Bryant & May 06 - The Victoria Vanishes

by Christopher Fowler

  At the moment, though, the area was still a battlefield of water-filled ditches and workmen’s barriers, tourists clambering past one another with suitcases. Bryant loved towns in transition, and King’s Cross was a core-sample of London at its most tumultuous. The Victorian buildings that had housed laundries, pawnbrokers and watchmakers had been rehabilitated into stripped-back modern offices.

  It was here that he found the headquarters of Theseus Research.

  Black-painted iron gates sealed a courtyard, beyond which a glass wall separated a security guard from the cold. The desk behind which he sat was so large that Bryant could only see the top of his head. He pressed the entry buzzer and awaited admittance. Instead of the gate swinging open, the guard emerged from the building into the rain and approached him.

  ‘This building is not open to the public, mate,’ he told Bryant through the bars, keeping his distance.

  ‘Hello there, I run the King’s Cross Rambling Club.’ Bryant pressed his official London Tour Guide licence against the railings. ‘There’s a public right of way that runs through the middle of your building, and we want to include it on our tour.’

  The guard’s cold eyes reminded Bryant of a mackerel he had seen on a Sainsbury’s slab. ‘There’s no access here. You can’t come through here.’

  ‘Then I’d like to speak with your public-relations officer.’

  ‘We don’t have one.’

  ‘Well, whoever deals with your general enquiries, then,’ he said, smiling and waiting with more patience than he could usually manage.

  ‘We don’t have general enquiries at the weekend.’

  ‘I thought you did. My grandson works here, you see.’

  ‘Then maybe you should call your grandson and get him to let you in.’

  Bryant knew of a few certainties in life. One was that you should never rub your eyes after chopping chilli peppers, another was that you should be wary of using red telephone boxes after drunks had been in them, and now to this list he could add the fact that the guard on the door was never, ever going to admit him to this building.

  ‘I’m an old-age pensioner,’ he said forlornly, looking up at the guard with pathetic, watery blue eyes. ‘I’ve come from miles away to organize this walk. I thought my grandson would be here, but he’s not. Please, is there at least someone I can call?’

  ‘You could try the general switchboard.’ The guard sounded more sympathetic, but none too hopeful. Bryant dug out his mobile, flicked several Licorice Allsorts from its casing and began to punch out a number.

  ‘Hey, you can’t do that from here,’ warned the guard.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’ve got a camera on that. This is a secure area. Official Ministry of Defence property.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Everyone who works here has to sign the Official Secrets Act. Even the cleaners.’

  ‘But it’s not as if they’re making bombs or chemical weapons inside, is it? This is a built-up area. There are railway stations.’

  ‘No, but they make plans here. For terrorist attacks and stuff like that.’

  ‘Well, in that case, I shall tell our ramblers that they can’t have access. We musn’t interfere with the government’s plans to protect us. Thank you – ’ Bryant squinted at the guard’s name tag, ‘ – Mandume. You’ve been very helpful.’

  It was obvious, now that he thought about it. There could never have been any other explanation. They were provided with cover stories because they were working for the Ministry of Defence, thought Bryant as he raised his umbrella and walked back into the rain.

  40

  * * *

  RECOLLECTION

  ‘I say, how do we get access to Ministry of Defence files?’

  Bryant asked the question casually as he caught up with a distraught Dan Banbury in the corridor of the PCU. The unit’s computers had been removed and packed up in boxes that all but blocked the main passage. Most of the rooms had already been emptied of files and personal belongings.

  Banbury released a snort of incredulous laughter. ‘We don’t,’ he said. ‘When it comes to the MoD, the same restrictions apply to us as to everyone else. By the way, there’s a strange man in the evidence room putting everything in black plastic bin-bags. There’s another one in the kitchen measuring things. He’s taken our kettle. I can’t find anything.’

  ‘Yes, but what if it involves possible breaches in the law of the land? Surely we have the power to act in the public interest if ordinary citizens are at risk? I’m afraid I’m a bit of a neophyte when it comes to the workings of the government. How do we stand on that sort of thing legally?’

  Banbury turned to look at him. ‘Who do you think has a bigger say in the running of this country, Mr Bryant? The police or the National Defence Department?’

  ‘Ah, I take your point. Then I’m not sure what to do. We’ve never had a situation like this before. Where we started at the beginning of the week isn’t where we seem to be heading now.’

  ‘With all due respect, where we’re heading now is outside on to the pavement,’ said Banbury. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, they’re kicking us out of the building. How are we supposed to work?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t had time to think about it. Have a word with the others about accessing secure information, would you? I suppose we’ll have to get everyone to regroup at my place for a while. Alma won’t be pleased, but John’s poky little flat isn’t large enough to hold us all. Nobody’s told us to actually stop work, it’s just a matter of relocation as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Are we going to be going right through the weekend then? Only it wasn’t on the roster.’

  Bryant gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Yes, Dan, we are going to carry on until we get to the truth. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Only that I’m looking after my nipper for a couple of days. He’s at the age where he’s a right handful, but I’ll have to bring him with me.’

  ‘Where’s your wife?’

  ‘With her new fella, a boiler-fitter from Stevenage she met at one of her sister’s wine-tasting nights. She’s leaving me. I suppose she didn’t want me to feel left out.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Being the only person at the PCU in a satisfying relationship, sir. Thought I’d fit in better as an embittered workaholic loner.’

  ‘Sarcasm will be the ruin of you, lad. Go and fetch the others.’

  ‘Mr Bryant wants everyone to meet him at his house in Chalk Farm,’ said Longbright, leaning her formidable chest against the door-jamb. ‘Are you coming, Raymond?’

  ‘How would it look if I did that?’ said Land. Whenever he was faced with conflicting emotions, he became static with indecision. ‘I can’t be seen to take sides, Janice.’

  ‘If we can get a conclusion on this over the weekend – ’

  ‘The case has already been closed, and I cannot reopen it without official approval. How are you going to continue investigating something that doesn’t officially exist?’

  ‘You’re technically in charge of the unit. Surely you can do it.’

  He didn’t like the way she said technically, or how she used his first name while according Bryant the dignity of a surname. ‘I can’t without producing quantifiable evidence for doing so.’

  ‘So you’re just going to walk away from us?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen? They’re impounding our files, sealing everything for later examination. I can’t go along with you, Janice. Take whatever you need and leave, get out of here before they try to stop you. If anyone asks me, I didn’t see anything.’

  ‘Well thanks a lot, Raymond, you really know how to put yourself on the line for us.’ Longbright slammed the door behind her, only to reopen it. ‘And don’t forget to collect Crippen’s bowl and litter tray before you go. It’s your turn to take him home with you.’

  Alma Sorrowbridge was not thrilled with the idea of nine members of the PCU putting their boots all over her freshly vacuumed ru
gs. She made them tea and left warm yellow cornbread on the sideboard where they could help themselves, then beat a hasty retreat to the Evangelical church on Haverstock Hill.

  As everyone arrived and settled in, John May laid down the files that the group deemed relevant to the proceedings by mutual consensus. Soon they had covered the floor of the lounge. May rocked back on his thighs and glanced across the labelled autopsy photographs, the CVs, the personal data files, the murder-location photographs and toxicology reports.

  ‘Well, we know that Pellew never worked with his victims,’ he announced, ‘because he was in the secure wing of the Twelve Elms Cross hospital during the period that our ladies worked at Theseus.’

  ‘The company has a website of sorts,’ said April, turning her laptop around to show them, ‘but as you’d expect it’s not very forthcoming about their activities.’ The screen revealed the anodyne silver logo of Theseus Research, together with a mission statement padded out with words like ‘safety’, ‘protection’ and ‘excellence’, but not much else. ‘They’re clearly an outside resource for the MoD, with no familiar names on their masthead. There are several authors of articles mentioned by name, though.’

  ‘I don’t recognize any of those.’ Kershaw read down the screen.

  ‘Wait, I know that one,’ said Banbury. ‘Katherine Cairns-Underhill, she was formerly attached to Porton Down as a virologist. She was one of the leading UK consultants during the Sarin gas attacks in Japan. Keep going.’

  April continued to scroll through the site. ‘I know that one,’ said Kershaw. ‘Iain Worthington, he’s a senior epidemiologist at the Royal Free Hospital.’

  ‘Skin diseases?’ asked Bimsley.

  ‘Epidemics, pathogenic spread. It sounds to me like Theseus Research is involved in the prevention of chemical warfare.’

  ‘Arthur, where did they get their name? You must know all about the myths surrounding Theseus.’

  ‘I can remember bits and pieces,’ said Bryant. ‘He was a founding hero of Greece, a great reformer. There was something about him recovering his father’s sword and sandals from beneath a gigantic rock. He slew the Minotaur with the help of Ariadne’s thread. He even survived a trip to Hades. I think the key part here is his trip through the labyrinth to locate the Minotaur. It’s analogous to the process of scientific discovery. But I don’t think we can piece much more together from a few incomplete scraps of information.’

  ‘We need to figure out where to look for Jackie Quinten,’ said Meera. ‘Do you think she could be inside their building?’

  ‘Is there still nothing on the police reports about her?’

  ‘Her description has been issued,’ said May, ‘but I don’t know how we’ll find out what’s going on from – forgive me, Arthur – a converted toothbrush factory in Chalk Farm. I do wish you’d kept your old Battersea flat with Alma.’

  ‘There are still a few people who owe me favours in the Met,’ said Renfield. ‘I can call around.’

  At a little before seven p.m. the clouds above the house split open and rain lashed down the banks of the garden, running beneath the back door. The hall quickly became flooded, and rivulets trickled as far as the lounge. By this time, the unit’s staff were sprawled out on armchairs and sofas throughout the building, like fractious members of a house party trapped indoors by the weather.

  ‘All those times Jackie spoke to you,’ said May in some exasperation. ‘You’ve even been to her house. Don’t you remember her telling you anything about herself?’

  ‘I wasn’t really listening,’ Bryant admitted. ‘You know what I’m like.’

  ‘I suppose you were multi-tasking.’

  ‘No, I was just thinking of something else.’

  ‘Now’s the time to use the memory-training techniques Mrs Mandeville’s been teaching you.’

  Bryant thought long and hard. ‘It’s no good,’ he said finally. ‘I need to smoke a pipe.’

  ‘All the windows are closed,’ said Meera. ‘Do you have to?’

  ‘It always helped Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘He was a fictional character.’

  Bryant decided to light up anyway, and produced some matches. He squinted at the yellow label on the box, then donned his reading glasses. ‘I say, has anyone noticed this?’ He held up the matchbox, studying the logo in amazement. ‘That’s us. “Bryant and May – England’s Glory”. I don’t know why I never thought of that before.’

  After three pipes the room was filled with fragrant smoke. ‘Can we open a window now?’ asked Meera. ‘It smells like burning tulips.’ She didn’t explain to anyone how she knew.

  ‘Can you really remember nothing you discussed with her?’ asked May.

  ‘All I’m sure of is that Jackie didn’t know about the deaths when I bumped into her at the Yorkshire Grey,’ said Bryant, thinking the matter through. ‘And the time I saw her before that, we talked mainly about the first law of behavioural genetics, I have no idea why. We discussed map-making, too. She runs the local-history society. Told me a lot about London’s geography.’

  ‘She might not have been meeting anyone,’ said Longbright. ‘She might simply have become frightened and gone away until everything has blown over.’

  ‘No, she was definitely seeing a friend, she told me so herself.’

  Everyone looked dumbfounded. ‘What do you mean?’ asked May.

  ‘When I saw her in the pub she said something about going out on Saturday to meet one of her gentlemen academics.’ It was typical of Bryant to leave out a piece of information anyone else would have felt compelled to pass on, but in this case he had only just remembered.

  ‘You might have told us earlier,’ said Longbright. ‘You don’t suppose she killed them, do you? And somehow blamed Pellew?’

  ‘That makes no sense at all,’ May told her.

  ‘The DNA matches were perfect on both blood and sweat,’ Kershaw reminded them, ‘and the thumb-print matched Pellew’s. We know it was him. Quod erat demonstrandum.’

  ‘But he was the symptom, not the cause,’ Bryant insisted. ‘The most dangerous element in this case was not Pellew at all, but the person who impelled his actions. I don’t think we have a way of dealing with the matter now. We’re simply not equipped.’

  He needed to give the others some air. Clambering up and heading for the back door, he stepped outside, breathing deeply, standing beneath the eaves as rain fell in sheets before him.

  Pellew and Quinten, he thought. There’s really no connection between them. How could there be? Did Pellew really go to the Exmouth Arms, just to leave behind the clue in the photograph? He had never come across a case remotely like this. Nothing hung together, none of it was linked. Anthony Pellew. A research laboratory. A clinic for mental disorders. Five – no, seven – lonely, maternal women. The Ministry of Defence. If only my memory—

  And then he remembered, something small, no more than a single sentence. Thank God for Mrs Mandeville, he thought. I take it all back, your system works!

  He shot back to the lounge much lighter in his step.

  ‘Arthur, we’ve been talking this round in circles,’ said Longbright, ‘and we’re convinced that you must be able to remember something more about Jackie Quinten. Do you have any idea who it was she went to see?’

  ‘Oh, I think I know now. I just don’t understand why, or what her connection is with him.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Arthur, spit it out!’ cried May finally.

  Bryant widened his eyes. ‘She went to find Dr Harold Masters.’

  ‘Wait a minute – your old friend Masters, the lecturer, the one I met in that odd little tavern?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Anyone will tell you that academics have a tendency towards sociopathic behaviour, and I think my old friend has finally overstepped the line.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ May admitted. ‘What has he got to do with Jackie Quinten?’

  ‘That I’m not sure of yet. But I think he’s got a lot to do with this,’ he to
ld the others, dragging on his overcoat. ‘And I can guess where to find Mrs Quinten. There’s no time to waste. I’ve known Harold for years, if only in a sort of distant way, but I’m familiar with his habits. He’s likely to be in one of three places. Colin and Meera, I need you to go to his house in Spitalfields. John and I will try the pub he told us he frequents. Janice, I’d like you and Sergeant Renfield to head for his office at the British Museum. And be careful. By now he may well be ready to kill in order to protect his secret.’

  41

  * * *

  THE PATH OF HOPE

  ‘He told me himself where he spends his evenings.’ Bryant hurried his partner through the fine soaking rain towards the car. ‘He’s a creature of habit, and he doesn’t know we’re looking for him.’

  May’s immaculate BMW wound its way down through the fading light towards Smithfields, and the welcoming lights of the Hope Tavern in Cowcross Street. The roads around them were deserted. They would not come to life until the clubs started up later in the evening.

  ‘The pub usually opens early for the market’s meat porters, and apparently derived its name from the Path of Hope,’ Bryant told him, ‘a section of the route taken by condemned prisoners from Newgate on their way to execution. The market didn’t appear until around 1855, but the pub’s curved-glass bay windows date it from an earlier time. Look at the etched windows, mythical birds surrounding twined Ts and Hs.’

  ‘This is no time for one of your guided tours, Arthur.’

  ‘Many years ago I took it upon myself to educate you, and I have not yet given up hope. Don’t feel bad, it’s been a reciprocal process. You showed me how to use my mobile phone correctly. Those calls I was accidentally making to Kuala Lumpur were costing me a fortune. Why have you got a tennis ball in your glove compartment?’