22
AT HOME
NOBODY ANSWERED THE doorbell.
As usual, it was a war of nerves to see who would last out the longest. Alma Sorrowbridge was elbow-deep in kitchen soapsuds and Arthur Bryant was on his hands and knees, trying to reach an eyeball that had rolled under the bed.
The doorbell rang a third time, staccato and impatient. ‘Can you get it?’ called Bryant. ‘I’ve lost Rothschild’s eye.’
The outcome of any battle with Bryant was preordained. With a sigh, Alma dried her hands and headed for the front door. She opened it to find a bull-necked man in a stained white wifebeater vest. He was staring angrily past her. ‘Where the bloody hell is he?’ he demanded to know.
‘Mr Bryant, it’s for you,’ said Alma, heading back to the kitchen.
Bryant stuck his head around the door and raised an eyebrow. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Brad Pitt,’ replied their next-door neighbour, ‘and I want a bloody word with you.’
‘I’m rather busy right now,’ said Bryant, still appearing as little more than a disembodied head. ‘Do you want to come back when you’ve got dressed?’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
Bryant’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. Why did people always ask him that? ‘Brad Pitt the actor? You don’t look anything like him, not unless he’s been in prison. Very well, I suppose you’d better come in for a moment.’
The neighbour, whose overdeveloped body clearly kept him from walking with his legs together or his arms by his sides, made his way down the narrow hall. When he looked into Bryant’s study, his mouth fell open. ‘What the bloody hell are you up to?’
On the desk in front of him was half a cat. To be precise, the bottom half of a stuffed, sandstone-coloured Abyssinian cat. The top half lay on its side, filled with straw and old newspapers. ‘Oh, that’s Rothschild, my old friend Edna Wagstaff’s spirit medium. I’m afraid he’s past his peak condition. I was trying to restitch him, but this popped out.’ He held up Rothschild’s glass eye. ‘Edna sometimes used him to summon the ghost of Dan Leno.’
The neighbour gawped at Bryant as if he had started speaking Chamicuro.2
‘Of course, Leno was a music-hall comic, so his advice wasn’t very useful. But he did give us the details of his clog-dancing routine. You can sit down if you don’t get dirt on anything. Who are you again?’
‘The poor sod who lives next door to you.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘Just Joe to you.’
‘Well, Just Joe, what seems to be the trouble?’
‘Do you want a list?’ Joe scrubbed a hand through his stubbled hair, then ticked off his fingers. ‘One, there was a smell like burning rubber and rotten fish coming from in here at three o’clock yesterday morning. Two, there was a noise that sounded like someone rupturing a duck just as I was trying to get my kid to sleep last night. And I’m guessing it was you who left the pig outside my front door yesterday.’
‘Ah. Well, they tried to deliver it while we were out, you see.’ Bryant had arranged for his old butcher to drop off a pig carcass that was past its sell-by date, but the butcher had been forced to dump the meat outside Bryant’s new flat after a traffic warden threatened to have his van towed away. Pigskin was genetically close to human flesh and ideal for experimentation. Bryant attempted to push a trotter under his desk as he was talking but the pig rolled into view. It had a dozen pub darts sticking out of its flank. ‘I’m trying to prove something,’ he explained lamely.
‘I think you’ve already proved enough, mate,’ said Joe. ‘When they took the last bloke out of your flat I told the council to warn us if they were thinking of renting to another nutcase, but I must have missed the call.’
‘I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot,’ said Bryant, forcing Joe to shake hands with him. ‘The smell caught me by just as much surprise as you. I needed to reach the boiling point of an ammonia-potassium compound and accidentally burned through one of Alma’s saucepans, so I set it down on the hall table, but the varnish melted and reset, so I had to unglue it with a blowlamp. And the noise you heard was actually atonal avant-garde German music from the school of Schoenberg.’
‘It sounded like it was from the ironmongers down Chapel Street market, and if you do it again after lights out I shall come round and fetch you a punch up the bracket,’ warned Joe. ‘Are we seeing eye to eye on that? What are you doing with a dead pig, anyway?’
‘That’s something I can’t tell you while the case is still open,’ Bryant admitted. ‘I’m a police detective.’
The news alarmed Joe, who in his time had been no stranger to the world of stolen goods. ‘How long ago did you retire?’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Well, you might want to think about it before we come to blows.’
‘There’s no need for that, we’ll be fine from now, I assure you. It’s just that I’m new to all of this.’ Bryant waved his hands around the wall with vague distaste.
‘All of what?’
‘You know – tenement living. Here. Slum dwellings. The stews. The rookeries.’
Joe looked at Bryant as if trying to tune in a broadcast on a broken radio. ‘What do you mean, rookeries?’
Bryant sighed impatiently, struggling with the effort of communication. ‘Poorly constructed low-quality housing with third-rate sanitation constructed in overcrowded, impoverished areas for the poor, often occupied by criminals and prostitutes,’ he recited, ‘named after the nesting habits of the rook, a bird that constructs large, rowdy colonies consisting of multiple nests—’
He got no further, because Joe had lifted him two inches off the floor by his shirt collar. ‘Are you saying I’m a criminal who lives in a dirty house?’
‘No, I’m referring to traditional Victorian definitions of working-class accommodation, although Albion House is technically an Edwardian construction dating from 1909, I believe. Could you put me down? I have a weak bladder.’
Joe quickly lowered the elderly detective to the floor. ‘So why are you staking the place out? Who are you after?’
‘Nobody. I live here. Mrs Sorrowbridge and I were left destitute after the council placed a compulsory purchase order on our old property in Chalk Farm, so they rehoused us here. We’re your new neighbours.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ said Alma, shyly coming forward with an outstretched hand. ‘I’m just making cabinet pudding with ginger tea, if you’d like some.’
Joe was flummoxed. ‘Er, no thank you, ma’am,’ he said politely. ‘I’d best be getting back.’ He glanced uncertainly at Bryant. ‘As for you, try and keep the weird noises and funny smells down after midnight, will you?’
‘My fault entirely,’ Bryant called back. ‘I’m not used to community living, but I’ll soon get the hang of it. Do drop by again some time. You never know, you might be able to help me in my investigations.’
This last remark only served to quicken Joe’s pace to his front door.
2 Endangered Peruvian language now spoken only by seven elderly people in the world.
23
THE FOURTH SOLUTION
AS BRYANT WATCHED his neighbour go, his attention was caught by a man standing below the balcony in the street, looking up in puzzlement. ‘Raymondo, is that you? What are you doing here?’
It being a Saturday, Raymond Land was attired in civvy clothes, which consisted of the kind of trousers one saw advertised in the backs of local newspapers, and a Marks & Spencer’s shirt that would have looked unfashionable on Denis Thatcher. It was as if, after his brief flirtation with youthful fashion, he had thrown up his hands in defeat and fallen into a sartorial black hole.
‘I couldn’t remember your door number,’ he called up. ‘I needed to see you.’
That was Alma’s cue to head for the kitchen, leaving Bryant to welcome the acting chief of the Peculiar Crimes Unit. ‘If any more of your little pals are going to drop in,’ she called, ‘could you let me know?’
>
‘Is it all right to leave my car down there?’ said Land, arriving up the staircase. ‘It won’t get broken into, will it?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Bryant, ushering him in. ‘This is a semi-respectable neighbourhood. Don’t tell me you were passing by and thought you’d drop in.’
‘No, I had an appointment with Edgar Lang.’ He looked around. ‘This is very nice, better than your last place. Very homely. Lang asked to see me. Not about Kasavian’s wife – there’s nothing much that can be done on that score until after the psychiatric assessment. About his boss’s appearance before the European Commission.’
Bryant was amazed. ‘Since when did important people start asking your advice?’
‘My opinion is valued in some circles,’ sniffed Land. ‘He wanted to know how Oskar was bearing up.’
‘Why would he want to know that?’
‘I suppose he’s protecting his assets.’
‘What happens if Kasavian messes up and the Deputy PM fails to award him a new senior position?’
Land thought for a moment. ‘He won’t be able to remain as chief security supervisor. He’ll have nailed his colours to the mast, trying for a new department outside of the Home Office. I imagine he’ll be reshuffled.’
‘And who’s next in line for the position if he goes?’
‘Well, I imagine it’s Edgar, as he’s technically Kasavian’s number two. After that, it would be Charles Hereward.’
‘So you could say it’s in Lang’s interests to see that Oskar’s initiative fails. And if the wife is sectioned and Kasavian is forced to take time off to look after her, there’ll be a no-confidence vote and Lang can step in again. In fact, every way you play it, first Lang and then Hereward and the others win, because even if the doctor decides that Kasavian’s wife is fit enough to go home, she’ll still require special attention.’
‘Not everyone’s as Machiavellian as you,’ said Land, exasperated. ‘Lang just wanted to know how the investigation was progressing.’
‘I hope you didn’t tell him,’ said Bryant. ‘I’d love to bottle your innocence and sell it to old streetwalkers. You do realize this initiative has been in various planning stages since the 7/7 bombings? It was pushed on to the last Labour agenda by the US, then redesigned by the Tories. It’s a total overhaul of the UK’s terrorism security system, and one man will be in charge of it. Except that now maybe he won’t be, because seven weeks ago his wife started going mad.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Land in a very small voice.
‘No, of course you hadn’t,’ said Bryant, giving him the sort of valedictory pat one would give a horse just before having it shot.
‘I have to admit, I’m at a total loss with this one.’ Land accepted a consolatory plate of cabinet pudding from Alma, who had decided he needed feeding. ‘Death, madness and political suicide, all knotted together in one unfathomable bloody case. I mean, I know Oskar Kasavian is a hatchet man but he’s losing the love of his life. Believe me, I know how that feels.’ He chewed ruminatively. ‘She’s left me, Arthur. I don’t suppose you know how to use a microwave oven.’
‘I thought you and Leanne were getting on better after you confronted her about her affair?’
‘So did I. But now she’s told me she wants a divorce, and she’ll be moving the rest of her stuff out next week. I’ve been married for twenty years. I always assumed we’d be together for ever. Before she met me, she’d never even been on a caravan holiday. She had absolutely no idea how to change the rotor blade on a lawn mower. She didn’t even know that you could save a fortune by shopping with coupons. I taught her everything.’
‘Perhaps she wants to go places you can’t take her.’
‘What – Barbados?’
‘I don’t mean literally. I mean in her head. Maybe she needs more mental nourishment.’
‘She won’t get it from a flamenco instructor in Cardiff.’
‘Perhaps we’d better stick to the case for now,’ said Bryant, exhibiting rare tact.
‘Good idea. It’ll take my mind off the thought of having to do my own washing. What are your new neighbours like?’
‘Brad Pitt lives next door.’
‘He’s come down in the world. So, what’s John’s take on all this?’
‘My partner thinks more logically than I do. He reckons there are only three possible solutions. One: Sabira Kasavian is genuinely undergoing mental problems brought on by a return to drug dependency, which would mean it’s nothing more than unfortunate timing that she should become ill during the most important month of her husband’s career. But we can rule out that possibility.’
‘How so?’
‘First, cocaine stays in the system for three days, and the clinic ran a urine test as part of her admittance procedure. She was clean, so the rumours about her are false. And if this was all just coincidence, it would mean that Amy O’Connor died a natural death and Jeff Waters was attacked in the park by chance. Now, there are fifty-five churches in the Square Mile alone, and that’s not counting the non-English ones, yet O’Connor used the same one that Waters visited.’
‘OK, unlikely, I agree.’
‘Ben Fenchurch at St Bart’s recorded an open verdict on O’Connor, but Waters was hit by a professional. The attacker didn’t touch his wallet and mobile, and kept him out of the line of the CCTV cameras around the park. We’re still checking Waters’s electronic diary and address book, trying to find out if anyone hated him enough to have him killed, but it’s not looking good. Which means that it’s unlikely these events were entirely coincidental.
‘This brings us to solution number two: Sabira Kasavian is faking her madness in order to destroy her husband’s career. Now this is an interesting one. First, it fits with what we know about her. She boasted to her best friend that she would come to England and find herself a rich husband. She grew dissatisfied with him, and came to hate all of his friends and the world in which they moved. She felt trapped and shut out of society, and decided to take revenge for the way in which she had been treated. She could do this by wrecking her husband’s career and paving the way for a favourable divorce settlement. The next step requires a leap of the imagination.’
‘Go on.’ Land sat wide-eyed with a forkful of pudding halfway to his mouth.
‘One person knows too much about her. The man in whose apartment we found two of her hairs. So she has to ensure he won’t ruin her plans. She pays to have him killed. This leads to two problems. First, how did she pay Waters’s killer? We have no evidence of money being transferred from her account. Second, where does that leave Amy O’Connor? Is she entirely coincidental to the whole sordid business, or did Sabira meet her and possibly fall out with her at some point in the past?’
‘Well?’ asked Land. ‘What’s the answer?’
‘Janice and Jack are still working on that one. It’s not easy going through personal histories when, of the two people involved, one is dead and the other appears to be in a state of nervous collapse. Which brings us to the third solution.’
‘That Sabira Kasavian is being framed,’ said Land.
‘Well done, you. Now the pieces slot together much more easily. This time the motive is power. Someone wants Kasavian’s position as the man with the ear of the Deputy Prime Minister, and sees a way to achieve it. We know from our own dealings with the security supervisor that he’s not a man to be trifled with. But he has one weakness: his beautiful, fragile young wife. If she can be taken out he’ll be weakened, and if this can be done publicly so that everyone knows of his difficulties, there can be no cover-up. Oskar Kasavian used to date Janet Ramsey, the editor of Hard News, but even she refused to hold off the damaging stories – like all dyed-in-the-wool journalists, she’s a scorpion who can’t resist the chance to sting.’
Alma popped back in and left a fresh pot of tea from sheer force of habit.
‘Where does this solution leave the deaths of Waters and O’Connor?’ asked Land.
/> ‘We already have a connection between publisher and photographer; she employed him. It might be that Waters had a big mouth and too much inside information. The same goes for O’Connor, who is connected to Waters by the child who was at both death sites.’
‘I’m getting confused,’ Land admitted. ‘How does all this connect to Mrs Kasavian?’
‘It seems likely that Ana Lang talked to Sabira about work matters, although she doesn’t recall any specific conversation that might have set her off. So we have two deaths and a case of mental instability, and it’s possible there are threads between them all. Unfortunately, the most feasible solution is also the hardest to prove, because in this scenario the killer appears to have thought of everything. We’ve been unable to form a proper link between Amy O’Connor and Jeff Waters, and the evidence has been carefully stacked against Sabira Kasavian. It appears she slept in her photographer’s bed, and will be responsible for destroying her husband’s career.’
‘But there’s a flaw to the killer’s plan,’ Land pointed out. ‘All we’d have to do to catch him is wait until he achieves his ends.’
‘Ah, cui bono, precisely. Once it’s possible to identify the victor with the spoils, the case solves itself. Unless that’s part of the plan too.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Land, deflated.
‘We’re dealing with politicians,’ said Bryant. ‘People who are capable of formulating schemes over a long period of time and studying them from every angle. The most successful crime is the one that nobody knows has been committed, yes? Let’s imagine that next week, Kasavian’s wife is sectioned and Oskar fails to reassure the European committee, so he’s reshuffled and Edgar Lang is appointed in his place. This doesn’t necessarily prove that Lang is the culprit.’
‘It doesn’t?’
‘Oh, Raymond, do try to think. Who benefits?’
Bryant & May and the Invisible Code (Bryant & May 10) Page 15