Bryant & May 06 - The Victoria Vanishes

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘I’m most dreadfully sorry, Jackie, I didn’t see you sitting there. You’re rather invisible in that corner.’

  ‘Thanks, you always know how to make a woman feel special.’ When she saw the look of mortification on his face, she relented. ‘Come and sit down for a minute, at least.’

  Bryant squeezed in beside her, breathing in the yeasty scent of fermented hops.

  ‘I suppose you’re here on business.’

  ‘After a fashion. I’m trying to stop a most unusual murderer.’

  ‘You always are, Arthur. That’s what you do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but this one is particularly slippery. He corners middle-aged women in public houses and puts them to sleep.’

  ‘I know an awful lot of men like that.’ Mrs Quinten did not appear in the least surprised. If anything, she looked as if her worst fears had been confirmed. Perhaps, thought Bryant, she had considered herself to be in London’s last safe place, only to find its status suddenly removed. ‘I presume they die in the process, otherwise you wouldn’t be involved. Why would he want to do that?’ she asked.

  ‘He probably hears voices, or is appeasing a desire, or attempting to restore an equilibrium only he understands. Who knows? Ask why men kill and you open the door to one of life’s most paradoxical mysteries.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’

  ‘Trying to learn how you can make a pub disappear. What about you?’

  ‘Oh, the usual, listening to a bunch of rambling old lecturers and writers talk utter rot. I have to get out occasionally, Arthur, otherwise I’d go insane. Besides, I’ve always had a soft spot for academics.’

  ‘Their endless curiosity about the world does seem to keep them young,’ Bryant admitted.

  ‘And I can’t stay indoors making chutney every day, you know. I refuse to watch the toxic drivel that passes for television these days. I thought that by coming to these sorts of events I might get a clearer understanding of the world. I wonder what it is that drives the old to such questioning.’

  ‘I find I’m getting more rebellious as I age,’ agreed Bryant. ‘The young accept the status quo to an alarming degree. I do wish they wouldn’t.’

  ‘Have we merely been disappointed with our lives, do you suppose?’

  ‘When I was young I fantasized about the future.’ Bryant flicked a droplet of splashed beer from Jackie’s sleeve. ‘Now that I’m living in it, I find it all a bit tatty. I was expecting us to be on other planets by now. I wanted genetic transformations and orbiting cities instead of internet porn and small improvements in personal stereos.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Jackie agreed. ‘Take this lot. They have plenty of ideas but no application. At least you might find them useful. Stanhope Beaufort sounds like your best bet, over there. He’s an architect.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Bryant. ‘Do you mind if I go and talk with him?’

  ‘No, but before you go, perhaps I can hold you to the promise of dinner. I’m not trying to lure you, Arthur. I’d make a rather unprepossessing siren. I just enjoy your company.’ She seemed hesitant about continuing. ‘And we’d appreciate your opinion about a private matter. On a professional basis, you understand.’

  ‘On that basis, I’ll do my best to oblige.’ Bryant relented, rising. ‘I’m free on Saturday.’

  Mrs Quinten looked disappointed. ‘That’s the one day I can’t do. I’m meeting one of my gentlemen academics.’

  ‘Oh, what an enormous pity. Another time then.’

  ‘Perhaps after I finished . . .’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude and spoil your evening.’

  He was aware of Mrs Quinten’s eyes on his back as he moved across the room. I’ll admit she’s a not unattractive woman, he caught himself thinking. I rather admire a firm maternal bust, but I’m damned if I’ll eat her kidney casserole.

  23

  * * *

  VANDALISM

  Stanhope Beaufort drained his pint and wiped his white beard. He had put on an enormous amount of weight since Bryant last saw him. Squeezed into a shirt clearly purchased before this gain, he looked like a sheep in a corset. ‘What the hell are you doing here, Arthur?’ he asked with characteristic brusqueness. ‘You only track me down when you want something, so what is it?’

  ‘Actually I happen to be a semi-regular among this crowd,’ Bryant pointed out. ‘But seeing as you’re here too, tell me, how long would it take a man to build a Victorian pub from scratch and then dismantle it again? Could he do it in a single night?’

  Bryant explained his predicament.

  Beaufort’s initial look of surprise transmuted into concentration as he applied himself to the puzzle. ‘It would be easier to go the other way around,’ he said. ‘Hide the pub behind a shop, because the Victorians built things to last. They used stronger mortar, thicker tiles, denser metals. But you could get a shop front up in an hour just by whacking a few sheets of coloured perspex over the brickwork and holding them in place with a handful of screws. Cover the windows with posters, strip the interior furniture, hide the bar behind racks of magazines, hire some old guy to sit at a counter and fob you off with some story about how he’d been there for years. Pubs usually have the capacity to be brightly lit, because the lights are traditionally turned up after time has been called, so they wouldn’t have to replace the lighting. I can see how that might just work.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bryant admitted. ‘It sounds loopy even to me.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was a sane idea, just that it’s possible. There’s one way to find out,’ said Beaufort. ‘I’ve got a crowbar in my car.’

  ‘Are you suggesting we try to take the front of the store off?’ said Bryant.

  ‘You’re a police officer, aren’t you? You can do whatever you like.’

  ‘Sadly we can’t,’ said Bryant. ‘I have a tendency to get caught.’ But he was already buttoning his coat.

  They found a parking space for Victor, Bryant’s decrepit Mini Cooper, in the next street over, and Beaufort slid the crowbar inside his coat as they walked to the corner of Whidbourne Street. The Pricecutter supermarket was in darkness. After checking that the coast was clear, Beaufort slid the implement from his coat and applied it to the oblong of orange plastic that covered the base of the store. He levered the crowbar back until there was a loud crack, and a two-foot-long triangle shattered, clattering to the pavement. Beaufort dropped to his knees and examined the brickwork underneath.

  ‘The fascia is screwed directly into the stonework,’ he pointed out. ‘With the right tools it could be removed in a few minutes, all of it, but the bad news is that the stonework underneath dates from the 1970s. Nothing is left of the pub that used to be on this site.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Bryant. ‘Couldn’t we get one of the upper panels off?’

  ‘This amounts to vandalism, Arthur.’

  ‘It’s a murder investigation.’

  ‘All right.’ Beaufort hoisted his bulk up on to the low window ledge and wedged his crowbar under the shop’s nameplate. It came away in an explosion of brick dust and plastic. ‘The same cement finish,’ he tutted. ‘Hopeless rendering, very disappointing. Still, the original structure of the building is intact. If you could get all this off, I suppose you’d be able to build a false front over the top of it, but you’d need several strong lads and plenty of specialist equipment. Help me down before I fall.’

  ‘That’s no good,’ said Bryant, holding out a hand. ‘I’m looking for a lone murderer, thin, slight build, late twenties or early thirties, not someone travelling around with a team of builders. Besides, even assuming that the killer arranged to meet his victim here, with all the real pubs in London to choose from, why would he feel the need to recreate one from the past? Damn, there’s someone coming. We’d better get out of here.’

  ‘I thought you’d be officially sanctioned to commit wanton acts of destruction,’ said Beaufort.

  ‘Er, no, not exactly,’ Bryant admitted,
looking around. ‘Time to scram.’

  Feeling like a pair of teenaged vandals, they shoved the broken plastic back in place and scooted across the pavement with Bryant using the crowbar as an impromptu walking stick. Dropping into the Mini Cooper, they struggled to regain their breath.

  ‘Well, I’m stumped,’ said Bryant, thumping his wheezing chest. ‘I most definitely saw the victim in that street. The St Pancras clock tower was directly behind her like a full moon. Can I give you a lift anywhere? I’m driving back to the PCU.’

  ‘You’re not going to carry on working tonight, surely?’

  ‘Just a few notes. I’ve asked everyone to come back. We need to create a more accurate profile of this gentleman.’

  ‘And how are you intending to catch him?’

  ‘That’s the tricky part. He appears to have come up with one of the simplest killing methods ever devised, which makes him either very smart or incredibly stupid.’

  ‘And which do you think he is?’ asked Beaufort.

  ‘Both,’ said Bryant.

  24

  * * *

  HANGOVERS

  ‘You’ve all been drinking,’ said May, shocked. ‘Look at the state of you, you’re half cut.’

  He glanced around the briefing room. Raymond Land was half asleep, Renfield looked sloshed, Banbury was poking about in a packet of cheese ’n’ onion crisps and Meera was wearing a suede fringed jacket with THE KING LIVES written across it in red, white and blue sequins.

  ‘Only in the cause of research, sir,’ said Banbury, crunching crisps.

  ‘Has anyone seen Bimsley?’ asked May.

  ‘Outside, sir. On the street.’

  ‘What’s he doing out there, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Snogging a girl, sir. Tongues and everything. Pretty hot stuff.’ Banbury wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and looked about the room. Meera attempted to quell him with a well-aimed stare.

  ‘He gave me his notes,’ said April, unfurling a ball of paper and smoothing it out.

  ‘Well, at least you’ve all been able to turn some in. I think the evening has given us a chance to reflect on the events of the past few days. I know how these women came to meet their deaths. I want to know why.’

  ‘With all due respect, old chap, we’re not going to be able to crack that nut overnight,’ said Kershaw. ‘We don’t have any clear suspects.’

  ‘We now have witness descriptions,’ said April, looking up from the collated notes she had laid neatly across the desk. ‘Naomi Curtis and Jasmina Sherwin were both approached by a man in his early thirties, attractive despite the fact that he has a large wine-coloured birthmark covering the left side of his face. We think he might be a former north London barman who was fired from his job. It shouldn’t be so hard to get a name.’

  ‘That depends on whether he was using his own,’ said Bryant. ‘Bar staff sometimes pay substitutes cash in hand to take their shifts.’

  ‘Then we have to hope this one was legally employed,’ said May, glaring at his partner.

  ‘There’s something else,’ said April. ‘Three of the victims knew each other.’ She held up a landscape photograph that clearly showed Naomi Curtis, Jocelyn Roquesby and Joanne Kellerman standing together in a bar holding glasses of red wine.

  ‘Where on earth did you get that?’ asked Bryant, amazed.

  April pointed across the room to Renfield. ‘Jack found it among the photographs of drinkers pinned behind the bar in the Old Bell, although it doesn’t look like it was taken there. The décor is different,’ she told the group. ‘Dan, perhaps you could examine the shot and get some clue to the location.’

  ‘The barmaid thinks it’s a recent addition, because she doesn’t remember it being there when she started working behind the bar last month,’ said Renfield.

  ‘Then it’s conceivable that the killer was drinking or working in a pub on the night they met, and singled them out.’ Kershaw tapped the photograph with a manicured nail. ‘When it came to meeting up with them separately, he could pose as one of the other two, using Kellerman’s mobile to send text messages. Could they have all been members of the same pub club?’

  ‘They met in a public house because it was secure,’ said Bryant.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s what Masters said, a pub is neutral territory. Why, the very word “public” suggests openness. They wanted somewhere safe and busy to meet, so that they could discuss something where they wouldn’t be bugged, watched or monitored, something common to all of them.’

  ‘Or someone,’ said Longbright. ‘Jasmina was stalked.’

  ‘The fundamental problem remains,’ said Bryant. ‘He’s changed his MO and didn’t taken Sherwin’s mobile this time, so how do we predict whether he will strike again?’

  ‘Start narrowing the search,’ said Renfield. ‘We put out a description to every pub in north and central London. He’s not going to leave his hunting ground. You said yourself that he feels comfortable there, Bryant. He’s local to the area. We could have him locked away by this time tomorrow.’

  ‘That would require extra manpower, which means involving the Met,’ Bryant pointed out.

  ‘What, you have a problem with that?’ Renfield wanted to know.

  ‘We don’t, but they do. They won’t help us, or you, despite the fact that your mates are still there.’

  ‘Bryant’s right.’ Land seemed suddenly alert. ‘We’ll have to do it ourselves. Let’s start making the calls and getting people out of bed. Nobody goes home tonight.’

  A collective groan rose in the room. The staff clambered from their perches and started to disperse.

  ‘It still doesn’t feel right,’ said Bryant, shaking his head as the office emptied. ‘We’re looking at the victims instead of the victimizer.’

  ‘You’re trying too hard, Arthur,’ said May. ‘You always do.’

  ‘No, this time my gut instinct is valid. I think – ’ He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, as if searching for ideas in the dusty cornicing. ‘I think I need to be alone with my books for an hour.’ He rose with a grimace and stumped off to his room.

  May knew it was pointless trying to control his partner. He could only follow and wait for revelations, no matter how wrong-headed they might be.

  Dan Banbury had scanned the photograph of Naomi Curtis, Jocelyn Roquesby and Joanne Kellerman drinking together, and, section by section, expanded the background illuminated in the flash of the digital camera, a 3.5 megapixel by the look of it. There were plenty of mobiles offering that level of quality. The top left hand of the photograph showed the edge of a window. From its placement, he could tell that the pub was on a corner. The light suggested early evening. Through the window he could make out a swathe of green plastic, a canopy made of metal rods, rows of what appeared to be oranges and bananas: market stalls. Two small gold letters had been painted in reverse on the glass, E and X.

  After that, it was simply a matter of running a search on all street markets in the central London area, and finding a corner pub with the letters E and X in its title. Only one fitted the bill: the Exmouth Arms, in Clerkenwell’s Exmouth Market.

  Banbury checked his watch and punched the air. The entire process had taken him less than fifteen minutes. He had a feeling they were finally getting somewhere.

  ‘All right, come on, you’ve had your hour. What is it you’re looking for?’ May shut the door behind him as he returned to the office.

  ‘I’m no good at understanding psychology,’ said Bryant. ‘I’ve always left that to you. But it seems to me that the taking of human life involves shame and regret as well as arrogance and cruelty.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that was always true. Serial killers usually fail to produce normal emotional responses. What are you thinking?’

  ‘That part of him wants to be caught. My problem is Jasmina Sherwin, the odd girl out. She’s younger, more overtly attractive, different in every way from the others. She doesn’t fit the pattern, and yet she’s
linked to the others by a description of the man who followed her. It doesn’t add up, John. Then there are the locations, all grouped together in a tight circle. He’s anxious to be stopped, and is trying to expose himself.’

  ‘Then why wouldn’t he just turn himself in?’

  ‘Something is driving him on to these acts of violence. No, violence is the wrong word, because I don’t think he hates women. The attacks are almost gentle, as if he just wants them to fall asleep in his arms.’

  ‘All right.’ May seated himself on the corner of the desk, thinking. ‘If he was very lonely – if he felt that the birthmark on his face kept him from being attractive to the opposite sex – this might be his way of preserving a moment for ever, of keeping women by his side in a place where he feels happy and comfortable.’

  ‘Then why aren’t all his victims like Jasmina? Look, do you remember when we were much younger, you tracked down a man who was attacking girls on Number 75 buses – 1968, I think it was. The first thing he said when you took him into custody was “Why did you take so long to stop me?” I think this is similar, and it makes me wonder if he’s leaving me any more explicit clues.’

  ‘You say leaving you clues. You don’t think it’s someone who knows you?’

  ‘It has crossed what’s left of my mind,’ sighed Bryant. ‘If only my memory was sharper. I’ve another appointment with Mrs Mandeville first thing tomorrow morning. She hypnotized me the other day, you know.’

  ‘Did it help to improve your memory?’

  ‘I think so. When I woke up, I suddenly remembered who I’d lent my electric drill to in the summer of ’86. It seems I accused the wrong person of stealing it. I should never have filled his garage with bees. You know there’s one thing about all these pubs, don’t you? We’ve been to them before, every single one of them.’

  ‘Yes, but so have thousands of other Londoners. If you like public houses, you’re bound to have tried a few on the list at some time in your life.’