Wild Chamber

by Christopher Fowler

  About the Book

  Our story begins as an investigation ends.

  Near London Bridge Station, members of the Met’s Peculiar Crimes Unit race to catch a killer. In the dark and the rain, they unwittingly cause a bizarre accident – one that will have repercussions for them all.

  One year later, a smartly dressed woman is found dead in a locked private London garden. She’s been strangled. The dog she was walking has disappeared, her husband is missing and a nanny has vanished too – so far, so typical a case for Bryant and May.

  As Arthur Bryant delves into the arcane history of London’s extraordinary parks and gardens – its ‘wild chambers’ – John May and the rest of the team become mired in a national scandal. It seems likely that the killer is preparing to strike again, and if the city’s open spaces are not safe, then surely they must be closed …

  With the PCU under house arrest, only Arthur Bryant remains at large and at liberty – but can one hallucinating old codger of a policeman catch the real criminal in time?

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1 ‘Like A Kite Stuck In Telegraph Wires’

  2 ‘Why Are They Allowed To Be There?’

  3 ‘The Company Will Outlast Its Employees’

  The First Day

  4 ‘Better Value For Money’

  5 ‘So Much Violence In London’

  6 ‘A Murder In The Prelapsarian Paradise’

  7 ‘Wild Chambers In The Urban Machine’

  8 ‘Gardens Aren’t Supposed To Be Lethal’

  9 ‘All It Took Was A Murderer On The Loose’

  10 ‘Sometimes His Imagination Gets The Better Of Him’

  11 ‘A Series Of Unfortunate Circumstances’

  12 ‘Like Goldfish Into A Bowl’

  13 ‘If A Fish Murdered A Lady Fish’

  The Second Day

  14 ‘We’re The Professionals’

  15 ‘The Playgrounds Of The Rich’

  16 ‘Why Are The Simplest Cases The Hardest To Crack?’

  17 ‘Loss Of Respect Can Make A Man Do Terrible Things’

  18 ‘There Are Dark Roots To This Case’

  19 ‘The Shrubberies Are Filled With Assignations’

  20 ‘A Human Being Is Not A Turkey’

  21 ‘She Was Walking Dead’

  The Third Day

  22 ‘Everybody Has To Pay Someone’

  23 ‘They’re Closing The Parks Tonight’

  24 ‘An Awful Lot Of Tragedy In One Family’

  25 ‘Like Midnight Foxes, We Adapt’

  26 ‘He Doesn’t Look The Type’

  The Fourth Day

  27 ‘I Have A Head For The Peculiarities Of History’

  28 ‘London Is Full Of Coincidences’

  29 ‘He Said I Looked Like An Angel’

  30 ‘Where Do You Place The Responsibility?’

  31 ‘We’re The Ones Who Have To Care’

  The Fifth Day

  32 ‘There Are No Unanswered Questions Left’

  33 ‘A Sylvan Setting That’s Poisoned Somehow’

  34 ‘Places Have The Power To Haunt And Disturb’

  35 ‘Misery Makes Money’

  The Sixth Day

  36 ‘We’ve Come Full Circle’

  37 ‘He’s Idealizing The Female Form’

  38 ‘Why Would Anyone Want A Seven-Year-Old Boy Dead?’

  39 ‘It’s An Urban Epidemic’

  40 ‘It’s The Perfect Spot For A Confrontation’

  41 ‘Not The Most Salubrious Area’

  The Seventh Day

  42 ‘You Know The Whole Thing’s A Bluff’

  43 ‘This Is Not Normal Procedure, I Think?’

  44 ‘It Was Quite A Ride’

  45 ‘I’ll Have To Go It Alone, Unless …’

  46 ‘Sometimes What Looks Like Cruelty Is Actually Kindness’

  47 ‘He’ll Only Sound Like Cassandra If He Tries To Explain’

  48 ‘You Saw The Light Die In Her Eyes’

  49 ‘That’s How All Of This Began’

  50 ‘Made Richer By Your Friendship’

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Christopher Fowler

  Copyright

  For Roger and Izabella – into the beyond!

  Those intensely quiet places immured in the very centre of London seem as still and desolate as cloisters.

  HENRY MAYHEW

  At the best, city life is an unnatural life for the human; but the city life of London is so utterly unnatural that the average workman or workwoman cannot stand it.

  JACK LONDON, THE PEOPLE OF THE ABYSS

  Take a wretched thief

  Through a city sneaking,

  Pocket handkerchief

  Ever, ever seeking.

  What is he but I

  Robbed of all my chances,

  Picking pockets by

  Force of circumstances?

  W. S. GILBERT

  1

  ‘LIKE A KITE STUCK IN TELEGRAPH WIRES’

  On a desolate, rain-battered London midnight, the members of the Peculiar Crimes Unit went looking for a killer.

  DC Colin Bimsley charged up a narrow flight of service stairs leading to the raised railway line, and was near the top when sweat broke out across his back and forehead. He looked down at his boots as the station staircase truncated and rotated, churning his stomach. Stretching out his hands to the walls, he tried to steady himself.

  His quarry was getting away. Even with a section of rusted iron drainpipe manacled to his right wrist, the killer was running nimbly over rails and sleepers, sure-footed in the falling rain. It shouldn’t have happened like this, but nothing in the case should have happened the way it did, and now the staff of the Peculiar Crimes Unit were dealing with the farcical consequences.

  Colin fell back against the wall, watching in horror as the stairs dropped. He could not move. From the corner of his eye he saw his colleagues Detective Sergeant Jack Renfield and DC Fraternity DuCaine ascending towards him.

  ‘Hey, Colin, you OK?’ Fraternity called.

  ‘No – it’s my head thing, it’s back.’ Bimsley suffered from Irlen Syndrome, a perceptual problem that made him unable to judge widths and spaces, and it had kicked in just as he was coming within range of their suspect. All he could do was point upward. ‘He’s getting away,’ he called. ‘I can’t go any further—’

  ‘Stay here, mate.’ Renfield slapped him on the shoulder as he and DuCaine powered past, up on to the rainswept bridgework that ran beside the train lines. Ahead of them, the southern routes of London Bridge Station fanned out in a great brick swathe.

  The yellow windows of a commuter carriage flickered past. The train was heading for Kent and the coast. It had just turned midnight. Below them the stalled traffic steamed and rocked, jouncing forward, only to halt and hoot, the drivers cursing as the traffic lights flicked red again.

  The suspect was running hard along the narrow edge of the bridgework, but DuCaine’s long muscular legs quickly closed the gap. Renfield had spotted the only possible escape route and was frantically calculating their chances of an arrest; at the end of the brick path was an open section of railing leading to one of the railway arch’s buttresses. Even if their suspect was able to climb through, it was a long drop to the street below.

  DuCaine had almost caught up with the running man. He made a sweeping grab at his jacket but the rain was in his eyes and he missed. He slipped over on to his knees. The suspect vanished into the gap between the railings and headed out on to the brick promontory beyond it.

  ‘Leave him, Frat,’ Renfield called. ‘He can’t
go anywhere.’

  Fraternity answered by jabbing his finger down: Look.

  Renfield peered over the side of the arch and saw a single freestanding iron pillar, the top of which was about ten feet below them. If their target took the wildest of risks and managed to land on its broad capital, he could leap once more to the pavement and run back into the tunnels beneath the lines. There was a good chance that they would lose him forever.

  ‘If he jumps don’t attempt to follow him,’ Renfield said into his headset. ‘I don’t want to be the one peeling you off the pavement.’

  ‘Why is there even a bloody pillar there anyway?’ DuCaine asked.

  ‘Left over from the old line,’ Renfield replied. ‘Damn, he’s going for it.’

  It was too late to stop him. Their suspect had spotted the rain-slick top of the pillar and made his move. He was light and easily managed the leap, landing perfectly in the centre of the capital. Now he just had to jump downward once more and he would be home free.

  DuCaine had also calculated the probable outcome. He touched his microphone. ‘Is there a cordon around London Bridge Street?’

  His headset crackled. ‘Yeah, we’ve shut off all traffic, and on St Thomas Street as well.’

  Renfield hesitated, thinking that he should head back down the stairs, but he knew it would take him too long to reach the base of the pillar. DuCaine was already bracing himself for the jump.

  ‘OK, I’m going for it.’

  ‘Frat, don’t try it, mate.’

  Fraternity was there one second, gone the next. The suspect had made his second leap, and behind him DuCaine was about to land hard on the pillar he had just vacated.

  Renfield looked over the edge of the railway parapet and saw their target falling from the pillar towards the ground. Right at that moment, something entirely unexpected happened. The suspect stopped in mid-air, hovering above the street with his arms over his head. It seemed insane, impossible, but there he was, suspended above the road.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Renfield.

  His headset burst into life. ‘What’s happening?’ asked John May.

  ‘Fraternity’s doing a bit of parkour,’ he replied. ‘Suspect made a jump for the pavement. Only he didn’t make it.’

  ‘What do you mean, he didn’t make it?’

  ‘Not exactly sure, guv,’ Renfield admitted. ‘A bit of a Peter Pan job. He’s sort of floating above the road.’

  Their suspect had jumped between a pair of virtually invisible steel guy ropes running between the railway arches, which had been used to suspend signs for the London Dungeon’s last exhibition. He had dropped between them but the length of drainpipe manacled to his wrist had caught itself over the knotted cables. Trapped, he tried to grip the ropes with his free hand to ease the weight on his right arm, and now swung helplessly back and forth with his legs kicking, unable to move in any direction.

  A few moments later he was surrounded by various surprised members of the Peculiar Crimes Unit.

  ‘You’re too late!’ their suspect shouted down at them. ‘It’s over. I did what I set out to do. You know I did. Whatever happens now, remember this: I won.’

  ‘He can say what he likes,’ Jack Renfield told his boss, John May. ‘He’s hanging over the road like a kite stuck in telegraph wires. It looks to me like we’ve caught the Mr Punch Killer.’

  2

  ‘WHY ARE THEY ALLOWED TO BE THERE?’

  Over on St Thomas Street at exactly the same time, a Metropolitan Police traffic unit was redirecting cars around a makeshift cordon of railings, red plastic barriers and ribbons, but it was proving trickier than anyone expected. Articulated trucks were being forced to tackle the small side streets running under the railway arches, and were mounting the pavements as they turned.

  Sergeant Samuel Kemp-Bird was nearing retirement. What he saw around him was utter chaos. He hadn’t expected to end up on point duty tonight, but there was a lot of flu about and the traffic unit was short-staffed. He had only just recovered from a bad cold himself and the damp night air was filled with diesel fumes, tightening his chest. His spectacles were covered in water droplets, and he had nothing to clean them with. The traffic was backed up in every direction and seething, the drivers on the lookout for someone to blame. The sergeant wished he was in America, where failure to comply brought the threat of arrest. Here, drivers just laughed at you and swore.

  ‘Oi, mate, this is a joke, innit? What’s going on?’ a driver shouted down from the cab of his truck.

  ‘Police are arresting someone. The arterial roads around the station are closed. Keep it moving,’ Kemp-Bird called back, waving him on.

  The driver kept his air brakes on. ‘How am I supposed to get into the West End?’

  ‘You’ll have to go round and back up to Tooley Street, then down Borough High Street,’ Kemp-Bird replied. ‘Barnham Street’s shut but I think Shand Street’s still open.’ He called to his gormless young colleague, ‘Oi, Blakey, is Shand Street still open?’

  ‘Yeah, it must be,’ Blakey shouted back. ‘No one’s mentioned it.’

  ‘Are you having a laugh?’ The driver slapped the side of his truck with impatience. ‘This is an artic, not a concertina. And that’s not a road, it’s a bloody tunnel. It’s got a tight bend at either end and a low-clearance ceiling. I can’t get through that.’

  Sergeant Kemp-Bird stepped back and eyed the truck’s roof. He removed his glasses and wiped them. The trucker was holding up traffic. ‘You’ve got a good foot and a half all round, mate. You’re clear to go.’ He waved the vehicle on.

  The driver didn’t think so, not for a minute, but he was already two hours late getting his glassware into the old Covent Garden market because of delays to the ferry services, so he decided to take the traffic cop at his word. Releasing his brakes, he hit his turn signal and accelerated.

  The vehicle behind him, a gleaming red Chevrolet Cruze, pulled up near the traffic cop and its window rolled halfway down. ‘What’s going on?’ called the pretty blonde girl inside. Sergeant Kemp-Bird coughed. He thought he could smell dope over the blue exhaust fumes in the tunnel.

  ‘Detour,’ he said. ‘Where are you heading?’

  ‘Trying to get to Vauxhall. Why is it so difficult to get anywhere in this city?’ She sounded as if she might also have been drinking, but there was no room and no time to pull her over – he needed to get the traffic flowing again.

  ‘Look, just follow the truck in front to Borough High Street.’ Stepping back, he waved her on.

  Further along the tunnel, Sharyn Buckland pushed a strand of auburn hair out of her eyes and checked her watch again. The show had finished late, the service in the restaurant had been abysmal and the night tube wasn’t in operation tonight, not that she ever caught it this late – it was too full of drunk people eating the most disgusting burger things out of paper bags. ‘Stay close to me, darling,’ she told the boy, adjusting the heavy box under her arm. ‘We’ll find a taxi in a minute.’

  But there weren’t any taxis. Worse still, London Bridge Road appeared to be closed off and backed up in every direction. Sharyn could see the rotating blue lights of two squad cars parked across the road in the distance. It meant that everyone would be trying to hail a cab on the other side of the roadblock, at the approach to the bridge. She wished she’d chosen something light-coloured to wear instead of a black raincoat. At least then she would stand out more.

  Charlie Forester kicked at the kerb in annoyance. ‘Is my father bringing me something from Hong Kong?’

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ Sharyn replied. Mr Forester never forgot to bring his son a gift, just as he never bothered to bring anything for his wife. What was the point? Helen Forester spent half her life stressing out on business trips and the other half putting herself back together in health spas. Sharyn had been employed as the boy’s nanny since he was three, and he was now almost eight. She had severe doubts about Mrs Forester’s commitment to her son. Whenever Charlie wanted to t
ell his mother about his day at school she looked trapped and anxious to escape. Any attempt she made to show interest seemed awkward and false. Luckily Mr Forester made up for the imbalance in parenting skills. He was just about the best father a child could ever have. Sharyn wished Mr Forester would divorce his wife and marry someone with a warmer heart. He just didn’t realize there was already a devoted candidate living in his household.

  Charlie stepped into the empty street and saw the barriers. ‘Why aren’t there any taxis?’

  ‘They’ve closed the street. Come out of the road at once, please.’ There’s no point in just standing around here, she thought. Maybe we can get an Uber. If not I’ll have to find a cut-through to the station. But her phone wasn’t connecting to the internet and she wasn’t sure which road would take them through to the taxi rank. Looking up, she saw the sign on the wall: ‘Shand Street’. ‘Come along,’ she said, taking Charlie’s hand. ‘Your father will be home shortly. Let’s see if we can beat him back.’

  As she turned into Shand Street she realized her mistake. It wasn’t a street at all but a low brick tunnel leading underneath the railway lines. The walls were wet and green with calcifying rainwater. The air was sickly with truck fumes.

  ‘Sharyn, look – there’s a tramp.’ Charlie pointed at a bundle of clothes wedged inside a roll of corrugated cardboard.

  ‘They’re not tramps, they’re homeless people,’ Sharyn explained, lowering her voice.

  ‘You mean they stay here all night?’ Charlie asked in amazement. ‘He’s sleeping in his clothes.’

  ‘He doesn’t have anywhere to go. It’s not his fault. Imagine if your mother and father lost their jobs and couldn’t pay their bills – they’d have to sell your lovely house and you’d all have to sleep on the street.’

  ‘We’d stay with Granddad.’

  I bet you wouldn’t, thought Sharyn. Granddad wouldn’t like having his nice Monte Carlo lifestyle compromised. ‘Just come away, please. Let’s cross over.’

  She pulled him closer to her and they fled to the other side of the road.