Bryant & May 01; Full Dark House b&m-1

by Christopher Fowler

  May took another look inside the kitchen. “Odd. The break in the window isn’t big enough to let anyone in, so why are there signs of a struggle? It’s not near enough to the back door for anyone to be able to reach in and undo the latch.”

  Forthright tested the lock. “The door’s still locked.” She carefully turned, studying the walls. “Maybe he was already inside and she was trying to get out, away from him.”

  May returned to the front room. Phyllis was seated with her hands pressed on her thighs, staring blankly at the floor. “When you came in,” he asked, “did you have to unlock the front door from the outside?”

  “Yes. The latch is faulty, so you have to double-lock it as you leave or it comes open by itself.”

  “What about the back door? Have you touched it?”

  “No. I took one look at the kitchen and backed off. Then I called the police and was put through to your department.”

  “When was this?”

  “About two hours ago.”

  “Hang on.” May called his constable in from the front garden: “Crowhurst, come in here for a second.”

  “Sir?”

  “How did this get put through to us?”

  “The station rang Miss Petrovic’s work number, sir. As soon as they realized it was the theatre, the call was transferred to the unit.”

  I bet it was, thought May. They couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. He looked at the chaotic front room, at Phyllis, who seemed close to tears. “Would you care to show me the other rooms?”

  “Of course.”

  Two small bedrooms, bathroom and toilet. An attempt had been made to brighten them up, the bedrooms painted a hopeful yellow, the bathroom pink, but the flat needed more than a lick of cheap paint to make it comfortable.

  “Which one is Miss Petrovic’s bedroom? No, just show me, don’t touch anything.”

  An unmade bed, socks and a sweater lay on the floor. A crumpled bath towel at the foot of the eiderdown. Stacks of books, undisturbed. If there had been violence, it hadn’t reached here. He made a slow tour, checking the window frames and door handles. The flat reminded him of his own room.

  “You think she’s been abducted?” asked Phyllis, following behind him. “Something terrible’s happened to her, I’m sure of it.” She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “I should have been here.”

  “We’ll have to see what turns up from the kitchen,” May replied. “We’re going to have to take some items away with us.”

  When he caught Forthright looking at him, he saw the same question in her eyes. If she’s been abducted, her look said, how did he get her out of the house without opening any of the doors or windows?

  The pattern, such as it was, had been broken, yet felt strangely consistent. There was the same kind of arrogant theatricality; the evidence of the abduction reminded May of the blocking rehearsals he had witnessed. It’s deception practised in public view, he thought as he left the house. The interpretation of gestures, wasn’t that what acting was all about?

  But who was providing the direction?

  ∨ Full Dark House ∧

  40

  GROUND ZERO

  The interpretation of gestures, May recalled as he unfolded the architectural plan from his pocket. It all happened so long ago, the other end of a lifetime. We’ve learned a lot since then. Then he remembered there was no more ‘we’. He was alone now. He would never adjust to the awful singularity. There was no one else. His wife and daughter were dead. His son lived in a commune in southern France and refused to speak to him. April, his granddaughter, had suffered a nervous breakdown and could not bear to leave her house. Only Bryant had given him hope.

  “John, are you all right?”

  “Oh, I suppose so.”

  “Then show me,” said Stanhope Beaufort, holding out a pudgy hand. The architect was uncomfortably perched on a glass stool at a glass bar with a glass counter, surrounded by glass walls, a glass floor and a glass ceiling. Hundreds of tiny silver bulbs reflected from hundreds of square mirrors. It was so bright that nobody could see a thing.

  John May handed over the building plan he and Longbright had rescued from the debris of the burned-down unit and waited for his analysis. He had tracked Beaufort, one of Bryant’s old contacts, to the new Hoxton bar, and was hoping that he could explain the meaning of the page. The roar of street traffic entered the bar and bounced off the vitrine walls, vibrating everything and making it difficult to hear. Dust sifted in and settled on the shining surfaces like radiation fallout.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your poor partner.” Beaufort tipped the paper into shadow so that he could read it. “Old Arthur was a bit of a one-off.”

  “He was at that,” agreed May.

  “What do you think of this place, by the way?” Beaufort asked, as a waiter blundered into an indiscernible column with a tray of drinks.

  “It’s very – glass,” said May diplomatically.

  “Glass is the new steel,” Beaufort explained. “They all want it, it’s so seventies. I’ve lost count of the number of accidents we’ve had here so far. The staircase is glass, too. One of the waitresses went arse over tit down it this morning. Cracked a step and knocked out her front tooth. She’s been locked in the bog all day, crying her eyes out. You can see her if you want. The toilets are transparent. The owner complained that it’s like a hall of mirrors, and I said, ‘That’s because it is a hall of fucking mirrors, it’s what you asked for.’ Wanker.”

  “But you must like it if you designed it,” said May, puzzled.

  “No, mate, it’s just a commission. The secret of design is reinterpreting what was popular thirty years ago. Everyone wants the things that remind them of childhood. I just re-imagine them with the materials of the present.”

  “So this isn’t your taste?”

  “What, New Britain? Fuck off. I live in an unfucked-about-with Georgian house in Islington with nice big comfy sofas. I’m not going to split my shins on a chrome coffee table shaped like a fucking rocket. I’ve got three kids. I don’t want them running around covered in dents. Same with the clothes. I don’t dress like this at home, I wear jumpers. This is just for the clients.”

  Beaufort was wearing black tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt that read: MUTHAFUCKA. “It’s like those singers who bang on about teen rebellion so they can buy homes in Hampstead. This is all wrong, by the way.” He turned the sheet of paper round and held it up. “See the calibrations down the side? They’re in feet and inches reading left to right. That tells us two things. Pre-metric, post-war. LCC stamp here, see? And it’s not a ground plan, because the central corridor wouldn’t be measured off from a single left-hand starting point, it would have a single width measurement.”

  “So what are you saying? What is it?”

  “A depth measurement, calibrated from ground zero going downwards. That’s why it’s shaded to indicate round walls. This isn’t a corridor, it’s a shaft.”

  “What are the broken lines at the bottom?” May pointed at the base of the diagram.

  Behind them, there was a small scream and a tinkle of glass.

  “It’s the architectural symbol used to indicate water. Looks to me like you’ve got yourself a well.”

  “And the passageway off to the side?”

  “Overflow escape. It’s artesian; the water rises through natural pressure. If it rains heavily the excess drains off through the side passage and prevents the well from overflowing.”

  “Where would the overflow pipe surface?”

  “Oh, somewhere outside the building in the street, probably.”

  “I need to get an indication of scale,” said May. “Could a person fit down it?”

  “Looking at this, the main shaft’s got to be six feet across, so you can reckon the side vent is four feet, easily large enough to hold a grown man. The Victorians loved stuff like this. They built their drains big so they could shove children down them with brooms and shit shovels. They were great designers
, but had no thought for the poor bastards who had to use their buildings.” Behind him, a waitress winced as she sponged blood from her sliced elbow with a cocktail napkin.

  “Not like nowadays, then,” agreed May.

  As he headed for Old Street tube, it began to rain. The area looked every bit as derelict as it had just after the war. How was that possible? May thought of the London that might have been, the abandoned plans, the failed dreams. Once, a causeway of buildings had been proposed for the centre of the Thames, a vast triumphal arch of Portland stone suggested for Euston Road, a grand national cemetery attempted on Primrose Hill, a Piranesian entry gate blueprinted for Kensington. Gothic towers, pyramid morgues, elevated railways, none had come to pass. The grand social schemes had collapsed in favour of piecemeal sale to private interests. It all could have been so beautiful, he thought sadly.

  May pulled the backpack from his shoulder, removed his mobile phone and rang Longbright at home.

  “You said there was no one left alive from the Palace,” he told her, “but you’re wrong. Believe me, I know how it sounds, but I think our killer is still around. Arthur recognized the diagram for what it was. A possible escape route.”

  “It’s a bit of a long shot, don’t you think?”

  “We know Arthur went to the theatre to research his memoirs. I think he discovered the blueprint and realized the implications at once. Then he did the most obvious thing. He ran a search. Combed the city’s mental institutions and checked through hospital records looking for further signs of survival.”

  “You’re saying he traced this aged lunatic and found him in residence at the Wetherby? Why would he do that?” Longbright sounded sceptical.

  “You know how Arthur always hated loose ends. He went galloping off to the clinic, made a nuisance of himself, questioned the nurses, poked about in their records and ended up with a shortlist of former patients.” May ducked through a grey wall of stalled trucks, heading for the tube. On the pavement ahead, a tangle of red and white plastic tape cordoned off a vast pile of roadwork rubble, more haphazardly arranged than any wartime bomb debris.

  “He was only going to write up the story for his memoirs, but suddenly found himself back in the case. That’s why he wanted me to go with him. He warned me he could get into trouble.” May was forced to shout into the cellphone. “He found what he was looking for, then probably drove around to the poor bloke’s house. You know how insensitive he could be.”

  “The newspapers of the time called him the Phantom, didn’t they? He was probably rather upset to be tracked down again.”

  “Enough to follow Arthur back to the unit and plant a bomb,” May replied. “From what we know of him, it would make perfect sense. A case of history repeating, a farewell performance. Finch said he thought the explosive material was old.”

  “Yes, but sixty years old? Where on earth could he have been keeping it?”

  “Who knows, he could have buried it in his back garden and returned to dig it up. I think seeing Arthur brought back everything that had happened, and ignited his desire for revenge.” May paused while the trucks juddered past. “Listen,” he bellowed, sticking his finger in his ear, “I need you to track someone down for me.”

  “Of course, who do you need?” Longbright asked.

  “Bryant’s dentist. I know he’s left the practice, but they must have a contact number. It’s very important that you locate him.”

  May snapped the phone shut and gave one final glance at the rain-filled sky before stepping into the clammy warmth of the tube station.

  ∨ Full Dark House ∧

  41

  RUNNING TO DAYLIGHT

  “You realize we’re an hour away from tonight’s dress rehearsal, and that we open tomorrow?” asked Helena Parole, lighting a corktipped De Rezske and fanning the smoke through the opened window in her office.

  The young detectives were seated with her. Bryant listened as he cleaned out his pipe bowl with a pickle fork that he kept in his coat for just such a purpose.

  “How am I expected to feel? I’ve got an under-rehearsed cast that’s too panicked to concentrate on the score, a violinist who’s more used to playing in Leicester Square for a hatful of pennies, a musical director who fights with the conductor over every notechange in the arrangements, fifty-year-old mechanical equipment that refuses to control several tons of lethal scenery, a replacement Jupiter who has never performed in the West End, a cleaning lady who’s trying to scrub blood out of the balcony seats, and now some kind of women’s temperance league is picketing the theatre. Stan and Mouse are spreading rumours about ghosts walking through walls. Benjamin got punched on the nose by a woman who says we’re the spawn of Satan. I nearly broke my leg in the foyer after Elspeth’s tortoise pulled rhubarb leaves all over the floor. And you’re telling me we have an abduction on our hands.”

  “How important is Jan Petrovic to the show?” asked May, attempting to look unfazed.

  “She’s just part of the chorus, not featured at all. I replaced her the minute she failed to show for the rehearsal. That’s not the point. I have to be sure that you can protect my boys and girls, otherwise I can’t go out there and convince them that everything’s fine.”

  “We’re doing as much as we can. I’d prefer to see the production suspended rather than place anyone in danger, but Mr Renalda has every intention of ensuring the show goes on.”

  Helena’s voice rose a notch. “This is no reflection on your abilities, Mr May, but in view of your extreme youth, I wonder if a senior officer might not be available now.”

  “I’m afraid there is no one else available, Miss Parole,” he replied politely.

  “They’ve spent a fortune on advance advertising and publicity. There’s not a bomb site in London that’s not been plastered with the posters. To Mr Renalda, a missing chorus girl is less important than an outraged review in the Telegraph.”

  “Obviously we’re all hoping that Miss Petrovic turns up safe and sound. We found signs of a struggle in her apartment, and several small spots of blood that may be hers, but no unaccounted-for fingerprints. What appeared to be a large smear of blood on a wall turns out, rather oddly, to be nail varnish. Beyond that, we know very little.”

  “It seems to me you know very little about what’s been happening at all. I suppose all the good detectives have been taken by the war effort. It’s not your fault, you just lack experience. God knows who I’d blame. I certainly wouldn’t listen to any of the cast.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re actors, for Christ’s sake, they exaggerate everything. Have you talked to them all?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “What about those crazy women outside? Don’t you think it could be someone who’s taken the show as a personal affront to decency?”

  “I think plenty of them are doing that. I just can’t imagine anyone being so upset that they would break into a theatre and start murdering the performers.”

  “Don’t be so sure. The Nazis are on the lookout for signs of dissatisfaction and unrest. It said so in the paper. They’re infiltrating groups and stirring up trouble, just like they did in the thirties.”

  “I don’t think we’re under attack from German spies,” said Bryant firmly. “My spiritualist mentioned Medea and Calliope.”

  “Your spiritualist,” repeated Helena.

  Bryant nodded, patting his pockets for a light.

  “I’m surrounded by blithering idiots.” The artistic director rose to leave. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve a show to rehearse.”

  ♦

  “Calliope was the mother of Orpheus,” Bryant explained once he and May had returned to their offices behind Bow Street. “He got his musical talents from her. Perhaps we should take a look at the original legend, not Offenbach’s version of it.”

  “We’re not looking for a mythical creature, Arthur, even your Mrs Wagstaff agreed about that.”

  “We need to find a motive, John. Aristaeus tri
ed to rape Eurydice, and she trod on a serpent as she fled. The poison killed her. Hemlock is a poison that was known to the ancient Greeks. Orpheus followed her down to Hades, and suspended the tortures of the damned with his music. Orpheus was instructed not to turn round to look at her until she had reached the light of the sun. Eurydice made her way through the darkness, guided by the sound of his lyre. As he reached the sunlight, he looked back and lost her for ever. Various reasons have been given for his behaviour. Some say he was frightened by a clap of thunder. Others reckon he was pushed in the back by Jupiter. Our Jupiter is dead, and can no longer stop the flight of Orpheus, running to daylight. Edna talked of ghosts, unseen hands guiding, pushing at the actors’ backs. The girl, Jan, she’s not been seen anywhere?”

  “It’s impossible to find out. The stations are still full of evacuees and servicemen, people moving around all over the place.”

  Forthright looked in. “Arthur, the article you requested from your journalist pal, Peregrine Summerfield. He’s managed to find you a copy. He’s sending a lad over with it right now.” Several minutes later, a boy arrived with a brown envelope under his arm. May gave him sixpence from the petty-cash tin and tore open the accompanying letter.

  “What appalling handwriting.”

  “Give it to me, I’m used to reading his scrawl,” said Bryant, snatching away the letter.

  Dear Arthur,

  There was a lot of interest in this at the time, but the paper wouldn’t run my article because Andreas Renalda got wind of it and threatened The Thunderer with a lawsuit. The family was based in Calliste (“Most Beautiful”), also known as Santorini. I managed to locate his former home on the outskirts of Thira, but couldn’t gain admittance to the estate. Everyone on the island knows the family, but nobody was very happy talking about them. I tried mentioning them in one of the local bars and the locals all clammed up, it was like one of those scenes in a cowboy film where the stranger comes into town. However…

  “Is there another page to this?”

  “Sorry.” May handed the sheet to Bryant.