Bryant & May and the Invisible Code (Bryant & May 10)

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘He must have been walking close to me or something.’

  ‘And that’s all that happened? He didn’t say anything else to you?’

  ‘No. He asked me the way and I told him.’

  ‘Why would he think you knew the way?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘I heard Dad calling and ran back to the road, but I had to go all the way around because there’s no gate on that bit.’

  ‘Did you see what happened to the man?’

  ‘No. Daddy, we have to go now or I’ll be late for the optician.’

  She’s lying by omission, thought Longbright. She spoke to Waters, but maybe he told her not to tell anyone. She might even know why he was killed. Something else must have happened at St Bride’s when the children were putting a curse on Amy O’Connor.

  Lucy glanced back at her with wide innocent eyes, then picked up her pink rucksack and got up from her seat. ‘Daddy, come on,’ she commanded.

  All right, Longbright thought, we’ll see what your playmate Tom has to say. She checked the number for Tom’s mother, Jennifer Penry, and called her. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed him,’ said Mrs Penry. ‘Tom’s with his grandparents.’

  ‘Do you have a number for them?’ Longbright asked. ‘It’s important that I speak with Tom.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. At the beginning of the week they flew to Bodrum and boarded a gulet – one of those traditional Turkish boats? They’re going along the coast and will be returning from Göcek, I’m not sure when. My in-laws fancy themselves as free spirits. All very annoying. I don’t suppose there’s any way of contacting them until they stop in Rhodes, and I’m not sure when that is.’

  ‘Don’t you have a number for Tom’s grandparents?’

  ‘They don’t use mobiles. I thought we had one for the skipper but it doesn’t seem to work.’

  That’s convenient, thought Longbright before checking herself. Now you’re starting to get paranoid as well. Maybe it’s catching.

  ‘What about the travel company who arranged the trip?’

  ‘I have no idea who they used. You’d have to ask them.’

  ‘But I can’t do that.’

  ‘They may call in at some point. If they do, I’ll get a contact number for them.’

  As Longbright headed back towards Belsize Park Tube station, she found herself checking the glistening pavement behind her.

  19

  METHOD IN MADNESS

  ARTHUR BRYANT STEPPED into the narthex of the baroque Wren church and slowly made his way up the nave towards the altar.

  It was early on Saturday morning and the place was empty. Sunlight shone through the modern design of the stained glass, dividing the marble floor into patterns as richly coloured as Tetris blocks.

  Bryant consulted the church pamphlet and read:

  In 1375 Edward III issued a writ in the Tower of London confirming the Charter of the Guild of St Bride. Its first purpose was to maintain a light to burn before the statue of St Brigide the Virgin. The Guild continued until 1545, when it was swept away by Henry VIII.

  He folded out another section.

  St Bride’s is known as ‘the cathedral of Fleet Street’. After its devastation in the Blitz the parish rose again, as it had so many times before. Little of importance that has happened in England’s story has not been echoed here in St Bride’s. From Celts and Romans to Angles, Saxons and Normans, the church has acted as a parish pump to the world.

  As the journalists’ church, it facilitated the spread of information. Was that why Amy O’Connor had chosen it, to make a point?

  It was certainly not her local parish. O’Connor had lived in Spitalfields. Before that she had resided in Wiltshire from the age of seven. Banbury had been up to her apartment, but the City of London officers had already conducted a search and submitted a report, and he had not uncovered anything new.

  Bryant eased himself on to a wooden chair and looked up at the great stained-glass window. The entire ground floor of the church had been searched inch by inch. If O’Connor’s death had been planned somehow, why did it occur here? O’Connor’s family might have originally come from Ireland but they were Protestant, not Catholic. Amy may have visited St Bride’s before the day of her death, but no one recalled seeing her. The question rose again: Why this particular church? A parish pump to the world. A message of some kind?

  There was an answer drifting like a raincloud at the back of his brain, but every time he tried to focus on it the damned thing dissipated. The perils of age, he thought bitterly, you have to think twice as hard as you did when you were younger, and it will just keep getting worse unless you force yourself to make connections. Everything is connected. Step back and see how it all fits.

  Jeff Waters had come here after talking to Sabira Kasavian. It could only be because she had told him something about the O’Connor death. That had to be the link. It was nothing to do with the little girl.

  But now Oskar Kasavian’s wife was stashed away in a clinic and seeing ghosts emerging from the walls. After psychiatric evaluation she would probably be on her way to a more secure unit. She refused to co-operate with the State or the police because she was scared, but her claims made no sense.

  Bryant shifted on the hard seat, his old bones aching. He was used to dealing with the aftermath of death, not the problems of the living. All right, he decided, do what you do best: approach it instinctively. What do you naturally feel about Sabira Kasavian?

  The answer came back: That she’s innocent, and that she’s telling the truth. No matter how crazy she sounded, no matter how ridiculous her claims were, what if he assumed they were real? Then the key question became: What did she discover that could possibly make her so fearful?

  He asked himself, What would you do if you discovered something unthinkable? You might run away, bury your head, pretend you didn’t know anything. But if you were brave enough you would try to get proof, to stop people from implying you were mad. And that was exactly what Sabira said she did, stealing a file from Edgar Lang’s office, but somehow her evidence turned into a bundle of taxi receipts. Either she had made a mistake, or somebody switched the folder to make her look crazy.

  If you decide to go down this route, old boy, Bryant told himself, you had better be damned sure of your facts, or you’ll end up looking as loopy as she does.

  ‘Are you ready for more bad news?’ asked John May a little later. ‘Sabira smashed up her room at the clinic in the early hours of this morning. When the duty nurse arrived she attacked her with a knife, then tried to cut her own wrists.’

  ‘Both wrists or just one?’

  ‘One, the left – what does it matter? She tried to kill herself, Arthur. They’ve been forced to sedate her. It looks like she’ll definitely be moved on Monday, no matter what the psychiatric report has to say about her condition. And don’t bother calling the clinic, because the staff are under strict instruction not to talk to us or anyone else until they’ve conducted their own internal investigation.’

  ‘Who allowed that?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  Bryant picked up the phone and called Oskar Kasavian’s direct line. ‘Why have we had our access to the clinic cancelled?’ he asked.

  At the Home Office Department of Security, the call was recorded.

  KASAVIAN: Do you understand the serious condition my wife is now in, Mr Bryant? It’s quite clear to me that your detective sergeant upset her with news of the photographer’s death.

  BRYANT: It would have been worse if she had discovered the news for herself. It’s all over the papers. If we can’t talk to her directly, can you answer some questions?

  KASAVIAN: I don’t suppose you’ll desist until I do.

  BRYANT: How did you find out what had happened?

  KASAVIAN: I received a call to say that my wife had attempted suicide, and had tried to stab her carer. The poor woman was trying to calm her down—

 
BRYANT: Do you remember the exact time this happened?

  KASAVIAN: No, and I hardly think it’s relevant.

  BRYANT: Do you have any idea what sparked off her attack?

  KASAVIAN: She was apparently difficult at dinner, refusing to eat and so on. I looked in on her in the day lounge at around eight thirty p.m. and found her asleep in her chair. She went up to her room at half past ten, and the nurse was disturbed by the sound of furniture being thrown about a couple of hours after that.

  BRYANT: So the nurse went up to the first floor and found your wife in a state of distress.

  KASAVIAN: That’s right. She had overturned her dressing table, smashed a wall mirror and torn her clothes. It appeared she had also started to cut her wrist with a knife.

  BRYANT: Where did she get the knife from?

  KASAVIAN: She had taken it from the dining room. She warned the nurse not to come any closer or she would kill herself. When Miss Medway took a step forward, Sabira lunged at her. Luckily, Medway managed to disarm her. She called a doctor, and one of the other nurses stitched and bandaged my wife’s wrist.

  BRYANT: Why didn’t Medway see to her wound?

  KASAVIAN: My wife wouldn’t let her near.

  BRYANT: Did she give any reason for her actions? Make any demands?

  KASAVIAN: Nothing. The nurses agreed there were no warning signs. There’s no rationality behind my wife’s actions. Mental instability is unfathomable by its very nature, although I understand it can be inherited. I assume you are cognisant of the fact that both her aunt and grandmother suffered mental breakdowns and were institutionalized for periods?

  BRYANT: So you informed me. I ran some checks but was unable to verify the details.

  KASAVIAN: Then I suggest you check the files more thoroughly; it’s all on record. There seems to be little more I can do for my wife now, so if you have no more questions—

  BRYANT: Can you tell me: the cut on her wrist, was it transverse or vertical?

  KASAVIAN: Across, I believe, although I don’t see what that has—

  BRYANT: And you saw the knife? KASAVIAN: Yes.

  BRYANT: How sharp was it? Was it serrated, very sharp, a bit blunt?

  KASAVIAN: They use them in the dining room so I suppose it’s rather blunt, but it clearly served its purpose.

  BRYANT: That will be all for now. Thank you.

  ‘Are you aware of just how much Oskar Kasavian has to lose?’ May asked after Bryant had rung off. ‘It’s not just his wife, although that would be enough. His government career, his entire future is at stake, and you’re asking him for details of how his wife cut her wrists.’

  ‘The details are important,’ said Bryant. ‘I fear she won’t survive much longer. There may be nothing we can do about that, but we may be able to save others.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about. There is no one else to save.’

  ‘You’re wrong. I want Lucy Mansfield watched night and day. Get Fraternity on it, he’s a smart lad. And get in touch with the Turkish authorities, see if you can find a way of reaching her playmate, Tom Penry.’

  ‘You still don’t believe Sabira Kasavian is mad, do you?’

  ‘Oh, I always thought there might be madness involved, but let’s just say there’s method in it.’

  ‘We’re supposed to be a team, Arthur. There aren’t meant to be any secrets between us, and yet here you are holding cards to your chest.’

  ‘I know I can be a little proprietorial about evidence,’ Bryant admitted, ‘but this time I have good reason.’

  ‘Well, I’d love to hear it.’

  ‘What I may be about to confirm about this case could place me at risk. I’m not speaking metaphorically or talking about risk to the unit, I mean it could physically harm me. And if I share that knowledge with you, it would place you in the same position.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to do, let you go your own way until something happens to you?’

  Bryant thought for a moment. ‘There may come a time when I have no choice but to confide in you. Right now, though, it’s better that you form your own theory.’

  ‘I’m sure you have a good idea about what that might be.’

  ‘Yes, as it happens. I need you to reach the conclusion that Sabira Kasavian has undergone a mental collapse due to the exorbitant pressures of her social life. Write it up in a report this weekend and submit it to the Home Office on Monday, ahead of the psychiatric report. Send copies to four people: Oskar Kasavian, Edgar Lang, Stuart Almon and Charles Hereward.’

  ‘To do that, I’ll need something more than anecdotal evidence,’ said May.

  ‘That’s why you need to talk to Edona Lescowitz. Someone at Hard News had her surname on file.’

  ‘The Albanian girlfriend? I thought she’d returned home.’

  ‘So did I, until Jack Renfield ran a passport check and found that she never left the country. While you’re at it, check out the records of Kasavian and the others’ company, Pegasus. Give me something on the directors’ background. I have to go to the British Library.’

  May recognized the furtive look on his partner’s wrinkled face. He looked like a Shar Pei tricking its owner out of dinner. ‘And of course you can’t possibly tell me what you’re up to.’

  ‘I’m conducting some research. It’s rather esoteric, but I think it will turn out to have a bearing on the case. I have some books on the subject, of course, but they don’t cover the particular time period I want.’

  ‘Which is when?’

  ‘The early thirteenth century. I won’t bore you with the details.’

  May was mystified. What could his partner possibly have found that would be relevant to a murder case over seven centuries later?

  ‘Fine,’ said May. ‘We’ll conduct all the interviews while you go and poke about in a cobwebby old library.’

  ‘It’s not cobwebby,’ said Bryant, nettled. ‘It’s a new building. Although I’ll also be in the old archival annexe in Clerkenwell, which is not only cobwebby but partially flooded.’

  20

  A FATAL FLAW

  WALTHAMSTOW IS A north-eastern district of London that has lately become home to a large Polish community, spilling over from neighbouring Leytonstone. Bombing raids and development projects have replaced many of the terraced Edwardian houses with grey concrete blocks of flats. On a warm summer evening the local lads hang out in the scruffy high street beneath a riot of plastic signs offering cheap booze and easy ways to send money abroad. In this sense it is like any other working-class London borough.

  John May found the flat easily enough, but was surprised to find Sabira’s friend living in such straitened circumstances. Edona Lescowitz lived above an Indian shop that sold tinned vegetables, mobile-phone covers and alcohol from distilleries with unpronounceable names. May figured that calling first would only alarm her and decided to take his chances, but there was no answer from the door buzzer.

  ‘She’s gone to the laundromat,’ said the tiny Indian boy behind the counter of the Am-La Late Nite Groceries Store.

  ‘Where’s that?’ asked May.

  ‘Turn left out of here, next corner.’ He returned his vacant stare to a Bollywood rock video.

  May followed the street to the laundry. The printouts taped to the window informed him that the proprietor was also available to unlock phones and could cater for hen parties.

  He recognized Edona from her photograph, although she was without make-up now, dressed in torn jeans and a blue Dodgers top. Her auburn hair was tied back, exposing pale skin and high cheekbones. When she finished unloading her washing from the tumble-dryer and stood up, it seemed to May as if she had been expecting him and fearing the worst.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, approaching, ‘it’s nothing bad, I just wondered if I could talk to you about Sabira Kasavian.’

  ‘You are police, yes?’ She closed her arms over her sweatshirt protectively.

  ‘Yes, but we’re an independent unit. We’re doing a
ll we can to help her. I thought, as you’re her friend, you might be able to shed some light on Sabira’s recent behaviour.’

  Edona sat down on the bench with a defeated look on her face. ‘I knew you would come eventually. She called me to say they had locked her away.’

  ‘She’s been sent to a clinic to recover, but I’m afraid she’s not getting any better. I think she’s in good hands, but I’m not a doctor. I want to understand what’s happening to her. I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘She’s not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking. But she is …’ Edona chose her words carefully. ‘… vulnerable.’

  ‘How long have you known her?’

  ‘All my life. Our fathers grew up together. My uncle married her cousin. We used to be very close. Weddings, funerals … despite everything, we managed to be together for family occasions.’

  ‘But you’re not so close now?’

  ‘A lot of things happened. She was determined to move to England and find herself a rich husband, and that’s exactly what she did. Meanwhile, I met an Albanian man who said he was a TV producer and I moved to Tirana to be with him. We laughed about it, said we had both met the men we were going to marry.’

  May moved back to let a woman through with a plastic tub of washing. ‘But you came here,’ he said.

  ‘It turned out my future husband didn’t have a job but he did have a wife and three small children, so I left. And before you ask, no, I don’t see much of Sabira any more, because of her husband. When she married Oskar, he turned her into someone I don’t recognize. Me, I’m a reminder of her past, so I’m not welcome. I am too low class.’