‘There’s a golden cord running between the two of you. I think he’ll be good for you, although …’
‘Although what?’
‘There’s something you have to discover about him first, a problem to solve. If you can surmount that, he’ll be the one to save you.’
Longbright was becoming annoyed by the white witch’s cryptic prognostications. Maggie reached Bryant’s doorway and peered in, breathing deeply. ‘Of course,’ she said quietly. ‘I knew it would be like this.’
Making herself comfortable in the green leather armchair while Longbright made tea, she took in her surroundings, studying the bindings of the books and folders, the chaotic spread of Eastern artefacts and Victorian bric-a-brac. She paid particular attention to a volume of Greek myths that lay on Bryant’s desk.
‘He knows more than he’s telling you,’ she told Longbright when the DS had returned with a tray. ‘He doesn’t want you to come to harm.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you,’ Longbright admitted.
‘The Greeks. Pegasus was the offspring of Medusa. The horse sprouted from her severed head. It was a half-brother to Theseus.’
‘Nope, still nothing, I’m afraid.’ Talking with Maggie was confusing at the best of times, but Longbright feared the white witch was finally dropping off the conversational bandwidth.
‘I knew there was a connection, but couldn’t quite recall having the conversation with Arthur about it. He already has everything he needs to solve the case.’
‘I don’t see how you could possibly know that, Maggie.’
‘Because we talked about it long before any of this happened.’ She accepted the hot tea and drank, but had to steady the cup with both hands. ‘It’s the Scarlet Thread, the line of Christ’s blood. He’s been misled. There’s no such thing. It’s just another myth. But the danger is very real, and he will die if he fails to remember the past. Your cat’s about to have nine kittens, by the way.’
‘Maggie, you know I love you dearly but I’m very busy and to be quite frank you’re making as much sense as a box of rubber kippers, so if you don’t mind, I think I’ll just—’
‘Did he go to the British Museum?’ Maggie asked suddenly.
‘Yes, I think he did. Why?’
‘He went to look at the blood. But you see, it’s not Christ’s blood at all. It’s just a stupid old artefact manufactured by the Church to encourage their devotees. And yet when you think of all the trouble it’s caused …’
Longbright pointed along the corridor. ‘Look, I’ll just be in the next room, OK?’
‘Your mother’s with you, you know.’
Longbright froze. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I see Gladys standing behind you, almost as clearly as I see you. She never had the gift. It skips a generation, you see. She went to her death without knowing. But you have it, the power of second sight. You don’t see it now but one day it will return to you.’
‘Maggie, I’m a rationalist. I know you believe in … certain things, but I can’t afford to accept that they’re possible. My mother died in the course of her duty.’
‘I know, dear. When I say I see her I’m speaking figuratively. I’ll let you in on a little secret.’ She leaned forward to impart the confidence. ‘I don’t believe in the supernatural either, not in its traditional form. I believe there are degrees of sensitivity that allow some of us to connect. I’m a connector. Think of me as a spiritual three-pin plug. And I’ve finally made the connection. Oskar Kasavian worked in Porton Down, didn’t he?’
Longbright was taken aback. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Arthur once told me. You do know what they do there.’
‘It’s classified defence-of-the-realm stuff – biochemicals mainly, I think. They work quite closely with American military scientific units.’
‘There’s a reason why the Scarlet Thread keeps coming up.’ Maggie searched the air, as if trying to catch the wavelength of a distant music. ‘Madness. Loss. And blood, of course, always blood. A bright red through-line, if you will. I see it shimmering.’ She raised a ringed hand before her eyes. ‘Just there in front of me. Oh, how it shimmers! I must stay until Arthur returns. He needs to understand.’
Longbright could take no more. She left Maggie to her whispering spirits, returning to her office, but a feeling of dread had settled deep in her bones and would not be easily shaken off.
40
THE THREAD
STUART ALMON WAS a frightened man.
Kasavian paced slowly before him, seemingly studying the shine on his shoes. The packed bookcases and heavy tasselled curtains turned the room into something decadent and claustrophobic. They might have been in some overwrought Victorian bathysphere, miles below the surface of the Thames.
‘What I fail to understand’, Kasavian said carefully, ‘is why you would bring the police here. Those poor senile flatfoots are merely marking time until their enforced retirement. Why do you think I appointed them to investigate my wife?’
‘You wanted to be seen to be doing something,’ said Almon sullenly.
‘I didn’t want the Met involved because they would have started throwing their weight around as they always do, ploughing through our company files out of sheer bloody-mindedness. There was never any likelihood of the Peculiar Crimes Unit doing the same, not with Bryant wandering off into old museums all the time. But you should know better. Or perhaps you thought you did.’ He turned his hands, admiring their marmoreal sheen, and then wagged a finger at Almon. Naughty boy. ‘You were pointing them towards something else, weren’t you? Now, what could that be?’
‘They knew about the club,’ said Almon a trifle too hastily. Kasavian’s sudden honesty made him nervous. ‘I thought it would be better to bring them here, rather than just have them turn up. I only took them as far as this room. I wouldn’t have taken them any further.’
‘You know, Stuart, I’ve spent years listening to explanations about security breaches and I always start from the same position. I know people lie to themselves. They’re hardwired to try and cover their mistakes.’
‘This wasn’t a mistake. It was damage limitation. I told you, they knew about the club. Your wife – she died beneath a painting of the bloody Rake’s Progress, for Christ’s sake. If that wasn’t a clear enough pointer, I don’t know what was. I don’t know how or why it happened, but it did.’
Kasavian realized just how badly he had underestimated his accountant. Concern momentarily flickered across his features. Then the mask came back into place. ‘They’ll get no further. You can undo the damage you’ve caused to the company.’
‘How?’
‘You’re going to destroy the only remaining file for me.’
‘You know I have no idea what’s in it, Oskar, and I don’t want to know.’
‘I appreciate that. It’s better for everyone that the contents remain a secret. What you don’t know can’t hurt you. If you want to open a Pandora’s box, I won’t be able to keep you alive.’ Almon blanched. ‘I mean, in terms of your career,’ said Kasavian.
‘I don’t understand. Why don’t you do it?’
‘Good God, man, you led them here.’ Kasavian’s raised voice came as a shock in the deadened room. ‘I can’t be connected to it in any way. I’m about to present the government’s case in Paris. The file is the reason why we were forced to tackle the border initiative in the first place. You talk about damage limitation – you have no idea of the damage that could be wrought.’
‘Where is the file? Is it in here?’
‘No, it’s in a secure location. You need to go there tonight, remove the contents and burn them. Don’t look at them, just burn them.’ He took out a pen and scribbled down an address and some numerals, handing the paper over. ‘Obviously it’s imperative that nobody sees you. For your sake. You’ll need this.’ He removed a small brass key from his pocket.
The parting was awkward. As Almon moved back to the door, Kasavian’s eyes never left
him.
‘Goodbye, Stuart.’ Kasavian remained motionless, watching him leave. As Almon fled the building, he found it hard to shake the feeling that his fate was being sealed.
‘We can’t leave Almon in Kasavian’s hands,’ warned May as they reached the PCU. ‘There’s no telling what might happen to him.’
‘Kasavian wouldn’t be that stupid,’ said Bryant. ‘Besides, we can’t stop him. All we have is a note from a dead woman who was undergoing psychiatric evaluation.’
‘But if Giles gets his evidence of systematic poisoning—’
‘It could take days to get that information from the labs without Kasavian himself signing off the budget. Jack just texted me; Kasavian’s on the six p.m. Eurostar to Paris tomorrow evening. We have to arrest him before then.’
‘Couldn’t we trump up something? They arrested Al Capone for tax evasion. Hold him on some minor infraction until the lab report comes back?’
‘And what if it’s inconclusive? He has the backing of the Deputy Prime Minister. It’ll take a lot more than that to stop him catching that train.’
As the detectives were shaking the sooty rain of King’s Cross from their jackets in the hallway of the PCU, Maggie found them and launched into a fragmented, frantic plea neither of them could understand.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Longbright, trying to stop her, ‘she just turned up here. I have no idea what she’s on about.’
‘It’s OK, Janice,’ said Bryant, ‘I’ll handle this. Slow down, you silly woman, I can’t understand what you’re saying.’
‘Come with me, I’ll show you.’ The white witch seized Bryant’s soggy arm and pulled him upstairs towards his office. Bryant shrugged back at his partner and allowed himself to be led.
Throwing open his volume of Greek mythology, she turned to the index and traced a finger down the list. ‘You told me Mr Kasavian and his team own a company called Pegasus providing security intelligence to the scientific community. Pegasus and Theseus were half-brothers. You do remember Theseus, I take it?’
‘Of course. Peter Jukes, the whistle-blower who died. That was where he worked.’
‘Do you still have the file on him?’
‘It’s in the attic. Pass me my stick, the top stairs are a bugger.’
‘Would somebody please tell me what’s going on?’ asked Raymond Land, hearing the commotion. ‘What is that woman doing here? She’s a bloody menace.’
‘Yes, we know,’ said Bryant. ‘She’s helping us on the case. We’ll be in the attic.’
The PCU’s top floor ran the full length of the building and was still partly filled with dust-sheeted crates left by previous tenants. ‘Walk on the joists,’ warned Bryant, ‘or you’ll fall through the ceiling. Dan rigged up a couple of lights for me. The switch should be somewhere on your right.’
‘Madame Blavatsky,’ Maggie whispered, pressing her palm against the glass case housing a yellowed fortune-telling wax effigy of the Victorian medium. ‘So she is here.’
Behind the dummy were stored the memories neither Bryant nor May had room for in their apartments, items they had salvaged from previous notable investigations: a giant prop lightning bolt from the Palace Theatre; a lamp that had hung in an underground canal tunnel; one of the seventy-seven brass clocks; a highwayman’s hat; a snow globe from Devon; a pub sign; a pair of antlers; a Tube-station worker’s yellow pith helmet; and the latest addition – a Mr Punch doll.
Bryant burrowed into the boxes and attempted to drag a box of files out. ‘John, give me a hand with this,’ he instructed. ‘I kept hard copies of our reports because you were always tinkering with the unit’s technology.’
It took the best part of an hour to find what they were looking for among the mildewed blue cardboard folders, tied off in bundles with bits of twine. ‘Here we are,’ said Bryant. ‘We need more light.’
May pulled down one of the cabled bulbs and held it over the file. ‘“Dr Peter Jukes, Salisbury, Wiltshire”,’ he read, then précised: ‘Body found by fishermen floating off Black Head on the Lizard Peninsula, Cornwall. He’d been missing for a week, but had only been in the water for a few hours. The local coroner gave a verdict of accidental death, although he acknowledged that there were unexplained injuries. Jukes’s boat was found miles away, washed into a local harbour. There was a fair amount of dissent about the death. The coastguard concluded that he was unlikely to have been thrown from his boat, because local tides and currents would have taken them to shore together. I don’t see what relevance—’
‘Keep going,’ said Bryant.
May held the light closer. ‘Jukes told friends he was going fishing with a colleague named …’ He stopped and looked up. ‘Oskar Kasavian.’
‘Read on further.’
‘Jukes had once belonged to some kind of Druid sect, and the press picked up on it. They tried to imply that he had fallen victim to Satanists. There was talk of a witch-hunt.’
‘Now, there’s an awful lot of misinformation about Satanists—’ Maggie began.
‘Don’t start,’ warned May, continuing hastily. ‘Jukes’s family admitted he had arcane hobbies, but were forced into denials to protect his reputation after it was suggested that there was some kind of connection between his injuries and his supposed interest in black magic. The press were curious because Jukes was a scientist involved with biological-defence experiments at the MOD’s Porton Down laboratory. There had been a public scandal over part of the lab being outsourced to private companies. The police vindicated the coroner and agreed with the verdict of accidental death, promoting the idea that Jukes had become mentally unstable. He’d been suffering from clinical depression for a number of years, and had been recognized as a security risk.’
‘The company he and Kasavian were outsourced to was called Theseus,’ Bryant interpolated. ‘It employed a number of epidemiologists studying the pathogenic spread of mutating viruses. The US National Science Advisory Board for Biosecurity wanted to shut the place down. They were worried that terrorists might be able to translate the scientific data into a weapon if it was published.’
‘I remember that part – it was tangential to a case we were handling. But there’s no real link between the drowning and Kasavian. He managed to prove that he was nowhere near Jukes’s boat on the day.’
‘Kasavian and his pals now run the sister company to Theseus,’ said Bryant. ‘One of the things they’ve been looking into is the protection of scientists developing genetic mutations of avian flu.’
‘Arthur, there is still no direct connection. And you’ – May pointed at Maggie – ‘should not get involved in this kind of conspiracy theorizing. It only makes matters worse.’
‘What if I told you that I’m holding the thread between the past and the present?’ said Maggie.
‘I don’t care if you’re holding the fireman’s ball, if you’re hiding any kind of information that could help us, then you’re required by law—’
‘I know where it can be found,’ Maggie stated very loudly.
‘I don’t see how that’s possible. There’s nothing you could know about this case.’
‘The girl who died in St Bride’s’ Church. Her name was Amy O’Connor, I believe.’
‘That’s right.’
‘She was Peter Jukes’s girlfriend,’ said Maggie. ‘She always believed he had been murdered. And she went to her death in London still looking for proof.’
41
THE BLOOD LINK
‘HOW COULD YOU possibly have got hold of this information?’ May demanded to know. ‘We’ve been over everything time and time again and there was nothing …’
‘You interviewed the churchwardens, then?’ asked Maggie.
‘Of course we did, all three of them.’
‘But there are four. Jake Wallace was working in the basement that day. He and I have been friends for years. He used to attend my Mind and Spirit evenings when he was a penniless student, although to be honest I think he only came for the vol-au-ve
nts. I mentioned I’d seen you, and he told me he’d seen Miss O’Connor on a number of occasions. She confided in him. People often do in churches, as you’d know if you weren’t both such heathens.’
May looked flummoxed. ‘I don’t understand how we could have missed him.’
‘I imagine nobody thought to tell you he’d switched to a different shift. Sometimes he took over the shop between one and two p.m., while the others were at lunch. Miss O’Connor said her boyfriend had told her to come to St Bride’s if anything happened to him. Soon after he died, she visited the church, but couldn’t find out why he had sent her there. A couple of months ago she returned and started visiting more regularly. I imagine by then she assumed his request was more of a spiritual nature. Jake said it seemed as if Miss O’Connor found peace there, just knowing her partner had been in the same place. He got the feeling she wanted to talk to somebody but didn’t know whom to trust. And she was running out of money. I think she was working in a bar and had had her hours reduced.’
‘She told the warden all this?’
‘There’s something open and friendly about Jake that people in distress respond to. That’s why he’s a churchwarden.’
‘Why would Peter Jukes have sent her to St Bride’s?’ May asked.
‘It’s the journalists’ church,’ said Bryant. ‘Perhaps he wanted her to discover something and spread the word. Had Jukes ever met your friend Wallace?’
‘I don’t know,’ Maggie admitted.
‘Dan checked every square inch of that place,’ said May.
‘What about the basement? St Bride’s was badly damaged in the Blitz, but the bombs uncovered a sealed vault.’
‘Nobody mentioned a vault.’
‘No, it was closed up by the authorities in 1854, after a cholera outbreak. Dan only covered the ground floor. He was looking at a possible murder site, not studying archaeology. Is the basement open to the public?’
Bryant & May and the Invisible Code (Bryant & May 10) Page 24