Cope made her way to a bench and settled herself as May collected coffees. ‘I don’t know how much use I can be,’ she said, accepting a cup. ‘It started just over a week ago.’
‘Can you remember exactly how?’ asked May.
‘Krishna came home from work and told me that Mr Wallace had been found hanged.’
So he knew, thought May. Why did he pretend he didn’t?
‘We were due to go out to dinner with someone from Berry and Rudd – Krishna collects fine wine, and wanted some advice – and on the way back from the restaurant we saw the car following us. We were on foot, coming back from Boundary – you know the restaurant?’
‘I’m a police officer, Ms Cope, I don’t get to eat in fancy restaurants.’
‘Sorry, I suppose with your hours …’
‘It’s not the time, although we rarely finish before ten p.m. It’s the pay. Please, go on.’
‘Krishna saw the car first – an old blue Renault. He said he recognized it – he’s got the kind of mechanical mind that remembers cars before people – there was a woman driving. He was pretty sure it was Mrs Wallace.’
‘And you saw her again?’
‘Outside the flat two mornings later. The woman in the flat above has lots of potted plants on her balcony – it’s annoying because when she waters them the run-off gets into our bedroom window frames. Krishna had just left for work when I heard a bang. I went out to find that one of the biggest flowerpots had fallen and had just missed him. He could have been killed. You can easily get on to the balcony from the next one down, and we think she climbed on to it and waited for him.’
‘You saw her?’
‘Not on the balcony, but I saw her walking quickly away down the street. There have been other things: somebody chalking filth on the front door, crazy stuff.’
‘You didn’t report this?’
‘Krishna wouldn’t let me. He felt guilty about her. She’d lost her husband, and he knew the guy had been depressed over losing their account. We figured she’d stop after a while.’
‘And has she?’
‘I don’t know. Last night I thought I saw someone outside the window – just a shape against the street lights, but you can never be sure. Our bed’s near the window and sometimes, well, it’s a safe-enough area these days but even so you have to keep an eye out for suspicious behaviour.’
‘I think I should talk to Mrs Wallace again,’ said May. ‘If I can get her to acknowledge the fact that she blames you, maybe we can move this thing on.’
‘You know, I’ve read about your unit,’ said Cope, placing his name. ‘You’re the guys who believe in psychogeography, that sort of thing.’
‘You’re talking about the article in Hard News, I imagine. That’s my partner. I’m not quite so easily convinced.’
‘Yeah, but you know what’s funny? Living in this area. Your partner must know about it.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘All kinds of strange things have happened here. One of my neighbours is a priest and he told me that once, back in the mid-1800s, two missionaries from St Saviour’s went to a dead girl’s house in this street to administer the last rites. In the church there was supposed to be a relic, a sliver of the True Cross, the Cross of Golgotha, and they took it with them and laid it on the girl’s chest, and she rose up from the dead. And when they built the new houses here last summer, they found hundreds of gravestones everyone had forgotten about. We’re literally walking around on top of corpses.’
‘London’s a city of the dead, Ms Cope. They’re beneath us everywhere.’
‘Me, I’m easily spooked, so when this woman started following me on my way back from the shops I didn’t turn and confront her like I should have, I just kept going. I should move away from this part of town but Krishna loves it here. He says when our ship comes in we’ll go to the north of the city. Isn’t that what the people with aspirations always do, seek higher ground?’
May was drawn to Irina Cope. She seemed so sensitive to her surroundings that he was almost fearful for her. ‘I’ll talk to Mrs Wallace and keep her away from you,’ he promised. ‘Nobody should have to be afraid of walking down their own street at night.’
He was as good as his word. Marchmont Street was on the way back to the unit, so he looked in on the off chance of finding Vanessa Wallace at home. Her son Martin answered the door with a game console glowing in one hand. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘I thought that creepy guy had come back again.’ He sounded slightly less sullen than the first time they had met, but still refused to catch May’s eye.
‘Which creepy guy?’ May asked.
‘The fat one who giggles all the time. Rummage, the undertaker guy. I think he waits until Mum’s out before ringing the doorbell.’
‘Why does he come around?’
‘When Dad’s coffin got dug up he still didn’t have a proper headstone, so Rummage says he’s going to provide us with one free of charge, but he’s come around twice now without calling first. I reckon he’s a paedo.’
‘Where’s your mother?’
‘At her yoga class, trying these exercises that are meant to calm her down. She’s still all stressed out about Dad.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said May. ‘I came by to see how she was.’
‘She cries all the time and keeps having a go at me, that’s how she is. Did you find out anything yet?’
‘Honestly? No, we’re not making much progress. Hopefully something will break. How are you handling it?’
‘Sometimes I think he’s still in the house. I’ll go to the bottom of the stairs and call up, then remember. I guess I have a different way of dealing with it. I don’t get depressed, I get angry. I do sports and try to burn it out.’
‘Anger can be useful if you channel it,’ said May. ‘Has your mother been going out by herself?’
‘Sometimes, yeah.’
‘Will you keep an eye on her? We’ve had reports she’s been bothering Mr Jhadav and his girlfriend, following them around.’
‘Oh jeez. I wondered where she’s been heading off to. She wouldn’t tell me.’
‘The other day she nearly killed him. I don’t want to see her get into trouble. Do me a favour – call me the next time she leaves without telling you where she’s going?’ He handed Martin his card. ‘And while you’re at it, let me know if Mr Rummage calls on the house again.’
That undertaker, May thought. He’s cropping up all over the place.
23
THE HEADSMAN
As shoppers dragged themselves back and forth to the depressing Tesco supermarket on the corner, few ever looked up at the building on Caledonian Road. If they did they would have seen a short, balding man in a rumpled grey suit with his back to the window. Of those who looked, none would have thought that the people in the room were, in their own odd ways, attempting to prevent the streets of London from descending into anarchy and chaos.
Of course, Raymond Land was an uninspiring figurehead from any angle. ‘Ah, you’re back,’ he exclaimed, slapping his hands together with sour delight. ‘So kind of you to grace us with your presence. And it’s only Thursday.’
‘Don’t try to be funny, Raymondo. I’ve been working, as you well know,’ said Bryant, pulling off his ancient trilby and leaving behind a frightened tonsure of white hair. Half a dozen mewling kittens followed in his wake. They appeared to have adopted Bryant as a parental figure.
‘What, no snappy comeback today? After abandoning your post and leaving your partner to struggle on with an investigation that has stalled so badly that I can find nothing at all to report back on? What on earth have you been doing?’
Bryant picked up one of the kittens and scuffed it behind the ears. ‘Exactly what you wanted me to do,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been staying out of the way, keeping my nose clean and trying not to bring the unit into disrepute.’
‘Well, can you stop doing so?’ Land demanded. ‘It’s getting on my nerves. I keep looking ar
ound half expecting to see you emptying your pipe into my plant pot or breaking the photocopier. Instead, everyone’s just getting on with their work and nothing’s getting resolved. It’s most disconcerting. We’re about to be removed from the case, and I don’t think it’s very likely that we’ll be given anything else.’
‘That should make you happy, surely. You’ll be pensioned off to the Orkneys and you’ll finally get some peace and quiet.’
‘I don’t want to be pensioned off,’ said Land gloomily. ‘Leanne isn’t coming back. She won’t even speak to me. The divorce is going ahead. I go home to a silent house and piles of unlaundered shirts.’ He pulled at his frayed cuff. ‘Look at this. I can’t figure out how to work the washing machine. It seems to have hundreds of different settings, and the instruction book is in Swedish. I’ve run out of pants. I need some stability in my life. Without the PCU I don’t know what I’d do.’
‘Well, thank you for sharing that, but your pants are not my concern,’ said Bryant. ‘Am I to take it that you’re allowing me back?’
‘Yes. Oh yes.’ Land practically fell on his knees.
‘And I can run things as I see fit?’
‘Do whatever you have to do, you can even keep your eyeball collection in the staff fridge, just give me something I can use.’
‘Very well,’ said Bryant. ‘I shall put the kettle on, absorb a pipeful of Old Nautical Rough Cut Navy Shag and play my Gilbert and Sullivan records. Then we shall see what can be done.’
Land hated himself for being so weak. But he was glad to have Bryant on the team once more.
‘I’m going to do something that could get me into serious trouble,’ said Bryant, settling himself behind his desk, ‘and I need your help.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ sighed May.
‘I said me, not all of us. I’ve been offered help with the Romain Curtis investigation in return for keeping away from the ravens.’ He pushed aside a pile of ornithology manuals so that he could see his partner. ‘But if I don’t find out why the birds vanished, Matthew Condright will lose his job. He’s the Raven Master of the Tower. He suffered severe post-traumatic stress disorder after fighting in the Falklands, and needs to keep his position.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said May. ‘Who’s offering you this deal?’
‘It’s better that you don’t know. I’m going to surreptitiously continue with the case, and I need you to cover my tracks.’
‘How will this person even know what you’re up to?’ May’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘It’s that Mr Merry again, isn’t it?’
Bryant glanced at the back of his hand, remembering the contract he had reluctantly signed. ‘He presents himself as some kind of dark magician, but I think the reality is somewhat different. So-called necromancers keep their power by exploiting the credulity of others, but he’s met his match with me. He uses the power of suggestion to undermine those around him. He wants me to think I can make no move without him seeing. But you can throw him off the scent for me.’
‘How?’
‘I suspect that, like the leaders of most gangs, he has a network of spies working for him, so I’ll need to be careful.’
‘What are you supposed to be getting in return, exactly?’
‘This,’ said Bryant, holding up a card. ‘An invitation to meet with the New Resurrectionists.’
‘I dread to ask.’
‘Then don’t. I’m supposed to find their representative under the tree outside St Magnus the Martyr’s Church, just off Lower Thames Street. I will then be blindfolded and taken to a secret location. I need someone to follow me. Not a familiar face. Meera could do it on her motorbike.’
‘What is the purpose of this, Arthur? They could be a bunch of lunatics.’
‘And they could also hold the key to why Thomas Wallace was dug up and the only witness killed.’
‘When is this going to happen?’
‘At eleven p.m. tonight. First I have to go back to the Tower of London. You could get me there.’
‘Why don’t you do these things remotely? Dan can rig up CCTV feeds, video-links; there’s all kinds of technology you can use.’
‘There’s something I have to physically check for myself. It’s to do with that.’ Bryant pointed back at his 1959 Dansette gramophone. A terrible wailing sound was issuing from a warped old record. ‘Gilbert and Sullivan,’ he said brightly, as if that explained everything.
‘Keep your head down,’ said May as his silver BMW turned the corner into Euston Road.
‘I have a bad back, you know,’ Bryant complained from halfway under the passenger seat. ‘This is an undignified position for a man of my age to be in.’
‘You said you couldn’t risk being followed so we’ll do this my way, all right?’
‘This car blanket smells of perfume – have you had a lady in here?’
‘I might have done. Not recently, sadly.’
‘No, well, you’re getting on a bit.’
‘I’m always going to be three years younger than you.’
‘Yes, but when the petals begin to fall from the rose—’
‘I know, I know, the bees don’t come round so often. Stop saying that. I can’t see anyone following us.’
‘That’s the point, you’re not supposed to.’
‘Wait, there is something.’ May adjusted his rear-view mirror. ‘Skinny bloke on a bike in an unfeasibly tight French racing outfit.’ Bryant stuck his head up. ‘Stay down – he’s on his mobile. I’ll cut through the backstreets. Let’s see if he can keep up.’
May swung the BMW left into Bloomsbury. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, ‘it looks like we’ve already lost him.’
‘Good,’ said Bryant. ‘Can I come up now?’
‘Well I’m damned.’ May checked his mirror again. ‘He must have called ahead. I think another bloke on a bicycle has taken over from him. Same red helmet and outfit. Your nemesis is a latter-day Fagin.’
As the BMW crossed the city, the cyclists followed in relay, five of them in all. Each one picked up immediately after a call from the one before.
The detectives were now passing tourists on the steps of St Paul’s Cathedral. Riot-jacketed police were arguing with some anti-capitalism protestors, one of whom was carrying a placard of a giant pink pig dressed as a banker. The cyclist behind them swerved out to avoid the brawl, locking back into place behind the car.
May was amazed. ‘Your contact has a very thorough network helping him. I need to get rid of this one before he realizes that we’re going to the Tower. He just missed the last set of lights. Get ready to slip out. You can get into Bank station and walk through the underpass to Monument, then go one stop on the District or Circle to Tower Hill. Can you manage without your walking stick?’
‘Certainly. I use it out of affectation, nothing more.’
Liar, thought May. ‘Get ready to do a stunt-roll.’
‘Where’s the cyclist?’
‘Three or four vehicles back, but he’ll have to go down the side of a bus to catch up, which gives you a few seconds. OK, now!’
May shoved open the door and Bryant all but fell on to the pavement. The entrance to the tube was just ahead. He scampered into it, much to the surprise of a woman coming up the steps.
No, it can’t be, thought Orion Banks as she emerged from the station. She looked back, but the scruffy, scuttling old man had already vanished from sight.
The underpass was almost deserted. If anyone pursued him down here, he would see them. Bryant followed the arrows through the subterranean maze, heading for Monument tube station.
As soon as he emerged from Tower Hill, he called the Raven Master. ‘Matthew, I need you to get me in through a discreet side entrance,’ he said. ‘I’ll explain later.’
Within another ten minutes he was standing, out of breath, in a screened-off area of the Warders’ oak-lined dining hall. ‘This is the refectory you rent out to city aldermen, for mayoral functions and so on?’ asked Bryant, ins
pecting the space.
‘That’s right,’ said Condright. ‘We have events a couple of times a week throughout the summer.’
Bryant went to the mullioned window and looked down. ‘How far are we from the raven house?’
‘Right next door.’
‘And your annual performance of The Yeomen of the Guard? Is this where you hold it?’
‘Well, the play is set against the backdrop of the Tower of London, so it really does become site-specific here. There are public performances held in the moat so that the White Tower is in the background, but they also put it on for privately invited audiences, and in inclement weather there’s a stage that they can move into this room.’
‘And I’m right in thinking that you had a production the night before you missed the ravens?’
‘That’s correct. Actually, there were seven performances in all, for different charity groups. But I fail to see—’
‘It’s not an official D’Oyly Carte production, but your own company, I understand.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So the costumes are stored here.’
‘I think so.’ Condright led him behind the screen, where they found a set of clothing rails. Period outfits were numbered and hung along them in plastic bags.
‘The Headsman, the man who is due to execute Colonel Fairfax with his axe, his outfit is here with all the rest?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Who usually plays him?’
‘Well, it’s a silent role and the Headsman is masked, so as long as he’s physically big we usually find one of the men to stand in.’
‘And on that night, who played him?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to check.’
Bryant found the garment bag he was looking for and unzipped it. He removed a black body stocking, a black hood and mask, studded leather gloves and a long black cloak. He smelled patchouli oil and tobacco.
Bryant & May and the Bleeding Heart Page 17