Wild Chamber

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘I changed it,’ said Aston flatly. ‘The name had bad memories for me. That’s not a crime.’

  ‘I suppose it’s not,’ Bryant agreed happily. ‘But having the right name helped to sort everything out in my head. Your mother was Julia Richmond, critically acclaimed for her fiery portrayal of Titania. You saw her perform in the same role many times, didn’t you?’

  Aston remained still and silent.

  ‘She kissed an awful lot of donkeys, by all accounts. She even got a criminal record for doing so. “Running a disorderly house”, I think they still called it then. And you were there all the time, showing the punters in. Which is why you were put into care.’

  ‘My past has nothing to do with you,’ Aston said with low menace.

  ‘Oh, I think it does. I wondered what kind of effect it would have had on a young boy.’

  ‘I still loved her,’ he said softly, staring at the photograph. ‘I have a picture of her in the exact same pose. In her mother’s pose.’

  ‘The same pose Lauren Posner was in when they found her,’ said Bryant. ‘One of the hardest parts of being a policeman is knowing when to pursue something and when to leave it alone. They go to a house, the girlfriend’s been hit, she called the cops earlier but now she doesn’t want to press charges, that sort of thing. The Met’s busy, they’re not being paid to watch everyone; people have to be trusted to lead their own lives. Five call-outs to the flat of one Duncan Richmond, and nobody ever questioned it?’

  Aston rose and put on one of his white cotton gloves. He slowly circled the map desk, watching Bryant. ‘Lauren could be difficult sometimes. Tempers became overheated.’

  ‘Would you say Ms Posner was in an abusive relationship? Would you call yourself a latent sadist? Forgive me, I don’t suppose you knew back then, did you? Thought you just lost your temper because she was being annoying, not because you were enjoying it. You couldn’t see it until after the accident in the tunnel. And it was an accident, coming back from the party that rainy, chaotic night in the pretty red car, the Chevrolet Cruze, a bit over the limit, then getting diverted under the station. You must remember. After all, you were driving.’

  Aston looked at him blankly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘For of course the car was an American import and the steering wheel was on the other side, wasn’t it? So when you pulled up it was Lauren who spoke to poor old Sergeant Kemp-Bird, not you. Because he was standing in the middle of the road. An unwell traffic cop in steamed-over glasses with a babbling headset and honking vehicles trying to squeeze past. Even so, you’d think he’d notice something like that. No, because she leaned out of the open window and looked up at him, and his mind was elsewhere so he misremembered it. When the accident happened and the car mounted the kerb you slid down in the seat and Lauren got out to see what had happened, and it was messy and rainy and smoky and noisy, and nobody noticed that she hadn’t been driving because why would they? She was in what should have been the driver’s seat. But she couldn’t go to the hospital with the others because she couldn’t leave you, so she ran back to the car and you pulled away.

  ‘When Lauren found out that Charlie Forester had died, you got rid of the car and told her that if anyone came to talk to her she would have to lie. Which she felt dreadful about. But why? You could have owned up. It wasn’t your fault. That was the part I simply couldn’t understand. But my partner told me something that stuck. He said that people sometimes keep bad relationships going just for the pleasure of hurting a partner, that cruelty becomes the only thing that pleases them. Is cruelty the only thing that pleases you?’

  ‘I think you’d better go now, Mr Bryant,’ said Aston, moving closer.

  Bryant checked the big hand of his watch. ‘Yes, I should be off soon. Bear with me for a moment more, though. Where was I? You enjoyed making Lauren feel bad. Every time she angered you, you brought it up again and increased her sense of guilt. But you pushed her too far. Eventually she decided to visit Sharyn Buckland and tell her the truth – that it was you who caused the accident, not her. I imagine that’s when you decided she had to go. You got her drunk and took her to the park, which was virtually empty on such a cold afternoon. Lauren was a natural victim, empathetic and fragile. You enjoyed the power you had over her. You even told her what to wear. You dressed her as Titania, as your mother, and you said that everything was going to be all right, that you’d talk to Buckland and clear the whole thing up, and you gave her another drink – one to which you’d added a few crushed-up pills – am I right? What you hadn’t expected was the thrill it gave you, seeing her looking so angelic. You alone had the power to send her to a beautiful, peaceful place. And you posed her just a little, although you probably didn’t understand why you were doing it; it just made you feel more comfortable. But here’s a funny thing: suicide can’t be presumed – it has to be proven. And Lauren was found still wearing her glasses. People who kill themselves nearly always take their glasses off, and often their watches and rings. A little note of doubt was sounded at the inquest but nothing came of it. Then you went to see Sharyn Buckland, and watched her, trying to get up the nerve—’

  ‘I only wanted to talk to her,’ cut in Aston tonelessly. He was invading Bryant’s space now, his arms at his sides. Flicking a quick glance at the door, Bryant carried on. It was important to appear oblivious to any threat.

  ‘You followed Buckland, right to Helen Forester’s flat. What did the two of them talk about in there? You had no idea, but you thought the worst. Were they going to the police, to say it was you and not Lauren who was driving drunk that night? Or perhaps they weren’t even discussing that at all. You had no way of knowing. And you needed to find out. You hung around, trying to get a feel for what was going on. It must have been very frustrating. But this is where it gets interesting. You saw Helen Forester walking her dog. A very attractive woman, alone, keeping to a routine, whom you took to following.’

  ‘I heard Helen Forester on the phone outside her flat,’ Aston said, barely interested in his own story. ‘She said, “What should we do about him, Sharyn? Is there any point in going to the police? It won’t bring my son back.”’

  ‘So you killed her. You saw the light die in her eyes. And suddenly it all made sense. What you were doing wasn’t wrong. The women didn’t mind, in fact they were thankful for their release, and how you enjoyed the sensation! You stayed only long enough to make sure that Helen Forester was dead. The dog kept out of your reach but it wouldn’t leave, because what you didn’t know was that its master was also in the crescent with you, watching, but he was pathetically conflicted and powerless to act. So you ran off, leaving the dog behind, and as Jeremy Forester followed you out, the dog followed him. But you still had to take care of Buckland. And then – far more inconvenient – came a report in the news that you had been seen by a gardener.’

  ‘If you’ve finished now,’ said Aston, ‘I think perhaps it’s best if you go.’

  Bryant walked around the desk, casually moving away from Aston. ‘The last part of the puzzle was how you killed her, what you could possibly have used. We thought it might have been the dog leash except that we eventually found it in Green Park. You didn’t leave anything behind except a few tiny pieces of what looked like lead shot. You hadn’t planned to kill Helen Forester, so you had to make do with something that was already on your person. An item you might have had in your pocket. Then I remembered something I’d seen. That’s why I came here – to find it.’

  Aston slowly opened his fists. ‘I believe this is what you’re looking for.’

  49

  ‘THAT’S HOW ALL OF THIS BEGAN’

  As Aston approached, he wrapped one end of the thin grey cloth tube around his left fist. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t spot it last time. Not much of a detective, are you?’

  ‘I’m a bit of a bat when it comes to eyesight,’ said Bryant. ‘What is that?’

  ‘We use them all the time in the library,’
Aston said. ‘Many of the larger books are too wide to hold open.’ He held up the bobbled cord to demonstrate. ‘It’s a linen tube filled with small balls of lead. You lay it across the open page. It’s heavy enough to keep the book flat while you work. They come in different weights and lengths. We have hundreds here. I’ve always got one on me. I find the seventy-centimetre one works best.’

  ‘Trouble is, that one has a frayed end. You’ve lost some pieces of shot from it.’ Bryant needed to keep talking. The library was mostly deserted at this time. He had no idea how long it would be before the security guard he and Maggie had dodged would appear. ‘I couldn’t see how you’d gained access to Clement Crescent. Then I remembered what a busybody old Mrs Farrier was. She saw you skulking about, didn’t she? She wanted to know what you were up to. What did you tell her?’

  ‘Do you know, I don’t even remember. She invited me in for afternoon tea.’

  ‘And that was when you discovered she had a budgerigar.’

  Aston gave a mirthless chuckle at the thought. ‘I guess I’m just full of good ideas. The old lady left her keys on the table while she went into the kitchen. I remembered those things from when I was a kid …’

  ‘They’re cuttlefish bones, Mr Aston. You wedge them between the bars of a cage and the birds like them because they’re full of calcium. Best of all, they’re very soft. The funny thing is that by pressing the key into the bone and taking an impression, you were replicating the exact method used by nineteenth-century burglars. That’s how they illegally copied keys back then.’

  ‘I knew that, of course. Kirkpatrick talks too much. A child could make one. The hardest part was finding any lead to melt into the impression. I had to buy some old toy soldiers and melt them down.’

  ‘You could have used the book weights,’ said Bryant. ‘You missed a trick there. Not very improvisational, are you?’

  Aston wrapped the book strap around his fists and flexed it. ‘I improvised all the way. The name, the key, the cord, the women. Luck was on my side.’

  ‘Perhaps your luck has finally run out.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Aston took a step closer, towering over him. ‘Old man falls down library steps. I’m sure it’s happened many times before.’

  ‘The stupid thing is, none of it should have happened at all,’ said Bryant. He looked urgently towards the door, realizing how very far away it now seemed. It was essential to keep the conversation going. ‘The boy wasn’t hurt by your car. My analysis will show that when he bent down to pick up the toy truck he accidentally transferred the shard to his eye. You killed Lauren Posner for nothing. Not quite true – you killed her because you wanted to.’

  Before Bryant had a chance to move, Aston released one end of the heavy cord and whipped it around the detective’s neck with astonishing speed. It was like being struck with a gaucho’s boleadoras. Bryant suddenly found himself unable to draw breath.

  Aston pulled the cord tighter. Bryant tried to get his fingers under it, but was too weak to gain a grip. He felt himself being lifted off the floor. Lights danced before his eyes. The door seemed a mile away now. God, he thought, what a bloody silly way to die.

  The handle of the main door rattled as the shadow of a small woman appeared in its window. ‘Arthur, is this the one?’ called a thin, querulous voice. ‘Are you in there or did I get it wrong again?’

  Aston held on to the cord in silence and pulled tighter. Bryant could not move or call out.

  ‘I should have written the number down, shouldn’t I? I thought it was B230. Or was it A300? Or is that a motorway?’ The handle rattled once more, then stopped. No, Bryant cried out silently, don’t go! He watched in horror as Maggie’s shadow slipped away.

  Aston renewed his grip, pulling Bryant further off the ground. The detective felt his consciousness blur and fade.

  With his last breath he kicked out his left foot, knocking over a tin wastepaper bin. Then came darkness.

  ‘Some of us are still trying to do some bloody work in here, you know,’ said Ray Kirkpatrick, removing his headphones and peering around one of the library stacks. The great bearlike English professor had been working around the corner of the large L-shaped room and now rose from his seat, thudding over. ‘Do you want to put Mr Bryant down or do I have to tear your earholes off?’

  Aston was so surprised to see someone else in the department that he froze, so Kirkpatrick punched him in the face. He struck with astounding force, breaking Aston’s nose. Bryant fell to the floor, yanking the cord from his neck. For good measure, Kirkpatrick stood on Aston’s windpipe until he blacked out.

  ‘Could you be a bit more careful, Arthur? He might have killed you.’

  ‘Very possibly,’ wheezed Bryant, ‘if he’d had a knife. That lariat wasn’t doing the job very efficiently, I’m wearing two scarves.’

  ‘It’s a miracle I heard you.’ Kirkpatrick gave Aston a boot in the head just to be sure he was unconscious. ‘That bin went over during the three-second break between Cannibal Corpse and Decapitated Funeral. The next time you decide to get into a scrape, you might want to check that you’ve got some back-up first.’

  ‘If you can’t feel safe in the British Library,’ Bryant said, rubbing his sore neck, ‘where can you?’

  ‘Ah, so this is the right room,’ said Maggie, wandering in. ‘Arthur, whatever are you doing sitting on the floor?’

  Darren Link checked his Russian aviator’s chronometer. ‘Three thirty, on the nose,’ he said. ‘That’s it, Islington’s team is standing around in the rain like a bunch of King’s Cross sploshers and the PCU’s time is now officially up.’

  He phoned John May. ‘I’m sorry, mate, we’re coming in. I’d quite prefer it if you unlocked the door. Save us doing a London knock. My sergeant did his back in ice skating and can’t lift the battering ram.’

  ‘Can’t we just have five more minutes?’ May pleaded. ‘I tried calling Arthur but he’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘That’s because he’s old, deaf and mad as a bag of ferrets,’ Link pointed out. ‘Come in, number 231, your time is up.’ He prodded his sergeant. ‘Bassett, don’t just stand there like a wet weekend, go and see if he’s opening the door. Put your ear to it.’

  Bassett lowered a tentative lughole on to the cold steel. ‘I can’t hear anything, sir,’ he called back, and then fell in as the door swung open.

  ‘Come on up,’ said May wearily. ‘We’ll co-operate, I promise.’

  Darren Link stepped over his sergeant and warily led his men into the building. ‘Don’t touch anything,’ he told them. ‘There’s all kinds of weird stuff lying around this place.’

  Bassett clambered to his feet and gave him an odd look. ‘What’s the matter?’ Link asked. The sergeant held up his hand to show the palm covered with some kind of green fungus. He pointed to an upturned plate that had been left behind the door. ‘For God’s sake, wipe that off quickly,’ Link warned. ‘Bryant conducts experiments. It could be anything.’

  ‘It’s OK, it’s cake icing,’ said Janice Longbright, taking the plate away. ‘We were hungry. Please, come in.’

  She led the way to the operations room. When Link pushed open the door, he was amazed to see Arthur Bryant sitting surrounded by the other members of the PCU staff. A peculiar-looking woman in a rainbow jumper covered with costume jewellery was serving tea as if she was at home on an ordinary Sunday afternoon, and not in a barricaded police unit.

  ‘How the hell did you get in here?’ Link demanded to know.

  ‘I came through next door,’ replied Bryant. ‘Your killer is in the basement. It’s all right; he can’t get out. We don’t have a detention room any more so I’ve handcuffed him to a radiator. I was rather loath to do it, seeing as that’s how all of this began, with another killer chained to a drainpipe. If that one hadn’t got away we would never have had to close the roads under London Bridge Station.’

  ‘What’s he babbling about?’ demanded Link. ‘Is he ill again?’


  ‘No,’ said John May proudly. ‘He’s solved the case.’

  50

  ‘MADE RICHER BY YOUR FRIENDSHIP’

  At 7 p.m. on Sunday the Caledonian Road was almost deserted, even though the rain had ceased and the clouds had cleared, leaving an ocean sky. In number 231 the lights had been lowered to a gentler hue, and only the unit staff remained. They had stayed to clear up after Link’s arrival with the health and safety officer, but also because they enjoyed each other’s company and had nowhere more important to go.

  ‘Cheer up, Raymondo, have some Chateau Gumshrinker,’ coaxed Bryant, opening a bottle of absolutely terrible Siberian burgundy and passing a glass to the unit chief. ‘I guess your watercolour holiday will have to wait a while longer. Never mind, you have the remains of your life spread out before you in a rich panoply of disappointment.’

  ‘I still don’t know how you did it,’ Land admitted. ‘I mean I know, you’ve explained, but I just can’t see it in my head.’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ said Bryant, pointing at his partner. ‘We did it together. Aston’s psychology didn’t interest me; I thought he acted purely on instinct. If it hadn’t been for John, it would never have occurred to me that when Aston took his girlfriend’s life he had opened the Pandora’s box of his own hidden feelings. A series of small nudges led him to kill again.’ He ticked off the points on his fingers. ‘If he hadn’t hung the family photograph above his desk. If he hadn’t followed the nanny to Clement Crescent. If Mrs Farrier hadn’t invited him in for tea. If he hadn’t thought of copying the key to the gardens. If he hadn’t seen Helen Forester walking the dog in her white tracksuit. If he hadn’t had the book strap in his pocket.’ He raised the wine bottle to the light. ‘Can we bin this before it makes our teeth fall out and go over to the Scottish Stores instead?’