Now we’re threatened with suspension for sending a sarcastic email.’

  ‘Well, pouring drinks over people and tying them up is not the way we do things any more. You heard Banks, she wants targets met with efficiency and through the prescribed routes. She’ll get rid of you if you don’t.’

  ‘All right,’ said Bryant. ‘I’ll strike a deal with you all. Do your best on the case for twenty-four hours, and I’ll stick with the ravens. If at the end of that time you’re no further to closing the case, I’ll come back on board and handle things my way. Understand?’

  ‘I’ll run it by Raymond,’ said May helplessly. ‘But he won’t like it.’

  ‘Forget the protocol and the office politics,’ said Bryant heatedly. ‘A young man died. Someone with his entire life ahead of him. Finding out why and stopping anyone else getting hurt – that’s the only thing that matters now. I’m going to my balcony to smoke a great deal, and if anyone comes near me during the next half-hour, they will feel the wrath of my tormented soul, is that clear?’

  He strode off to light up, and took all the air in the room with him.

  14

  A SIGN OF DEATH

  Jack Renfield and Meera Mangeshkar had ended up on duty together. They were settled on an abandoned sectional sofa outside a block of flats in Hunter Street, Bloomsbury. It was cooler now and smelled of rain. The first fat drops were starting to spatter the pavement around them.

  ‘It makes a change not being teamed with Colin,’ said Mangeshkar. ‘For once I don’t have to put up with him eating fistfuls of chips all night and staring at me like a drugged puppy. I don’t know what we’re doing here, though.’

  ‘You heard Bryant. Our job is to protect the innocent and identify the guilty.’

  ‘If somebody really decided to take out Curtis because of what he saw, they won’t come after the girl. She didn’t see anything, and she didn’t go back into the park with him. He went alone. She stayed outside on the pavement.’

  Renfield grunted, checking the windows of Estanza’s flat with his pocket binoculars. At night the terraces of the estate took on a melancholy air, like the runways of an abandoned airfield. ‘This is a waste of time,’ he said finally. ‘No one’s going to come after her.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Gut instinct. I’m a career sergeant.’

  ‘Did you never want to rise higher in the ranks?’

  ‘Nope. I like it just where I am. Never try to rise beyond the level of your own competence.’

  ‘What, this is all you can aspire to?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody rude, Meera. You’re not with Colin now. You don’t know what you’re talking about. When I first met Bryant and May, they made jokes about me to my face. Because of my name.’

  ‘What about your name?’

  ‘You know, the bloke who eats flies in Dracula.’

  ‘No, I don’t know.’

  ‘They thought I was stupid. In time they came to respect me. I didn’t need a different job title to prove my worth.’

  ‘Yeah, but the money – you’d have been better off on a higher grade in the Met.’

  Renfield pulled at a clump of sofa foam. ‘You can only do things one way in the Met,’ he explained. ‘You follow the rules. Besides, they agreed to match my salary. They fought for me. I never even had to ask them. Those two—’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘They pass unnoticed on these streets. John looks like just another retired City gent, but the old man – if you didn’t know, you’d think he was senile. Nobody’s interested in them; they’re invisible. That’s why they can get away with what they do. Sports, telly, films, jobs, socializing, it’s all about selling to the young in London, who can brag the most and shout the loudest. But those two don’t take any notice. They don’t care how anyone looks, or where they’re from or who their families are. They have different values. That’s why I stay. They let me be who I am. Who I want to be.’ It was the most he had ever said to Meera, but for the last few months her condescending attitude had been needling him, and Renfield felt he had to say something. Now, though, he was embarrassed.

  ‘Well, at least I’m getting plenty of experience on stakeouts,’ said Meera, a little chastened. ‘To be honest I prefer the physical stuff. When Bryant starts going on about criminal psychogeography he loses me.’

  ‘Wait.’ Renfield suddenly held up a hand. ‘Tell me – what do you see over there?’

  Mangeshkar looked over to the stilted ground floor of the council block. ‘I can’t see anything.’

  ‘Second pillar to the left. Just at the edge of it.’

  ‘Is that a person? If it is, he’s not moving much.’

  ‘Damn – go, go.’

  Shirone Estanza’s front door was opening. Suddenly the figure was moving out from behind the pillar towards the silhouette framed in the hallway of her flat. Mangeshkar was faster than Renfield and covered the courtyard in seconds, staying in the shadows. As the sergeant followed, he saw the schoolgirl pull her door shut behind her.

  The dark figure was only feet away.

  As Mangeshkar burst into the light on the terrace, Shirone Estanza saw her and screamed. Renfield knew they had made their presence known too early. The grey-hooded figure on the walkway had a head start, and Mangeshkar fatally hesitated while she decided what to do about the girl.

  She was fast, though. Taking off after her quarry she quickly closed the distance. The pair cut a diagonal path through the estate, over the playground and around the centre flowerbeds. The railings around the edge were intended to be unscaleable.

  By the time she reached them, Mangeshkar realized she had lost. There were gates cut into the railings all the way along the perimeter. Too many exits to cover. Feint, run, feint; they played cat and mouse in silence, and the figure slipped away.

  She started to radio in a pursuit request, but cut the call. There was not enough to go on: a watching figure, sweatshirt and jeans, dirty white trainers, probably heading into the maelstrom of passengers eddying between the three station terminals. All she could do now was head back to Estanza and reveal why they were there.

  She found Renfield attempting to explain what had happened.

  ‘Who was it?’ Shirone demanded to know.

  ‘Probably just a local kid who knew you were a friend of Romain Curtis,’ said Renfield. ‘A rubbernecker checking out where you lived.’

  ‘Why would anybody do that?’

  ‘I guess it kind of makes you a celebrity.
’

  ‘That’s just great,’ said Shirone. ‘At school today somebody put a drawing of a band called the Bodysnatchers on Facebook and linked my name in. They all had a good laugh about that. And now I’ve got a bleeding stalker.’

  ‘All this will go away in a few days,’ Renfield assured her. ‘These things don’t last long.’

  ‘What if he comes back?’

  ‘We’ll make sure somebody’s posted here. And you should keep your online presence low this week.’

  ‘Why are you here at all?’ Shirone asked. ‘You think someone’s going to try and hurt me because of what happened?’

  ‘We just have to take some extra precautions.’

  ‘That isn’t what I asked.’

  ‘Maybe. We don’t know. It’s better to be safe than sorry.’

  ‘All right, but try to catch him next time, eh?’ She went back inside and slammed the door.

  Renfield turned to his partner. ‘Did you get a good look at him?’

  ‘Only from the back. Slight build, five ten, grey cotton hood, blue Replay jeans, white Adidas trainers. Young enough to move fast. That narrows it down to half the planet.’ She pointed back at the front door. ‘So now we’ve got a scared kid to look after.’

  ‘Meera, I don’t think she’s that scared,’ Renfield pointed out. ‘Just annoyed.’

  As they stood looking back at the flats, a large black bird swooped in and landed on the top of a railing in the children’s playground. Its eyes darkly glittered in the lamplight. Renfield squinted at the creature as it flicked out its wings. ‘Isn’t that a raven?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell a raven from a crow,’ Mangeshkar admitted. ‘You reckon it’s one of Bryant’s escapees?’

  ‘It had better not be,’ said Renfield. ‘They’re a sign of death. That’s all we need right now.’

  15

  FOWL PLAY

  By Wednesday morning it seemed as if the spell of fine summer weather had never happened. At 7.00 a.m. rain pattered, then showered, then hammered down, forming torrents in the gutters, gushing from drainpipes and flooding across the cambers of roads.