‘Finding the right partner’, Bryant continued, ‘is like buying a car. You either try all sorts of flashy vehicles and drive them at high speed or you keep one in the garage that never goes anywhere, which you keep polished and cherish for ever.’
‘What a peculiar mind you have.’ May shaded his eyes and pointed to a poster pasted to a pub wall. ‘Look, it’s today – the Canal Carnival.’
‘The Regent Regatta.’
‘The Pontoon Procession.’
‘The Maritime Motorcade.’
‘The – er …’
‘Hesitation.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘Sixpence.’ Money changed hands. They ran to the side of the bridge that passed over Camden Lock and looked over.
A flotilla of tugs and barges was queuing to get through the lock, each craft decorated in a different style. As clouds of confetti drifted over the revellers, trumpets, drums and guitars clashed in a cacophony of noisy merriment.
One barge was painted as the Yellow Submarine, crewed by Blue Meanies and girls in shaggy purple mini-furs. The one behind it was populated entirely by pregnant women. Along its hull had been painted the words: ‘Our Bodies – Our Choice’. Several of the chanting mothers-to-be had their bare bellies daubed with slogans: ‘Burn Your Bra’, ‘Baby Love’, ‘We Can Do It!’ Further back, a blue and white Royal Naval Lifeboat bobbed about, its slickered crew collecting donations from the crowd.
‘This is so groovy,’ said May.
‘Can you not say that?’ asked Bryant, wincing. ‘I don’t know where you pick up these ghastly neologisms.’
‘But it’s change, Arthur! You can smell change in the air.’
‘I can smell hot dogs, incense and marijuana.’
‘Just take a look around you. Remember how grey everything was when we were kids? How everything had to be shut down, closed at five, turned off to save money? Half the time you couldn’t even get a cup of tea.’ He looked over at a knot of Jamaicans openly smoking cannabis. ‘And now it’s all so—’
‘Don’t say it,’ Bryant warned.
‘—turned on.’
‘You had to, didn’t you?’
May shrugged happily. ‘This is freedom.’
‘This is a few people openly using drugs in the street, John. It’s all fun and laughter now but where will it end? Smoke a little weed, snort a little cocaine, inject a little heroin?’
‘What’s wrong with a little idealism?’ May asked. ‘You admire free thinking in others so long as you don’t have to get involved.’
‘In what, exactly?’ asked Bryant heatedly. ‘How are this lot going to change the world?’
‘Try reading Castaneda – it’ll blow your mind.’
‘I don’t want my mind blown,’ Bryant replied grumpily. ‘These hippy writers are selfish and irresponsible. I’ll tell you what made our nation the bastion of patrician morality it is today: the ability to be profoundly miserable. It’s one of our greatest strengths, to be ranked beside shutting the boozers at ten thirty and regarding the waterproof mackintosh as an acceptable item of clothing. Where is all this irresponsible fun going to lead? To nihilism, ignorance and— Burlington Bertie.’
‘I’m not playing another game.’
‘No, down there, on the Yellow Submarine. It’s Burlington Bertie from Bow.’
May leaned over the side of the bridge and peered down. ‘I have no idea who you’re talking about.’
‘Do you never look at the Police Gazette?’ Bryant cantilevered further over. ‘He was once the East End’s most notorious hitman – until he went bonkers. He carried out a double murder in Burlington Arcade and pleaded insanity. The press called him Burlington Bertie. What on earth is he doing here?’
‘Are you sure that’s him?’
‘You have a look. Directly below us on the barge, shaven-headed. Don’t let him see you.’
May located the man just as he passed underneath them. He was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans, riding the prow of the boat with his legs wide apart and his back to them. A sore-looking stitched scar ran across his crown like the join on a baseball, so deep and poorly attended that the plates had knitted badly. His head appeared to have been assembled from skulls of two different sizes.
‘Agh, that’s horrible,’ said May.
‘I don’t know his real name and I’ve never seen his face, only the back of his head. That’s all they showed in photographs. How did he manage to escape?’
‘Are you absolutely sure that’s him?’
‘There can’t be anybody else with stitches like that.’
‘Do you think we should take him in?’ May hoped the answer was no. ‘It’s the Met’s job, they’re better trained to—’
But Bryant had already gone. May saw him pushing his way through the crowd towards the steps that led down to the canalside, but it seemed that every imaginable obstacle was in his way. With a helpless shrug, May set off after him.
The steps were blocked by teenagers dancing about with banners and balloons, fathers balancing children on their shoulders, girls armed with sugar drinks and pink candyfloss. May became embrangled with a pair of white-faced mimes strumming banjos, but shoved past and eventually reached the bottom, leaving behind a trail of disgruntled revellers.
Bryant hopped, trying to see. ‘The barge can’t go anywhere, not until the lock is reopened.’ Olivine water was gushing through the gap in the old wooden gates as the lock filled.
‘We’re not armed,’ said May. ‘You can’t just tackle him if he’s dangerous.’
‘So we’re supposed to let him get away? There are women and children everywhere.’
‘You’re right.’ May suddenly changed direction, running back towards the bridge.
‘Where are you going?’ Bryant called, but between them was a ragged marching band, clattering and booming chaotically.
A string of firecrackers exploded and thick yellow smoke drifted over the crowd. When it had passed he saw May climbing off the RNLI lifeboat with something bright red and metallic clasped in his hands.
‘It’ll have to do.’ He pulled at his partner’s sleeve. ‘Come on.’
Bryant tried to slow him. ‘You can’t fire a flare gun in these crowds, with all these kids around.’
‘Stay cool, I’m not going to flip out.’ May caught sight of his target. ‘If you’re right, these people are standing beside a homicidal maniac.’
‘Do not fire it,’ Bryant warned.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll only pull it on him if I have to. It’ll hold him still long enough for you to cuff him. You do have handcuffs on you?’
‘Yes, but I’ve never used them. I don’t even have a key.’
They pushed their way on to the Yellow Submarine barge. Bryant’s unassuming appearance worked in his favour. He was already within a few feet of their target when he saw May manoeuvring further ahead, squeezing past several Blue Meanies to reach the barge’s bow.
The arrest flashed through his brain: confrontation, shock, cuffs on, guilty party led quietly off the barge and up the path into Arlington Road towards the cop shop, the carnival continuing without interruption, no harm done.
4
* * *
WE CAN WORK IT OUT
‘But we all know what happened next, don’t we?’ said Roger Trapp.
He ran a hand through his Brylcreemed hair, releasing a flurry of dandruff. There were already snowdrifts on the shoulders of his wide-lapelled pinstripe jacket. Trapp’s hypochondria made him paranoid about a thousand imaginary minor ailments, except the two from which he actually suffered: scurf and industrial-strength halitosis. He was red-eyed, sore-faced, short-tempered, small and unprepossessing, all of which made him prone to grandiloquence. He also had a small birthmark on the back of his neck shaped like a question mark, but because he never saw it he was always puzzled by the uncertainty it created as he was leaving meetings.
The detectives stood before his desk like sixth-formers hauled up before the he
admaster.
‘He didn’t mean—’ began Bryant.
‘I didn’t mean—’ added May.
‘It wasn’t meant to go off,’ they both said.
Trapp looked out of his second-floor window at the queue opposite, squeezed under the canopy of the Royal Opera House, trying to avoid the rain. All he saw was a sea of grey: grey hats, grey raincoats, grey faces. Bow Street on a wet Monday evening. No sign of Swinging London down there.
‘It didn’t just go off, though, did it?’ Trapp said through clenched teeth.
‘A fluke,’ said Bryant. ‘A chance in a—’
‘The engine hatch had been left open,’ said May.
‘You sank a barge.’
‘Technically we blew it up,’ said Bryant. ‘The water wasn’t deep enough to sink it. The people on board were surprised more than anything.’
‘By that I take it you mean “surprised to find themselves flying through the air with their clothes on fire”?’
‘The water—’ May began.
‘– it put everything out,’ finished Bryant. ‘Nobody was injured.’
‘Badly,’ added May. ‘Nobody was injured badly. They just sort of – ended up somewhere else.’
‘I lost part of an eyebrow,’ Bryant pointed out, looking for sympathy.
‘And this mythical bogeyman of yours? Where did he go?’
‘We don’t know—’
‘—don’t know, sir.’
The detectives shifted their weight from one foot to another uncomfortably.
‘Shall I tell you where he went?’ Trapp bared his long yellow teeth at them. ‘Nowhere. Burlington Bertie didn’t go back to Bow. He never left Broadmoor. His real name is Cedric Powles. A criminally insane pathological liar with an IQ of 152 who particularly enjoys messing with people’s minds, which is probably why he appeals to you, Mr Bryant. I have a letter here from the Head Nurse of E wing.’
‘The average stay at Broadmoor is only six years,’ said Bryant. ‘It’s a psychiatric hospital, not a penal institution. He must be due for release by now.’
Trapp rattled the letter at him furiously. ‘Are you going to argue with this as well?’ He caught sight of himself in the mantelpiece mirror and realized that his head had changed colour. ‘You just can’t accept responsibility, can you? This is it, the very last time. You two are out.’ He flapped his hand at the door.
‘What do you mean, out?’ asked May.
Trapp stuck his little finger in his ear and wiggled it, suddenly worried that he was hearing things. ‘You – you both – have personality flaws. Separately you might have made half-decent officers but together you’re a nightmare. I’m not putting up with it any more. The sheer anxiety I feel every time you begin an investigation by doing something completely illegal – well, it’s happened for the last time.’ He tasted his tongue, worried now about acidity. ‘I’m on tablets.’
‘You’ve only been here three months,’ Bryant pointed out. ‘Most of our bosses last up to a year before leaving.’
Trapp looked innocent. ‘I’m not leaving. You are.’
‘You can’t do that,’ said Bryant. ‘It’s our unit. We inherited you.’
‘We’ll go to arbitration,’ May threatened.
‘Yes, I know all about your little tricks with arbitrators, and it’s not going to happen again.’ Trapp ill-advisedly shook his head and was forced to dust down his shoulders. ‘You must take me for an idiot.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Bryant.
‘Now look here, your ex-MOD pals in Whitehall are not going to cover for you this time because I have a little deal of my own to offer.’ He yanked open his desk drawer and produced two sheets of type, placing one before each of them. ‘You’re not leaving the office without signing these.’
‘Resignations?’ said Bryant, clearly appalled. ‘Oh come on.’
‘We’re entitled to an independent evaluation,’ said May. ‘You can’t force us to sign anything before an official inquiry into last Saturday’s events.’
‘Fine,’ Trapp agreed with grateful celerity. ‘I can arrange for a private tribunal to handle your case at Scotland Yard.’
‘Wait, what’s the alternative?’ asked Bryant.
‘The alternative, Mr Bryant? It’s putting your belongings, including that revolting Tibetan skull on your desk, all those weird dusty books and the thing that looks like a grenade into some cardboard boxes and taking them home on the bus.’
‘We’ll get a taxi, thank you,’ said Bryant. ‘Cheapskate.’
‘We’ll take the inquiry,’ said May.
On Wednesday morning they walked from St James’s Park tube in saturating rain and climbed the slickened steps to Metropolitan Police Headquarters. ‘Out of the frying pan,’ Bryant complained. ‘Now we face a kangaroo court that’s already been briefed on how to get rid of us. Are there any names on that slip?’
May consulted the hand-delivered letter. ‘Kasavian. First name Horatio.’
‘Horatio. Have you ever wondered why we remember Napoleon by his first name but Nelson by his last?’
‘No.’ May turned over the page. ‘No rank given, some kind of Home Office-appointed intermediary by the sound of it. Shall we call Gladys and find out if she’s heard of him?’
‘You could have suggested that earlier,’ said Bryant. ‘We’ll never find a phone box around here. Besides, I haven’t got any change.’
‘I gave you that two bob I owed you.’
‘I bought a book. Belman’s History of Bavarian Fire Engines. The revised edition. Such are the small pleasures of my life. Who would I be if I gave up being a copper?’
‘Someone proper.’ May caught his partner’s eye. I dare you.
‘Farmer?’
‘Someone calmer.’
‘Writer?’
‘Someone brighter.’
‘Vicar?’
‘Someone quicker.’
‘Concierge?’
‘Bollocks.’ May handed over a sixpence as they entered the marble hall. ‘How do you think we should handle this?’
‘Don’t know, don’t care. The decision has already been made. I’m more concerned about Burlington Bertie. How can he be in Broadmoor and on a barge in Camden Town at the same time?’
‘There’s only one answer to that,’ said May. ‘We saw someone else who happened to have a similar kind of scar. Maybe it wasn’t even a scar but a tattoo. You admitted you never saw his face.’
‘I’m not good with faces,’ said Bryant. ‘I’ve studied scars. I wrote a thesis on them.’
‘I know, you showed it to me. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.’
‘Neither could I. I need new glasses.’
They made their way to the reception desk, where a uniformed old soldier stamped their names on to passes.
‘When we outgrew the old Whitehall Place building,’ said Horatio Kasavian, lighting a Piccadilly, ‘a new HQ was constructed on Victoria Embankment. The workmen found a body while they were digging out the foundations.’
Kasavian stood before an immense glazed-cotton map of London, thoughtfully drawing smoke up his nostrils. There was something ethereal about him. Premature greying and a deficiency of melanin had leeched him of all colour, so that he appeared to be a phantom of himself, and yet Bryant found that something appealing remained. He had a deep-eyed intensity that could not be as easily dissipated as his pigmentation. When he asked questions he leaned forward, keenly curious for answers.
‘The dismembered torso of a woman. A murder on the site of the nation’s criminal investigation headquarters. It became known as the Whitehall Mystery, and was never solved.’ His silver-grey eyes remained fixed on Bryant. ‘That’s the problem here at Scotland Yard. The truth is always partial and never absolute. There are things which we simply cannot know. I foresee a time when our every movement is watched, recorded, catalogued and annotated. Only those who break the law will have anything to hide. On the day this comes to pass, all crime will cease.’
‘Many people are already out of their old jobs, Mr Bryant, and it’s mostly for the better. What about the executioners, the miners who drowned in tunnels beneath the sea, the children who worked with mercury and died at thirteen with bright green bones?’ He studied the glowing end of his cigarette. ‘Consigned to history. That’s no bad thing.’
‘No,’ Bryant agreed, ‘of course not.’
‘Then is it so terrible to imagine a time when everyone is watched and there are no detectives?’
‘So long as we don’t become a totalitarian state. People will always need some kind of privacy.’
‘Perhaps the only people who say that are the ones who get up to bad things in private.’ He turned and ran his fingers along the yellow map line that marked out Piccadilly, as if reminding himself of a lover’s contours. May shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wondering when he would get to the point.
Kasavian smiled at some private thought. ‘This city means everything to me. I was born at its centre and will probably die no more than two or three miles from the same spot.’ He held out an index finger. ‘I’ve been watching you two for some time. The city’s got to you as well, hasn’t it?’
Bryant suddenly sensed that the tide had turned in their favour. ‘We care’ – he cleared his throat – ‘we care very much.’
‘That’s what I wanted to establish,’ said Kasavian, grinding his cigarette into an onyx ashtray. ‘So, Cedric Powles, aka “Burlington Bertie”, feral, intelligent, dangerous. He killed an antique dealer and his “male companion” – I think that’s the correct terminology nowadays – in the Burlington Arcade, and because Powles told the court that he rose at ten thirty that morning the press gave him a nickname. He killed the pair with a samurai sword that was on display in the shop. If the murders had occurred in Manchester I don’t suppose they would have made the papers, but, as I’m sure you know, Burlington Arcade is just off Piccadilly and therefore popular with tourists. Powles never denied committing the crime. No real motive emerged from the trial, even though we know that the dealer was selling valuable antiques through the Chinese black market. We assumed Powles did it for money, but also because he liked doing it. He conducted his own defence. Here’s part of his summing-up speech.’
Hall of Mirrors Page 3