‘Do you think that’s wise,’ called May, ‘just when Dan’s finished clearing the site?’
‘I want to see where he goes,’ said Bryant. There was a clatter of crockery. ‘The caddy’s empty. What kind of person runs out of teabags?’ He tutted. ‘Utterly lacking in moral fibre.’
‘You’re wearing gloves, I hope.’
‘This isn’t the murder site. Lincolns? Nobody likes those. You can learn a lot about a person from the biscuits they choose.’ Bryant replaced the packet in disgust and unclipped Beauchamp’s tartan leash. The terrier snuffled off at speed.
May folded his arms, amused. ‘And now we just hand the detective work over to Lassie?’
‘Attar of roses, made from damask or cabbage roses. It’s a heavy, old-fashioned scent that’s rather fallen from fashion,’ Bryant declared. ‘You must have noticed that Janice wears it, along with a lot of peculiar garments she seems to have salvaged from the wardrobes of old actresses. It was Helen Forester’s perfume. It’s an oil, so it has a tendency to stick to surfaces. Beauchamp is looking for his mistress.’
They followed the dog from room to room as he whined and scratched and circled about. When he sat outside Mrs Forester’s wardrobe looking up at May with beseeching brown eyes, the detective was impelled to open the door. The dog shot inside and fell silent.
May peered in. Beauchamp had curled up in a corner. Puzzled, he moved the dog and felt underneath. ‘There’s nothing here.’
‘I have a torch.’ Bryant lowered himself to the floor with a grunt and shone his beam into the corner. Scrabbling at the base of the wardrobe, he lifted a cut section of wood and pulled out a shoebox. ‘Well done, Beauchamp. What have we here?’
Taking the box to the dressing table, he donned gloves and pulled off its lid. Inside were an antique perfume bottle, a jewellery holder and a thick A4 envelope. He tipped the contents on to the table. ‘What is it that impels us to stash away our treasures in boxes?’ he wondered. ‘It’s the paperwork for her divorce proceedings, ID documents and so forth. Ah. And something I imagine Jeremy Forester was desperate to get back – his passport, and this.’
Carefully tucked inside the passport wallet was a gold credit card issued by the Royal Bank of Hong Kong.
‘She wouldn’t give him the passport,’ said Bryant, ‘but he couldn’t admit to needing the credit card as well, because of the declaration of wealth required by the pending divorce settlement. He had money and a means of escape, but couldn’t access either.’
‘Then he must have been very angry with her,’ said May.
Jeremy Forester was exhausted. He had not had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. His skin felt coated in a film of sweat and ground-in dirt that no public bathroom tap or sliver of hotel soap could remove. He needed a hot shower and a change of clothes. People were starting to avoid him in the street.
The situation was an escalating nightmare; he had money in the bank that he couldn’t withdraw, overseas investments he couldn’t touch and property that was no longer his to sell. He didn’t even have any loose cash because someone had stolen his wallet while he was wandering through the crowds at Waterloo Station, trying to fill the hours of his day.
He changed his routine constantly, forcing himself to stay away from the places he knew. He couldn’t afford the risk of being seen. Helen had always looked after the house bills and documents, and without his passport he was stranded in the country.
Nothing in his hitherto comfortable life had prepared him for this. In the last few weeks he had come to realize that he possessed no practical skills at all. He had been trained to negotiate contracts, make presentations, balance figures and hire others, not feed and clothe himself. He’d always told people that he was a survivor, but living well had nothing to do with survival.
Everything he had taken for granted was now a challenge. He didn’t know how to get the simplest thing done, and was desperate enough to consider stealing. Out of cash, friends and escape routes, he had even missed his chance to pick up this week’s park guide from the Rough Sleepers Community. Without it he did not know how he could eat, or where he could sleep. He couldn’t risk visiting a legally registered charity in case they shared his details.
To a man who was used to having a twenty-four-hour concierge service the learning curve was steep and unpleasant. His former colleagues proved not to be friends. They didn’t even care enough about him to be enemies, and only became engaged when discussing company politics. He saw himself reflected in them. The same tunnel vision that kept him focused on hitting financial targets had fatally undermined him as a normal human being.
The realization forced him into a desperate decision. He headed north to Melissa’s flat, hoping to catch her as she came home from work.
The battered-looking Victorian houses that lined Hornsey Lane were partially hidden behind tall hedges. Checking the address, he loped across the road and tried her doorbell but there was no answer, so he slipped into the front garden to wait.
Half an hour later a black taxi pulled up outside and Melissa Byrne stepped on to the pavement with an armful of Miss Selfridge shopping bags. For a brief, disconcerting moment Forester had a glimpse of his old life. He knew he looked different; moving from a heated car into a temperature-controlled building had allowed him to wear a black suit and white shirt all year round. Now he was wearing a charity shop sweater and jeans, and his hair needed cutting. The idea of spending fifty pounds on a trim and shave had become fantastical.
He knew he had not been good to the women in his life, but now the balance of power had changed and even Melissa, who worked at home on Fridays but was mysteriously never near a phone, and couldn’t book restaurants without getting the days confused, had the upper hand. He wondered if she was bearing a grudge or would try to help him. Knowing that he smelled unsavoury and looked possibly dangerous in his muddy clothes and wild-haired state, he resolved to keep his distance so as not to alarm her.
Melissa already had her key in the door when he called out to her. She turned in surprise and took a moment to recognize him. She did not appreciate complications in her life. ‘What are you doing here?’ She stayed on the step, refusing to release the key from the door.
‘I know you must have wondered what was happening,’ he began unsurely.
‘They told us you’d been released for violating company policy.’ She continued to slowly turn the key.
‘I can promise you I acted in the company’s best interests.’
Melissa didn’t care whether he did or not. She had no interest in his career.
‘I’ve been going through hell. You have no idea what it’s like. I lost everything, Melissa. I’m sure you’ve heard all kinds of stories about me and you’re going to hear worse in the coming days, but I’m not who they say I am. Please, I need you to trust me.’
Melissa did not see why she should. Her position at Washbourne Hollis was better without him, so why should she jeopardize it? He was toxic now, and the taint would rub off on to her.
‘I’m sorry, Jeremy, I feel bad for you but I don’t see what I can do.’ She pushed open the front door and prepared to close it behind her.
‘There are people coming after me. I need some money – not a lot, just some cash to get me by. I have plenty in my account but it’s locked. I can pay you back when I get into it.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, trying to match the sight of this pathetic pleading figure with her memory of their drunken night together. ‘I really don’t see what I can do—’
He lost his temper. ‘Jesus, you’ve got enough money, look at all this crap you just bought! It wouldn’t kill you to help me out.’
She had been about to offer him what she had in her purse, but now her heart froze. ‘You never treated me like a real person, Jeremy, not even in Berlin. You only come to me when you need something.’ She stepped inside with the Miss Selfridge bags and shut the door behind her.
He was still deciding his next move when he h
eard a car pull up. He turned in time to see a heavily muscled Chinese man in his late twenties exiting a red Porsche and heading towards him, walking at a steady rate that suggested he would intercept his quarry whatever happened. His face was as blank and smooth as marble. He was incapable of keeping his gloved hands at his sides; his black suit was so tight that it would surely rip if he raised an arm.
Forester knew he had been a fool not to think that someone would be waiting for him. He looked at his options. The lane was lined with mature oaks and elms that kept the wet pavements in shadow. There was no one else around. He set off, keeping the parked cars between himself and his pursuer. The man had now drawn level and was looking for a way to squeeze between the vehicles and grab him.
Ahead, spanning the six lanes of Archway Road, was Hornsey Lane Bridge, a forty-foot-high steel and stone viaduct that appeared much higher because of its vertiginous views down to St Paul’s Cathedral and the Gherkin. It was soon to be fitted with anti-suicide fences because it had proven too easy to climb, but for now there were only ornamental railings.
Forester carried on walking. When he heard the sound he first thought that someone had kicked a stone against a car. Then it occurred to him that it might be a gunshot. A wave of fearful disbelief swept over him. Would someone actually fire at him in broad daylight?
The second clatter against the window of a builder’s van made him turn.
He watched as the knife spun on its hilt before coming to a stop on the tarmac, pointing at him. The man behind the cars reached into his belt and pulled out another silver blade.
You’ve got to be kidding, Forester thought. Not again.
They knew he had no way of clearing his debts. Was he more useful to them with a knife in his back? He wondered if they had figured out a way of reclaiming the Hong Kong property without him. The knife-thrower was a rather theatrical touch even for someone employed by Sun Dark.
He remembered the previous time they had encountered each other. He had been crossing the western quarter of Hyde Park when the man had walked towards him and thrown the dagger. It had landed between his feet, its tip burying itself two inches into the ground. He had pulled it free while the man stopped to watch before walking away, a warning Forester understood all too well.
‘Wait, wait,’ he said, stopping on the pavement and turning with his raised hands towards the Chinese man. ‘This is crazy! What are you doing? Get me a meeting with your boss. I can sort this out.’
The next knife cut his left hand between the third and fourth digit, and the pain was at a level he had never before experienced. The blade was razor sharp, and stung like a deep paper cut in the soft flesh at the base of his fingers. Blood sprayed on to his sweater. So there was to be only one warning. This time he was to be injured, the next killed. As a system of persuasion it was fairly faultless.
He had no choice but to start running again.
As he hit the approach to the viaduct, drawing level with the black iron railing, an insane thought entered his head. The arterial road below was used by trucks, which were forced to reduce their speed as they reached the converging lanes that led to Shepherd’s Hill. He looked down at the drop to the northbound traffic lane, and his resolve failed. Only for a moment, though, because the next knife glanced off the roof of the Nissan behind him and nicked his right arm, slicing through the material of his sweater to the skin beneath.
Climbing on to the balustrade would place him in clear view of the knife-thrower, but if he timed it right, only for a second. He was approaching the iron column of a lamp with spikes fanned on either side of it to prevent jumpers, but saw now that they might protect him.
Looking over the edge of the bridge once more he realized that the traffic had slowed to a crawl – and coming out from under the bridge was a furniture truck with a Plexiglas roof that allowed daylight to enter its storage area. One swift but shaky step took him to the top of the balustrade. He felt another sting, smaller this time, on the side of his left knee. Without looking back, he swung around the fan of spikes and pushed himself out as far as he could above the roadway, leaping into the fume-filled air above the dual carriageway.
‘We’ve got Forester,’ said Jack Renfield, stopping in the doorway of the detectives’ office. ‘He’s in University College Hospital. At first they thought he’d tried to kill himself but it looks like an accident.’
‘Why, what did he do?’ asked Bryant, pushing back his chair. May was already grabbing his coat.
‘He jumped off the Archway Road bridge. He landed on the roof of a truck, fell off the back and was run over by an ice cream van. Not very dignified but at least the driver was able to pack his broken leg in Raspberry Ripples until the EMT arrived.’
‘But he’s alive?’
‘Yeah, just not in one piece,’ said Renfield. ‘He’s in the ICU.’
‘That’s a nuisance,’ said Bryant unsympathetically. ‘Can he blink?’
‘No, Mr Bryant,’ said Renfield, ‘he can’t blink, he can’t do anything, he’s out cold. It gets weirder. He has knife cuts in his left hand, right arm and left knee. The bloke who chased him there was chucking daggers, and didn’t stop to pick them back up. Dan’s looking at several big razor-sharp buggers, the same as the one in Clement Crescent, so as we suspected, Mrs Farrier’s memory of her so-called “missing knife” must be wrong. These are mainly found in one London store – a Chinatown supplier who makes speciality knives for high-end restaurants.’
‘We’ve got the CCTV,’ said Banbury, sticking his head in. ‘It’s set up.’
Everyone trooped into the operations room, where Raymond Land joined them in confused curiosity. Banbury ran the footage from his laptop on to the large screen, pausing it at the point where Forester jumped. ‘It’s a pity it’s in long shot but there are no camera mounts on the bridge itself. You can clearly see it’s him, but watch.’
He hit play again. Moments later Forester clambered up on to the balustrade, clutching his arm. He paused for just a moment, looking over the edge, then threw himself out. Four seconds after he made the leap a smartly suited figure arrived at the edge of the bridge and peered over.
‘His pursuer just walked away,’ said Banbury, ‘so I’m assuming he came from a car. He looks to be of Chinese descent, but we only have a partial on his features. The camera was too far away and the definition is rubbish.’
‘Why was Forester there?’ asked May.
‘His former assistant lives just up the road. Apparently he was waiting for her when she arrived home. She says he ran off before she could do anything.’
‘Did anyone else at Washbourne Hollis know why he was fired?’
‘No, but there was plenty of gossip going around. The subject of embezzlement came up a lot.’
‘So that’s it,’ said Land with an air of grateful finality. ‘Forester got himself into debt, tried to make up the lost money, was caught with his hand in the till and given the boot. His wife found out he’d lost his job and demanded a divorce, so he choked her to death. Then this loan shark comes after him so he tries to kill himself.’
‘He might have panicked, but he was trying to escape,’ said Bryant. ‘You can tell from the footage that he thought he could land on the lorry.’
‘But he still killed his wife, didn’t he?’ Land asked hopefully.
‘No, he went to Clement Crescent to get his stuff back and leave the country, but she wouldn’t help him.’
‘All the more reason to kill her if you ask me,’ said Land, but no one was asking him.
‘Which brings us to the dagger.’ May held up the evidence bag containing the first knife. ‘This one matches the ones thrown at Forester on the bridge. Same enamelled handles, no fingerprints.’
‘You’re not suggesting that this Chinese bloke was also in the garden on Monday morning?’ Land made a noise of disbelief. ‘Just how many people were in there?’
‘No,’ Bryant replied. ‘Forester is the link. My guess is he encountered the knife-t
hrower earlier and picked up the dagger, keeping it for protection.’
‘So he could have taken it to Clement Crescent to attack his wife.’
‘Don’t be absurd, mon petit tête à claque. We know he still loved her. As he was sleeping rough, he probably kept the knife on his person for defence, but in the chaos of what happened on Monday morning, he lost it.’
Land snorted so derisively that he had to wipe his nose. ‘By “lost it” you mean “buried it under a rose bush”?’
‘No, of course not, but that part is easily explained.’ Everyone waited, but of course nothing was forthcoming on the point. ‘Forester confronted his wife in the gardens because he couldn’t allow himself to be seen outside the flat. He asked her to return the passport wallet but she refused. It’s ludicrous to think that he would kill her without going back to the flat and searching for it. Instead, he ran off. Her keys were still in her pocket. It may look like a simple domestic to you but there are dark roots to this case.’
‘If he hadn’t done anything wrong, why didn’t he call the police?’ asked Land, mystified.
‘Because he witnessed the murder,’ said Bryant. ‘And it was someone he knew. That’s why we have to talk to him.’
19
‘THE SHRUBBERIES ARE FILLED WITH ASSIGNATIONS’
The wind was high in the trees, breathing secrets through the branches. Arthur Bryant stood looking in through the great black gates that led into Mecklenburgh Square. Alone among central London’s green spaces this one had always struck him as strange and slightly forbidding. Nobody ever walked around here. Beyond the hedges were great dark elms and towering plane trees that seemed to have entirely outgrown the garden.
The after-effects of his medical treatment had left him with troughs of tiredness, so he had left the unit early to walk back to the flat he shared with Alma in Bloomsbury. Looking around, he recalled investigating a bizarre murder involving a houseful of UCL students living in the square. He wondered if any of them were still in residence, or if they had all graduated and gone. It was an area where everyone moved on.
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