‘Not sure I’m in the mood for a film. I thought they only showed art films there. It’s not subs, is it? I need something light. I can’t concentrate on anything right now.’
‘This is supposed to be fun. Come on, we can get some really disgusting chocolate ice-cream cake afterwards. The sugar will keep you up for, like, twenty-four hours.’
‘I keep thinking about it,’ said Shirone miserably. ‘How things could have been so different that evening. If I hadn’t pushed him to go to the club, if he hadn’t got so drunk—’
‘Don’t even go there,’ Sennen warned. ‘Put it out of your mind and let the cops do their job. They’ll get the guy who did it.’
‘But how?’
‘You’re kidding, a hit-and-run? They measure tyre tracks and match DNA and stuff, then run through all the cars on a kind of central database and – OK, I don’t actually know, I’ve just heard Dad talk about it, but they’ll soon tighten the net around him.’ They swung off down the pavement towards the shopping centre.
‘Someone’s been hanging around the flat at night,’ said Shirone.
‘Who?’
‘I’m not sure. The officers in your old man’s unit saw him. They’ve added some big bloke out on the terrace all night now, just to make sure he doesn’t come back.’
‘That’ll be Colin. I’ve heard all about him. He’s a good guy. You should tell him you know me. My dad introduced me to someone in his unit last night. I think he’s sleeping with her.’
‘Oh, gross. Has he, you know, actually admitted it?’
‘No, but he formally introduced her and his voice went all low and serious.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Big, dyed hair, loads of retro-slap.’
‘What, Amy Winehouse?’
‘More Monroe. She’s the kind he’d go for. And she’s a cop. I think she might be sort of OK. We’ll see. Come on, we’ll go to the movies and you can forget about Romain for a couple of hours.’
‘I don’t want to forget about him,’ said Shirone miserably.
‘Nobody’s saying you have to forget him for good, just – I don’t know, take your mind off it for a while.’
Shirone’s voice hardened. ‘Look, there’s that freak who’s always staring at me in the library.’ She pointed at a boy in a long leather coat and skintight black jeans who was coming down the school steps. ‘That’s Martin Wallace. It was his father Romain saw getting dug up.’ She yelled at him: ‘Hey, freak!’
Martin ignored them, carrying on past.
‘What, you’re too stuck up to talk to us?’ Shirone threw the remains of her milkshake at him. The lid came away from the cup and pink liquid splattered over the wall. She laughed. Martin hurried on, pretending he hadn’t seen them.
‘What are you doing?’ yelled Sennen.
‘I hate him,’ said Shirone. ‘Crazy emo freak and his crazy mother.’
‘Why? What did he do to you?’
‘If his father hadn’t killed himself – we would never have—’ But the laughter had already turned to tears and she was making no sense now, not even to herself, and all Sennen could do was put her arms around her friend and wait for her agony to die down.
21
BURYING THE LIVING
Arthur Bryant was sitting in the gloomy archive room of the Museum of London, waiting for Mr Merry to return.
‘I thought you would want to see this,’ said the piratical academic, setting down a pair of cardboard cartons between them. Bryant carefully moved his chair back a few inches. After Maggie’s warnings he was determined to keep some neutral space between himself and his adversary.
‘Tell me, Mr Bryant, what do you know about the process of apotropaic magic?’
‘Not much,’ Bryant admitted. ‘Something to do with hiding the body of an animal to repel a malign entity.’
‘It’s a little more complicated than that, but we can let the definition stand. In its most extreme form, it refers to the practice of live burial. Usually it took the form of burying a mole, a dog, a chicken, a young fox or a cat alive in a building cavity to protect the home. The idea was that any evil presence attempting to enter the house would enter the body of the animal and be trapped within it. Look in the first box.’ Mr Merry sat back with his ringed hands interlocked over his chest and waited.
Bryant was not keen to touch the carton that sat between them, but had no choice. He gingerly opened the lid and looked down. Stacked inside were some earthenware candlesticks, a very small pair of old leather gloves, a baby’s shawl, two glass goblets and a rush mat.
‘Now the second one.’
He carefully pulled up the lid and found himself looking at a stack of mummified cats, their dry grey fur and sunken eyes indicating extreme age.
‘All of these items were found inside the walls of houses in Southwark and Bermondsey, together with a variety of mummified creatures.’
‘Sacrifices to household gods,’ said Bryant.
‘Indeed. Valued items to be placed in the foundations of houses. The goblets would have held wine, and there would probably have been offerings of bread.’
‘I’ve seen mummified cats in pubs,’ said Bryant, ‘in the Tiger Tavern by the Tower of London, and in Dirty Dicks, but they’ve all vanished in the last few years.’
‘The poor dried-out creatures in Dirty Dicks were there for another reason entirely,’ Mr Merry explained absently. ‘The legend goes that the original owner, Nathaniel Bentley, was a dandy who neglected his personal hygiene until the day he fell in love. Alas, his lady died on the day of their engagement, and he ordered the dining room to be shut up. For fifty years he admitted no one to the upper rooms of his premises. After Bentley’s death, the house was found it be uninhabitable. The dishes had rusted to the table, paintings were so thick with dirt that their subjects were no longer discernable, rats and cats had died of hunger, cemented by cobwebs to the worm-eaten furniture. It seems likely that Charles Dickens was inspired to create the character of Miss Havisham in Great Expectations from the story of Dirty Dick. The old wine and spirit vaults are still there in the basement, but much was torn down during the renovations of 1870 … this city has no respect for its past.’
Mr Merry drifted into silence, as if remembering the event, and for a brief moment Bryant sensed that here was a kindred spirit, albeit one with a very different attitude to his own.
‘Where was I?’ asked Merry. ‘Apotropaic magic – yes, it has other uses. We have a great many apotropaic artefacts here at the museum. But some – well, they’re not for public display.’
‘You mean there were cases of human sacrifice?’
‘We certainly have evidence of that. The practice of placing a baby in the foundation stones of a building was supposed to protect it. Conversely, there are stories of foetuses being buried on sites designated for synagogues. The Jewish faith does not permit building on unclean ground. You can appreciate that this is a subject many would find – unpalatable.’
‘But not you.’
‘If one is to study the practice of dark magic there is little point in being squeamish.’
‘I fail to see the connection between these items and the raising of a dead body,’ said Bryant, indicating the cartons with puzzlement.
‘Of course, and I must apologize; there are few who keep pace with my somewhat lateral thought processes, but I suspect you may be one who will do so in the fullness of time. Let’s discuss business. If I am to help you, there is something I would like in return.’
‘I can’t promise anything, but you can ask.’
Merry leaned forward. ‘There is another matter that I believe has recently come to your attention. It involves a venerable British institution.’
‘I assume you’re referring to the Tower of London.’
‘I am prepared to look at the facts in your case if you are willing to leave this … other matter alone.’
‘I can’t just turn a blind eye to a criminal case, Mr Merry. I work for
the police, not the mafia, and I will investigate whatever I see fit.’
‘Then I cannot help you.’
‘I have a duty to the public that must come before every other consideration.’
‘I was afraid that might be your reaction. In which case, you must ask yourself which is more important: the catching of a killer who could strike again; or the solving of a minor theft in which the items in question are already being replaced?’
‘You mean the ravens.’
‘I said nothing. It is a matter for your conscience.’
‘If I took you up on your offer, it would only be to delay the investigation, not abandon it.’
‘I need one week, that’s all.’
Bryant thought carefully. If he agreed to the arrangement, he would be laying himself open to the risk of suspension and prosecution for obstruction of justice. But right now, he could imagine no one else who might be able to help him.
‘One week,’ he repeated. ‘No longer than that.’
‘Then, Mr Bryant, I think we have come to an understanding.’ Mr Merry held out his hand to shake on the deal.
Bryant froze. What have I committed myself to? he thought, staring back at the proffered hand.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Merry, noting his reluctance to connect. ‘We need to make our contract binding. May I suggest something?’ Producing a carved ivory fountain pen from his tunic, he reached over and jabbed the back of Bryant’s hand with the sharpened nib. Caught by surprise, Bryant yelped and pulled his hand back, but not before a single droplet of blood had formed. With a flick of the pen’s reservoir lever, Mr Merry absorbed the scarlet bubble on Bryant’s hand.
‘There,’ he said. ‘I think we can do business now.’
Repocketing the pen inside his tunic, he now produced a card and placed it on the surface of the nearby desk, sliding it in Bryant’s direction. Reading the handwritten lettering upside down, Bryant noted a title: ‘The New Resurrectionists’. There was a number to call, but no address.
‘These are the people you will need to contact, Mr Bryant. I warn you, though. They may seem normal, but they have extreme ideas. You can take no one with you. And remember our deal. Do not betray me. Whatever you do, be sure I will find you out.’
With the safety zone between them breached, Bryant had nothing to lose by taking the card. As he left the building and headed out into a fresh squall of rain, a chill gripped his heart. I did the opposite of what I was instructed to do, he thought. I fell for his trickery. Something bad has been set in motion, and the power to stop it has been taken away from me.
22
CITY OF THE DEAD
‘I spoke to Orion Banks,’ said Land, looking as if he was about to be shot. ‘It didn’t go well.’
‘What happened?’ asked May, fearing the answer.
‘She’s clearly of the opinion that we couldn’t run a Hungarian string factory, let alone a London police unit.’ Land looked around his tatty office with distaste. ‘She thinks we’ve been wasting resources investigating this business at St George’s Gardens. She doesn’t give a tinker’s cuss for a stoned teenager getting knocked over in a backstreet. We’ve been ordered to stop keeping watch on the graves, and to pull out of the surveillance on Shirone Estanza’s flat.’
‘But that’s absurd,’ said May. ‘Jack, Colin and Meera are still taking turns to stake out the place. Meera went after—’
‘John, they saw someone hanging around on the communal terrace. It’s a block of flats; kids do that all the time.’
‘What about Krishna Jhadav’s assertion that he and his girlfriend have been followed by Wallace’s widow?’
‘It’s hearsay. There’s no physical proof of anything. Get in too deep with these people and you’re just going to start getting tangled up in their lives. You need to keep some distance.’
‘But it’s our job to—’
‘Banks wants us to leak the desecration story to the press so that reporters will hang around the graveyard and do our job for us.’
‘You’re joking, right?’ May was horrified. A journalistic circus was the last thing anyone needed right now.
‘She’s a media manipulator, that’s what she does best. I have no say in this. I made my feelings known but she wasn’t even listening.’
‘And if something else happens we’ll get the blame.’
‘I imagine she’s counting on that.’
‘What do you want me to say, Raymond? That you should have stood up for us and put her in her place? Are you waiting for me to have a go at you? What I can’t stand is this air of hand-wringing defeat. I’m not going to take this from her and I certainly won’t from you.’ He took a deep breath to calm himself down. ‘I’m trying to do everything by the book. We’re wading through over three thousand hours of CCTV footage from the King’s Cross area, looking for a car we only have a vague description of from one unreliable witness who thinks she saw it turn into Britannia Street. Now we’re going to get journalists following us around? You need to grow your gonads back and start supporting us again.’
Seething, he left Land’s office before he said something he would really regret. Raymond had fought for them in the past, but there was a weakness within him that more ruthless supervisors could exploit. With Arthur out doing God knows what, he saw that he would once again have to contravene instructions and take on his bosses.
When he entered his office, he found that Arthur had pinned a map of the night sky on the teacher’s blackboard behind his desk, and had taped notes over each of the constellations, including some labelled ‘Not Visible to the Naked Eye’. This is all we’ve got, he thought, a few solitary points of light, and there’s no way of connecting them into something meaningful without more data.
Thinking that there was nothing more he could do without his partner, he sat down to wait for his return. But his eye was drawn back to the constellation chart again. Do what Arthur would do, he thought, find a way to connect them. Sliding out his mobile, he checked the number he had scribbled on his pad and made a call.
Orion Banks was in a taxi opposite the offices of the PCU, stuck in traffic. She wiped the condensation from the window with a paper handkerchief and looked up. John May was standing at a first-floor window, peering out. Of the officers she had met there, she had liked him the most, but even he would have to go.
Banks had reached the top of the career ladder by playing as hard as the men. Behind a smokescreen of flirtatious mediaspeak was a calculating machine that weighed everyone’s worth in terms of economic value to the company. She had a clutch of degrees that included criminal law; she smoked and drank and double-crossed with less empathy than any male in her department, and would string up her closest colleague for target practice if the need arose. It was what they had hired her to do, and she did the job well. At night she returned to an empty apartment decorated by a designer she had never met in person, to drink expensive wine alone and go over the accounts. She had no hobbies, no real friends, no family to speak of. She had work, and that was enough so long as she stayed on top. God alone knew what would happen after that.
She had been furious to discover just how little control Raymond Land had over his department. In her eyes he was worse than useless and should have been pensioned off years ago, but since the economic downturn her budget could no longer afford to make hefty payouts. The unit’s senior detectives operated with wildly different methodology and appeared at odds with one another. The rest of the staff behaved like the remnants of some defunct government outpost. At least she didn’t have to make them look bad; they were capable of doing that by themselves.
Within her jurisdiction, financial crime was now costing an estimated £38 billion a year. Highly organized international gangs were infiltrating the City’s financial institutions at every level, committing insurance frauds on an epic scale and operating an amorphous bribery system that was proving almost impossible to stop. Down in the street, bicycles and mobiles were being stolen, and a few dr
unken lads got a ticking-off. Anti-social crimes, robberies and assaults had dropped away to their lowest-ever levels while the real losses occurred high above, in the City’s boardrooms. There was no longer any room in the system for a bucket shop like the PCU, or any need for it.
‘What is the hold-up here?’ she snapped at the taxi driver.
‘Roadworks,’ came the reply. ‘There’s nothing I can do, luv.’
‘I’m not your love,’ said Banks angrily. ‘There’s always something you can do about it. Turn left here.’
‘But that’s a one-way street.’
‘I’ll take care of any consequences,’ she said, sitting back. ‘Just do it.’
May took a tube to Tower Hill and walked to Ensign Street, behind the Tower of London, one of those city areas that remained isolated because it was awkward to reach. He was near the once-desirable address of Wellclose Square, where so many East End Jewish intellectuals had lived. The neighbourhood was an odd mix of impoverished artists and city singles, the mysteries and scandals of the square and its cabalists consigned to footnotes of arcane London history.
Irina Cope was small and appealing, with cropped blonde hair and pretty features rendered slightly imperfect by a short chin. The late-afternoon air had grown cool, and she rubbed at her arms, underdressed for another grim London summer. ‘There’s a café in Wilton’s Music Hall,’ she said. ‘We can go there, if you like. I’d take you to the flat but we have builders in.’
‘I know how you feel,’ said May. ‘We’ve had builders in our office for the last eight months.’
They made their way over to the old Victorian music hall, where a few office workers sat in the soft afternoon light with coffees and iPads. Posters advertised cabaret shows by Marc Almond, Rufus Wainwright, dance troupes and various stand-up comics. The elegant building had been saved from the wrecker’s ball, but still survived on barely more than the goodwill of its neighbours.
‘In other countries they’d preserve a building as rare and beautiful as this,’ said Cope, looking about and guessing his thoughts. ‘Here they have to rely on charitable donations. I’m sorry, it winds me up. I run a small architectural practice on Cable Street, and unfortunately I know a little too much about what the council gets up to around here.’
Bryant & May and the Bleeding Heart Page 16