Bryant & May and the Bleeding Heart

by Christopher Fowler - Bryant

  ‘I figured maybe it was part of some ritual. An occultist, a harmless crazy with too much money.’

  ‘Any clue to his identity?’

  ‘Only that he went to the Bleeding Heart. Stephen had to go there to meet up with his client. It’s where we—’

  ‘Hold your meetings, yes, I know. Right, you stay here,’ Bryant instructed. ‘John, book Mr Court for, oh I don’t know, tampering with dead bodies or breaking and entering a hairdresser’s or something. There must be a statute that will cover it. I’ll be back shortly.’

  On the way out, he asked Renfield to remind him of the name of Emes’s contact at the Bleeding Heart Tavern, then headed off to the tube.

  Bleeding Heart Yard was a tiring uphill walk from Chancery Lane, but at least it was close by. As he emerged from the station he realized he had forgotten his umbrella, and it was still hammering with rain. The gutters had turned to racing streams.

  By the time he reached the pub, even his vest was soaked. He found the barman of the Bleeding Heart just starting his evening shift. The pub was surprisingly quiet. ‘Where is everyone?’ asked Bryant, shaking out his overcoat and hanging it on a chair.

  ‘The power’s off in Hatton Garden,’ said the Australian. ‘A road drill went through a cable.’

  Bryant understood the implications. It meant that the electronic security grilles protecting the diamond quarter might not be working properly, so the local merchants would be staying inside their offices until the fault was repaired.

  ‘You spoke to my sergeant about a man called Stephen Emes,’ said Bryant. ‘You rented the upstairs room out to him.’

  ‘I told him all I knew,’ said the barman, turning his counter diary around. ‘Here’s the booking. First Thursday of every month.’

  ‘Did you know who they were, what they were doing?’

  ‘That’s not our business. There’re groups all over London meeting in the upstairs rooms of pubs.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ said Bryant. ‘A private members’ event, yes?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  In an act of generosity that acknowledged Bryant’s hopeless Luddism, Banbury had laminated the faces of everyone involved with the case on to oblongs of cardboard the size of old-fashioned cigarette cards like a suspects’ Top Trumps set. Bryant pulled out the set now and began thumbing through it. He set down three: Romain Curtis, Stephen Emes and Krishna Jhadav. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘did you ever see any of these people in here on the same night?’

  ‘I don’t see the members,’ said the barman. ‘They use the side entrance. But this one made the bookings.’ He tapped Stephen Emes’s card. ‘And I remember this one.’ He singled out Krishna Jhadav’s card.

  ‘Any particular reason why you remember him?’

  ‘Yeah, the pair of them must have first met in here, ’cause I remember when the Indian guy came in the other one stood up to shake his hand, and I thought that was so English, you know? We’re not that formal where I come from.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Around a week ago, maybe longer. It might have been early on the evening of the Friday before last. We’re not open on Saturdays.’

  ‘Did he speak to you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The younger guy ordered the drinks. He was sort of nervous. I figured he was here for some kind of job interview. I watch everything from behind the bar.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bryant. ‘If you ever decide on a career change, you have the makings of a fine policeman.’

  By the time Bryant got back, the lights were low in the PCU, and only May remained at his desk.

  ‘It’s fantastic,’ said Bryant, hurling off his sodden coat and throwing himself into his ratty overstuffed armchair. ‘Do you realize what’s been going on? No one has told us the truth. Oh, they’ve told us to the best of their abilities, but whether they’ve meant to or not, they’ve all left something crucial out. What are we supposed to do? We can’t torture them for answers, more’s the pity. It’s a matter of reading between the lines. Once you do that, you start to get a more complete picture. Is there anything to eat? I don’t seem to be getting any meals at the moment.’

  ‘I can offer you half of Janice’s crayfish and rocket sandwich left over from lunchtime,’ said May.

  ‘That’ll do.’ Bryant accepted the sandwich and took a huge bite from the centre of the bread. ‘Where was I? Yes, we have to reassemble everything into a cohesive timeline. What did you say was in this? Crayfish? It tastes like bathroom grout. Let’s start back at the beginning, before Romain Curtis took his girl to St George’s Gardens. God, I can’t get through this, it’s gone under my dental plate.’ He dug out the mashed sandwich with an index finger and lobbed it into the wastepaper bin. ‘The very first thing we know is that Krishna Jhadav arranged to meet Stephen Emes at the Bleeding Heart Tavern. Why? Because he needed to dig up a dead body.’

  ‘Why did he want to do that?’

  ‘I don’t know yet but I have a very good idea. Please try not to interrupt. Emes agrees to carry out the work, but says it will take two of them to do it. I’m guessing Jhadav reluctantly agrees to help him. So, on Sunday night they head for St George’s Gardens with their equipment, and Romain Curtis sees them. Emes – or Jhadav – says, “There’s someone watching.” The other one looks over and sees a skinny stoned kid, whom he dismisses, saying, “He’s a minor.” Which the starstruck Curtis hears as “Ursa Minor”. He leaves with Shirone Estanza, but decides to go back and take another look out of curiosity. This upsets our pair of gravediggers, and somehow they manage to keep tabs on the boy. The next night, they follow him to the Scala club and spike his drink, running him over in a backstreet.’

  ‘Why did they change his shirt?’

  ‘Who says they did? Maybe he changed it because he’d spilled booze on the old one. So, the only real witness is dead, but whatever business Jhadav has is unfinished. Something has gone wrong, and he needs to dig up another body, then another. He must have been looking for something left in one of the coffins.’

  ‘But Rummage was absolutely sure the caskets were empty, both before and after disinterment.’

  ‘Fine, we’ll have to fill in that piece later. Meanwhile, Mrs Wallace has been following Krishna Jhadav about because she blames him for her husband’s death. Unfortunately she has no proof, having returned any incriminating documentation on Jhadav’s instruction to her husband’s ex-client. No wonder she’s so upset.’

  ‘Does she know Jhadav was responsible for digging up her husband?’

  ‘I don’t see how she could; she just feels that if he hadn’t acted as he did, Thomas Wallace would still be alive.’ He thumped the board at his back. ‘Now we come to the events in Hyde Park. Stephen Emes is still working for Jhadav, and this time we have to assume he finds whatever Jhadav has been looking for, because Jhadav no longer has any need for him, and shoots him dead.’

  May held up a hand. ‘Stop, stop, you’ve gone wrong somewhere. Jhadav was able to send Emes alone because it was only a pet cemetery this time, and he could manage by himself. It’s hardly likely to have been Jhadav who shot him, because he died by the same method.’

  ‘Yes, there is that. The man at the centre of all this, one Ronald Rummage, is adamant that nothing was buried with his clients, human or non-human, so we have another problem there. I felt sure we’d find something on his premises. What are we missing?’

  ‘It’s as you said,’ said May. ‘Someone knows more than they’re telling. The trouble is, the only person who can really help us has been murdered.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean he can’t help us just because he’d dead,’ said Bryant reasonably. ‘Think about it. He was shot in the shoulder. The arrow probably wouldn’t have killed him but the waste did. I think somebody wanted him to drown in the very by-products he was illicitly brokering. That sounds like a extremely Jacobean form of revenge to me.’

  ‘Jacobean,’ May repeated. ‘I can’t wait to hear the rest of this.’
/>
  ‘Oh, I think you can,’ said Bryant, ‘at least until tomorrow.’

  But in a moment just technically this side of tomorrow, at half a minute before midnight, events began to cascade.

  It started because of a split shoe. PC Julie Biggs was ending her shift when the sole of her right boot began letting in water. She had intended to march along King’s Cross Road and down towards Mount Pleasant, but instead she cut down Handel Street towards Hunter Street, because she wanted to reassure herself that the little heel-repair bar she sometimes used still existed, in which case she would visit it tomorrow. As she detoured past the fern-filled burial ground of St George’s Gardens, she heard a clumsy rustle of branches, and turned to see an overweight man wrestling with a garden spade.

  ‘Blimey, mate, it’s a bit late for playing silly buggers, isn’t it?’ she said, climbing nimbly over the railings and heading towards him, only stopping when she realized he was attempting to dig up a grave.

  ‘It’s not how it looks,’ Ron Rummage began lamely, theatrically setting the shovel to one side as if he had just discovered it in his hand and now wished to distance himself from its acquaintance.

  ‘How do you think it looks?’ PC Biggs was intrigued to know.

  ‘Like I’m digging up a coffin.’

  ‘Funny, ’cause that’s pretty much what it looks like to me an’ all. Wanna talk me through this before I run you in?’

  ‘I’m a funeral director,’ said Rummage.

  ‘A bit late to be working, isn’t it? Do you need the overtime?’

  ‘This is one of my burials.’

  ‘You must be a perfectionist if you came back at midnight to give it another bash.’

  ‘My good woman, you don’t understand—’

  ‘I’m not your good woman,’ said Biggs, ‘I’m an officer of the law and what you’re doing is illegal.’

  ‘I would question that,’ Rummage promised, looking as furtive as a priest. ‘This plot is within the gift of my company, and I am charged with its upkeep. If I think there’s something wrong, I’m within my rights to attend to the problem.’

  PC Biggs folded her arms. No honest citizen should ever do anything that makes a police officer stand back and fold their arms. ‘At midnight,’ she said slowly. ‘All by yourself. You’re nicked, mate. Bring the shovel.’

  41

  CASCADE

  On Wednesday morning, Janice Longbright stepped into a nightmare of her own making.

  She did not become aware that something was wrong until Jack Renfield called her moments after she arrived at the PCU. ‘My daughter’s missing,’ he said. ‘Her mother dropped her off on the way to school but she never got there. I tried calling you but you must have been in the tube. I don’t know what to do. I need your help.’

  ‘How do you know she’s missing? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m outside the school gates right now. She wanted to walk here even though it was raining, I don’t know why. She was very insistent. Her mother thought it was odd, but you know how teenage girls can be.’

  ‘Sounds to me like she was meeting someone. You need to check her class register and see if there’s anyone else who’s not turned up.’

  ‘I just did that. Some of the boys have gone to football practice and part of the class is on a trip to the Tower of London, so they won’t be able to marry up the registers until they do the return head-counts.’

  ‘OK, don’t move, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ She grabbed her wet coat and put it back on.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Land looked surprised as she rushed past without answering his question. ‘And where are my detectives?’ he asked anyone who might be within earshot.

  Half a dozen kittens shot across the corridor. ‘They’ve gone out,’ said the remaining Dave, sticking his head around the door frame. ‘Something about a shovel.’

  ‘Get on with your work,’ said Land, annoyed at having to rely on a decorator for information on the whereabouts of his staff. ‘Is there anything else I should know?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dave. ‘Don’t try to flush the toilet. We’ve got a blowback problem.’

  Land found Meera in the common room. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘I thought you’d hurt yourself.’

  ‘I’ve sprained my ankle,’ she said, ‘not my brain. I’ve got a crutch. I don’t need anyone’s help.’

  ‘Yes, we all know you don’t need anyone’s help,’ said Land testily. ‘Where’s Colin?’

  ‘He’s gone with John and Mr Bryant to the undertakers. Rummage got released on bail after a PC spotted him trying to dig Thomas Wallace up again.’

  ‘I knew he was dodgy. Didn’t I say so all along?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was being rhetorical.’

  ‘No you weren’t. Rhetoric implies the incontrovertible certainty of the answer.’

  ‘Don’t get smart with me, young lady. It’s time I got some respect around here. I’m all that stands between you lot and the infinite darkness of the City of London Police Authority.’ Land stormed out and would have slammed the door for effect if the remaining Dave hadn’t taken it off its hinges.

  Longbright called her boss as soon as she got outside. ‘Arthur, I have a favour to ask,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t normally do this but it’s important. You know your way around the Tower of London, don’t you? Jack’s daughter might be there on a school trip. Is there any way you can check on her?’

  ‘You know I have strange operating methods, but we are actually in the middle of a murder investigation. The school run is a bit off my beat.’

  ‘That’s the problem. She’s gone missing and I think it might have something to do with the investigation. I did something I shouldn’t have done.’ She explained the situation.

  Bryant was horrified. ‘My God, Janice, after that terrible business with John’s daughter? You know what happened to Elizabeth, the sting that went wrong! God, we used her example as a warning to others for years. What the hell were you thinking? Leave it to me. I’ll drive there in Victor. John and Colin can handle Rummage.’

  Longbright met Renfield outside the school gates, where he stood in the shelter of a plane tree making calls. She approached him with trepidation, knowing that she would have to tell him the truth, no matter how painful it would be for them both.

  ‘I can’t get hold of anyone,’ Renfield complained. ‘We’re supposed to be living in the twenty-first century. I found a few of her friends but nobody’s seen her, and most aren’t answering their mobiles because they’re in class. I’ve left a message for Shirone Estanza; I’m hoping she’s going to call me back. Martin Wallace is on some kind of sports trip. That just leaves my daughter unaccounted for. It’s not like her to do this. Her mother’s still stuck in a meeting. She’s going to go mental when she gets out of it.’

  ‘Listen, Jack,’ Longbright began awkwardly, ‘this may be my fault. I talked to Sennen about helping us out.’

  Renfield closed his mobile and looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, she was so difficult at the outset. I thought there might be a way that we could bond, so I sort of enrolled her.’

  ‘Christ, Janice, what did you say?’

  ‘I suggested that she could check among her friends for information. Just keep her ear to the ground and report back, especially if she heard anything about Mrs Wallace.’

  ‘But what if she spoke to someone who actually knew something? You could have put her directly in the line of fire. Didn’t you think that through? She’s impressionable and easily led. All that confidence she exudes is fake. You must be able to see that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack, I just wanted her to like me, and I’m so used to the job that I guess I didn’t think about the dangers.’

  ‘You told a fifteen-year-old girl to go and pick the brains of a possible murderer. If anything’s happened to her—’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ warned Longbright. ‘I know I screwed up but I won’t let any harm come t
o her. Arthur is on his way to the Tower right now to check on the school bus. He’s a London tour guide in his spare time, he knows everyone on the gates there. He’ll find her and bring her back. And if she’s not there, I’ll find her myself, I swear it.’

  Renfield was looking over her shoulder. Shirone Estanza was walking across the playground towards them with her bag clutched to her chest, in tears.

  ‘What did you think you were doing?’ May asked Ron Rummage. ‘Going to St George’s Gardens at midnight?’ The funeral director had been released and allowed back to his place of work, pending an interview.

  ‘I know how it looks,’ said the flustered Rummage. ‘I know it makes me a suspect. I just wanted to see for myself.’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘The three coffins,’ he said, as if it was evident. ‘Professional curiosity on my part. Thomas Wallace, Elspeth Duncannon and Prince, they were all prepared right here at the same time. I was sitting here last night and the thought struck me: I must have missed something.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Rummage pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘I checked the caskets when they were empty, and again when they were filled. It’s as I told you, neither Duncannon nor Wallace were buried with anything other than what their relatives had given me, cufflinks in the case of Wallace, and a cheap little brooch in the case of Mrs Duncannon. There was nothing hidden in any of the caskets. But there can’t have been any other reason for digging them up.’

  ‘There can,’ said May, ‘because we know that one of the two men involved belonged to a medical society that believes in disinterring corpses for experiments. We’ve identified another body they were using: Edward Simmons, fifty-three, a railway worker who died of a heart attack ten days ago. He was buried in St Mary’s Cemetery, Battersea, by a branch of the Co-operative Funeral Services. So he’s not one of yours. He was disinterred two nights after he was buried. Do you know what I think? You thought Thomas Wallace must have been buried with money on him somehow, and you wanted it for yourself.’ It certainly wasn’t what May thought, but it was important to keep Rummage’s blood pressure up so that his defences stayed down.