‘Have you ever read Henry Mayhew?’ asked Bryant, looking out over the olivine water as he drew flame into his pipe bowl. ‘London Labour and the London Poor, 1851. Fascinating stuff. Conversations with ordinary working-class Londoners. Of course we still have a tremendous class divide, but the disenfranchised weren’t always outsiders. If anything, they knew more about what was really going on. Mayhew met rat-catchers and fire-jugglers, pickpockets and sewer-hunters, and the thing you notice most when you read their accounts is this: a poor man will tell you everything, and someone in society will tell you nothing.’
‘That’s true enough,’ May agreed. ‘It seems the further up you go, the less you find out.’
‘There are only a handful of major landowners in London, but we never fully discover the truth about them. It’s all part of the invisible code of English conduct that baffles foreigners.’
‘So you think we’re wasting our time even talking to Sabira?’
‘No, I believe she feels she’s been genuinely ill treated.’
‘Isn’t that just naivety on her part?’ asked May.
‘Maybe. When you reach a certain level it’s not about how much money you have, but your background. Knightsbridge and Notting Hill may be home to wealthy New York bankers and Dubai businessmen, but even they have trouble reaching the inner circles of power. It’s certainly not something that’s automatically conferred upon you by marriage. The Foreign Office and the Home Office have always been run by men like Kasavian. I’ll bet you his entire family moves in government circles. He may well worship the ground she walks on, but he’ll never let her in.’ Experience had encouraged Bryant to hold bleak views about the British class system.
‘So it’s his fault she’s behaving like this? You don’t think she just has anger-management issues?’
‘Don’t say “anger-management issues”. What’s wrong with the word “temper”? I’m not saying it’s a conscious act, John. A job at the most senior level of government is a Mephistophelean deal. In return for power you surrender your peace of mind.’
‘Are you sure you’re not just siding with her because of your own working-class background?’
‘Look, I remember standing at the end of Petticoat Lane with my father one freezing Sunday morning. All around us were men selling chickens and canaries and skinned rabbits, and my old man – who was sober for once – lifted me up so I could look into the window of Arditti’s restaurant, and he said, “There’ll always be a pane of glass between you and these fine gentlemen. Even when you think it’s gone, it will still be there.”’ As if to illustrate the point, a cyclist passing behind them waved two fingers at the diplomatic vehicle that had just cut him up on the bridge.
‘Oh, you’ve always had a chip on your shoulder about your background. You enjoy being an outsider.’
‘I made the best of it because I never had a choice,’ Bryant pointed out. ‘Your father used to take you to the Wigmore Hall for classical concerts when you were a little boy.’
‘Because he was a musician and wanted me to appreciate the finer things in life. But he never had any money. Our family was always hard up.’
‘But your parents gave you ambition. Mine just wanted me to have a job. The fear of poverty is never far away from the working-class mind, and all the plasma TVs, PlayStations and iPhones are just talismans warding off that darkness. I think Sabira Borkowski married to free herself from the fear of poverty, and now she’s paying the price.’
‘Fine, but in her husband’s eyes the situation is worsening and we’re not helping. If you take her side, you’ll be setting us against the government.’
‘You know diplomacy has never been my strong point. I think everyone already assumes we’re against the government.’
‘Then what do you suggest we do next?’
‘We go to this address.’ Bryant held up the crumpled piece of paper he had used for wrapping up his sherbet lemons.
‘I can’t read your writing.’
‘Neither can I, but don’t worry, Janice put it in my phone. The Home Office is looking into the possibility of the spying charge. Let’s talk to a more rational enemy – the woman Sabira Kasavian assaulted in Fortnum and Mason.’
11
THE GLASS
EDGAR LANG AND his wife lived in a redbrick Edwardian house with a wrought-iron veranda overlooking a wide, calm section of the Thames at Barnes, just past Hammersmith Bridge. Anastasia Lang was not at all pleased to find a pair of detectives standing in her porch, and reluctantly invited them in. She had covered the cut on her cheek with taped cotton wool, but her left eye was now turning a lurid shade of mauve.
‘I’m fully prepared to press charges; I won’t let anybody talk me out of that,’ she said with ice in her voice. ‘Not for the physical attack, but for stealing private documents.’ She waved them into an immense glass-roofed kitchen that had been added to the rear of the already substantial house. ‘I can’t offer you anything, I’ve sent the maid home.’
‘Nice gaff,’ said Bryant, walking to the wall-sized window with his hands in his pockets. ‘A very popular look, this. Classic at the front, modern at the back. Architectural hypocrisy. Should I call you Lady Anastasia?’
‘Mrs Lang will do.’
‘We’re not here to ask you about the argument. What do you think Mrs Kasavian was doing with your husband’s property in her handbag?’
‘She must have taken it from the Pegasus offices in Great Portland Street. Edgar never keeps documents anywhere else.’
‘You have children?’
‘No, we have a dog.’
‘Do any of the directors have kids?’
‘Yes, Cathy and Emma do. I can’t see what that has to do with—’
‘Do you think Sabira was being paid to spy?’ It was Bryant’s technique to keep his witness wrong-footed.
‘She’s hardly short of money, the number of new outfits she wears. No, I don’t think she was being paid to spy. I think she did it because she’s jealous. She wishes she had my husband. Do you know how they met? My husband and Oskar were in a wine bar in the city. She started talking to Edgar first and, being a married man, he turned her down, so she went after Oskar. She was on a mission to find a successful man, operating with a fairly limited arsenal and a tight time limit on her sex appeal. Eastern European girls blow up like zeppelins when they hit thirty. Edgar said no, so she switched her attention to Oskar, who at that point had been divorced for over three years and was vulnerable to a pretty face.’
May could not imagine Kasavian ever being vulnerable. ‘You’re saying Mr Lang turned her down over four years ago, so she stole papers from his office? Doesn’t that seem a little pointless to you?’
‘I don’t understand the point of anything she does,’ said Ana Lang, touching her face lightly as if checking that nothing had shifted.
‘How well do you and Mrs Kasavian know each other?’
‘I meet her at social events, but we have nothing to say to one another. Her every utterance is a mystery to me. All I know is that she drinks too much and has an uncouth personality. You’ll take her side, of course. You’re a policeman. But what you must understand is that women of our social standing remain by our men, no matter how wrong we think they might be. It’s part of the deal, it’s what we signed up for.’
A tinkle of metal made them both turn around. Bryant had pulled the head off a small but rather valuable sculpture. Mrs Lang ploughed on with determination. ‘When I want to know what a British politician really thinks, I ignore what he’s saying and talk to his wife, Mr May. Neil Hamilton and Jeffrey Archer both had strong women at their sides to support and further their careers.’
‘They both went to jail, Mrs Lang.’
‘I was merely illustrating the point. Sabira could have had it all, and now she’ll have nothing. No one will have anything to do with her after this. I suppose you know she was having an affair?’
‘I understand you accused her of having one, yes,’ sai
d May. ‘We called your fellow lunch guests.’
‘I did not “accuse” her, I merely stated what everyone already knew. It’s the Australian photographer who always takes her pictures.’
‘We know about him.’
Ana Lang was surprised. ‘How?’
‘He has an exclusive deal with a magazine called Hard News, Mrs Lang. He’s assigned to follow Mrs Kasavian to social events. Do you have evidence that they’re having an affair?’
‘You only have to look at the way he photographs her.’
‘So no actual proof.’
May heard the front door open and shut. A broad-bodied man in his late forties came in and set down his briefcase. With his slicked grey hair and pinstriped blue suit, he had the appearance of a stockbroker or an auction-house expert. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked. ‘What on earth’s that on your face?’
‘They’re detectives,’ Edgar Lang’s wife explained. ‘I was attacked today, but of course I couldn’t get hold of you.’
‘You should have pulled me out of my meeting. Why are they here?’
Bryant resented being discussed as if he was invisible. ‘We needed to ask your wife a few questions,’ he said.
‘Not without a lawyer present,’ warned Lang. ‘I think you’d better leave now. I’m a very good friend of the Commissioner, and he’ll have something to say about this.’
‘No, it was better to make you leave right then,’ said May as they walked along the footpath that ran beside the river. Ahead of them, a pair of swans swooped down to the water and folded their wings, looking like funfair love boats. ‘I could see you were about to open your mouth. It seems Mr Lang’s first concern was the impropriety of our presence and not his wife’s health. You realize this is impossible, don’t you? They’ve built a wall around themselves. How are we supposed to find out anything? Anyway, how can you help a woman who behaves so irrationally? It’s as if Sabira deliberately set out to wreck her life. Why would she risk throwing her marriage away by stealing classified documents?’
‘Oh, they weren’t classified,’ said Bryant cheerily. ‘There’s nothing in the paperwork of any value whatsoever.’
‘What are you talking about? Why is the Home Office holding her if she’s not suspected of spying?’
‘Well, they don’t yet know that there’s nothing of value in the papers.’
‘But you do.’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you care to explain how you know?’
‘I made a few inquiries.’
‘Then why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I wanted Mrs Lang to think they were important for now. If we admitted they weren’t, she wouldn’t have talked to us at all. We need to find out what happened to Sabira six weeks ago.’ He patted his partner’s broad back. ‘Don’t worry: I’ll fill you in as we go along. But we have to act fast. I think something very bad is about to happen.’
‘If you’re trying to convince me that you’re clairvoyant, it won’t work,’ said May. ‘I’ve shared an office with you for most of my adult life. I know how you think.’
‘Well, I wish you’d tell me,’ said Bryant. ‘I have absolutely no idea how my brain operates.’
‘I think it’s a sort of intelligent threshing machine. It chews up bits of information and spits them back out in a different order. They should pickle it when you die.’
‘I’d quite like to end up in a glass jar in the Wellcome Institute.’
‘Yes, I thought you would.’ With a despairing sigh, May led his partner back to Barnes Bridge Station.
At the unit, Longbright had summoned all members of staff to the common room. Raymond Land sulked in his office for a few minutes, upset that he hadn’t been in charge of calling the meeting, but then, worried that nobody would miss him, he reluctantly attended.
‘I just had a call from the Home Office,’ said Longbright. ‘There was nothing sensitive in the paperwork. It was just a folder of Edgar Lang’s taxi receipts and dinner expenses. Sabira says she doesn’t know how the file got into her bag. She’s agreed to be placed in a private clinic. Based on her past history her doctor feels she’s at risk, and is admitting her tonight.’
‘Can we get our mitts on her medical records?’ asked Renfield.
‘No, they’re off limits.’
‘I wonder if this is for her health or because she’s become a major embarrassment,’ said May. ‘Which clinic?’
Longbright checked her notes. ‘Somewhere in Hampstead. It’s called the Cedar Tree Centre, just off Fitzjohn’s Avenue. She’s not allowed any visitors tonight.’
‘She’s at risk, but not from herself,’ said Bryant. ‘Bring her smudger in. I want to meet him.’
Jeff Waters arrived in the doorway of Bryant and May’s office a little over an hour later. The handsome Australian was in his late thirties, unshaven and long-haired, still slung with cameras. He plucked at his lapel and grinned. ‘I don’t need the photographers’ jacket now that we’re fully digital, but I can’t bring myself to give it up. I’m on my way to work.’
‘I suppose you keep late hours,’ said Bryant.
‘It’s mostly night assignments, and when I’ve not got a schedule I make sure I’m outside the Ivy by eleven p.m. Then I do the rounds of the clubs to see if anything’s going on.’
‘How do you know who’s going to be there?’
‘There’s a network of tip-offs. We bung some of the maître d’s.’
‘You’ve got some misdemeanours on your record, I see.’
‘Small stuff. In this job it happens.’
‘Grab a seat, Jeff,’ said May. ‘We need to know just how well you know Sabira Kasavian.’
‘Janet Ramsey appointed me to tag her. I cover about fifteen women for PhotoNet. Sabira photographs like a dream. You get to know your clients pretty quickly.’
‘Do they want to know you?’
‘Most of them act like they don’t care about having their photos taken, but they love it. I can always tell the ones who want to get their faces in the press. They find excuses to slow down when they walk past us, stop and talk to their partners, turn and laugh about nothing. If a woman adjusts her dress as she passes you, you know she wants her shots done. But they never want to speak to you. I’m careful, I only have one chance to get the right shot, so with some of them I stick to “Over here, love, turn to your left” – that sort of thing. Sabira Kasavian isn’t like that. She’s always happy to be photographed. She loves the camera; the camera loves her.’
Bryant watched the photographer’s hands. He was glib, fast, hard as nails, but there was something else. He was smoothly moving the conversation on, trying to control it.
‘So the two of you never get to talk?’
‘No, not at all, you can’t when you’ve been railed into a ten-by-eight with a dozen other paps, security all around, and you’ve got maybe ten seconds for each target. Overstep your mark and you risk being blacklisted.’
‘Have you ever spoken to Mrs Kasavian privately?’
‘No, not so much as a single word. I’m sure she’d be fine with it if I did, though. She seems honest and friendly, a bit more fun, not like the others.’
‘But you do form some kind of relationship with your subject?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You fancy her – she appeals to you.’
‘No, nothing like that.’ Waters laughed. ‘We’re not in the same class, are we? Christ, I used to push a vegetable barrow in Melbourne. I mean, I know her background but even so … there might as well be bullet-proof glass between us. It’s all over this city, the glass.’
‘Is she always with her husband?’
‘No. One evening outside a conference centre in Canary Wharf he had to take the driver and it took fifteen minutes to find her another car. She was standing there with a friend – they were speaking to each other in Albanian. Not many people speak it, so I guess she’s glad when she finds someone who does.’
‘Do you know any Albanian
?’
‘I know a little of every language. In this job you have to. I got talking to the friend while they waited. Sabira was standing off to one side, a bit aloof. Then I realized she was shy. It was raining hard, so I lent the pair of them my umbrella. The friend told me how much Sabira hated going to the embassy dinners. She said she’d rather go and eat pizza in a café.’ He smiled, but it faded with the memory. ‘I thought Sabira was very – nice.’ Both of the detectives could see that it wasn’t what he had been about to say.
‘Do you remember the name of the friend?’ Bryant asked.
‘I would have written it down. You always do; it’s a habit.’ He pulled out a BlackBerry and thumbed through his notes. ‘Edona. I guessed the spelling. Didn’t get the last name – probably too many consonants for me to handle. I took a picture of her for fun. I wasn’t going to use the shot.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Nothing much, we were just filling in the time.’ He suddenly rose to his feet. ‘Is that it? Can I go now?’
‘One last thing,’ said May. ‘When was this?’
Waters checked his BlackBerry again. ‘I made the note in early June. So, nearly a month ago.’
‘Mr Waters,’ said Bryant sharply, ‘did you really not talk to Sabira Kasavian? The woman your camera loved so much?’
‘I told you, no.’ He did not catch Bryant’s eye. As he left, he passed Detective Constable Fraternity DuCaine in the passageway. DuCaine looked back as he entered.
‘Who was that?’
‘A photographer who knows Sabira,’ said May. ‘Why?’
‘So that’s Waters. I’ve seen him around. He’s always outside West End clubs, chatting up women. A real eye for the ladies. Did you find a connection?’
May went to the window and watched Waters crossing the street. ‘No,’ he said, puzzled. ‘According to him, he stood next to her for fifteen minutes and they never exchanged a single word. He’s stretching the truth, but I have no idea why.’
Bryant & May and the Invisible Code (Bryant & May 10) Page 8