‘That should have been the end of it. Except there was Sabira again, making accusations, talking to strangers, throwing tantrums, being common, and you couldn’t just have her whacked. You hired someone to watch her and report back. No wonder she felt persecuted! As you took turns to visit her you poisoned her mind against her husband, and then you poisoned her body with your helpful ministrations. “Try taking two of these every morning, Sabira, they’ve always worked for me.” “Take one of these before bedtime.” As for Oskar, well, I imagine that when he heard about O’Connor’s death he assumed the government cover-up was continuing without him, never realizing that you were taking care of the business, destroying his wife and undermining his career.’
The women stared and stared at him, frozen to their chairs, all thoughts of food forgotten.
‘Apart from switching the folder of evidence Sabira found with one full of taxi receipts, all you had to do was make the odd phone call to an untraceable number and draw out some cash. But Sabira had a mouth on her. She talked to the photographer, who traced O’Connor to the church. She talked to her girlfriend, and things just kept getting more complicated. Best not to think of it as murder, you told yourselves, more like an act of self-preservation. But here’s the funny thing. If you hadn’t interfered in the first place, you could have let events unfold naturally and most of your problems would have been taken care of.
‘One thing puzzled me. If Sabira suspected the three of you, why on earth did she take your pills and your poisoned advice? And then I realized what I should have known from the start; that it was a class issue. Even though Sabira was afraid of you, she obeyed you because you were posh. Oh, she complained about you to me, but whenever you arrived full of apologies and turned on the charm and deferred to her, she thought that she might finally be gaining acceptance. But you weren’t accepting her. You were killing her. The children were right. There really are witches.’
A waiter dropped a tray, making everybody jump.
‘What children?’ said Ana Lang, confused.
For once, the women were dumbfounded. They looked even more shocked when a pair of constables from Savile Row nick appeared at the end of the table ready to take them into custody, but Bryant suspected it was more to do with the embarrassment of being arrested in Claridge’s than any real resentment at discovery.
‘To save time and energy,’ said Bryant, ‘I’d rather we didn’t have to go through the tedium of denials. You covered your tracks, but of course the Russians like to know who they’re dealing with and did some checking up on you. They recorded your calls. Guess whose mobile just got handed in?’
The wives rose with the little dignity they could muster. ‘John, put this on my bill, would you?’ Mrs Lang told the maître d’ with an impressive level of imperiousness.
‘Do you need a taxi, madam?’ asked the maître d’.
‘No, we’ll probably walk if the rain has stopped.’ Ana Lang leaned into Bryant as she passed. ‘I’ll tell you what will happen now, you nasty little old man. First, the lawyer. Then, your head.’ She brought her hand up swiftly and would have slapped his face had not one of the constables been quick enough to stop her.
‘On second thoughts,’ said Bryant, ‘you’d better handcuff the three of them together. They’re clearly dangerous.’
So it was that the county wives of the Home Office were removed from the dining room of Claridge’s locked to one another like common criminals, as the clientele watched in open-mouthed amazement.
50
THE OUTSIDERS
THE DETECTIVES TOOK everyone, including Crippen, to the Nun and Broken Compass that night. Oskar Kasavian was in Paris representing the views of the British government, and Raymond Land had agreed to stick the Home Office with the drinks bill.
Jack Renfield unloaded the beer tray and squeezed in beside Longbright as they raised their glasses. It was the British version of a midsummer’s evening: rain fell against the windows and there was a fire in the grate. Through the window they could see umbrellas turning inside out.
‘What do you think will happen now?’ he asked Bryant, tearing open a packet of crisps.
‘Oskar will get the new position, the wives will be indicted and the department will be swept clean,’ said Bryant, sipping his porter. ‘It’s a perfect opportunity for HMG and GCHQ to be seen to be putting their houses in order while burying the past. Nothing will actually change.’
‘Except that Kasavian will have to follow through on his promise to grant us full status under the City of London,’ said May.
‘In that case I’d like to propose a toast,’ said Maggie Armitage, who had wedged herself next to Raymond Land. ‘May the purple candle of friendship neutralize the effects of karmic retribution.’
As toasts went it didn’t strike a very upbeat note, but everyone raised their glasses, and much beer was spilled. Did they realize, as they sat huddled together in the corner of the snug, that they were all outsiders in one way or another? Marked apart by the fierceness of their curiosity, they moved among the docile majority unacknowledged, mistrusted and unloved to the point where they only found solace in one another’s company.
‘Where did you suddenly disappear to this afternoon?’ asked May.
Bryant glanced across at Maggie. ‘I went to see someone who confirmed my theory. He told me to re-examine everything through the eyes of the children. They were hunting witches. And so were we. As soon as I changed perspectives, everything made sense.’
May’s mobile suddenly rang. He checked the text and frowned. ‘Arthur, it seems that somebody wants you,’ he said, holding up the screen. The message read: ‘Send Bryant outside’.
Just at that moment, something crackled and glowed beyond the pub window. Everyone rose and headed for the door.
On the rain-spattered pavement before them was a trail of fire. As it began to die down, they could read the words it had formed:
TIME TO PAY MY FEE – MR MERRY
‘Do you have any idea what that means?’ asked May.
Bryant caught Maggie’s eye and silenced her. He turned to his partner, his wide blue eyes swimming with the innocence of one whom London has made truly devious. ‘No idea at all,’ he said. ‘My round, I think.’
Back inside the pub, Crippen gave birth to nine kittens.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Christopher Fowler is the multi-award-winning author of over thirty novels and twelve short-story collections, including Roofworld, Spanky, Psychoville, Calabash, Hell Train and ten Bryant & May mystery novels. He recently wrote Red Gloves: 25 New Stories to mark his first twenty-five years in print, created the ‘War of the Worlds’ videogame for Paramount (with Sir Patrick Stewart) and won the Green Carnation Prize for his memoir Paperboy. He currently writes a weekly column in the Independent on Sunday and reviews for the Financial Times. He lives in King’s Cross in London. To find out more, visit www.christopherfowler.co.uk
Also by Christopher Fowler
FULL DARK HOUSE
THE WATER ROOM
SEVENTY-SEVEN CLOCKS
TEN-SECOND STAIRCASE
WHITE CORRIDOR
THE VICTORIA VANISHES
BRYANT & MAY ON THE LOOSE
BRYANT & MAY OFF THE RAILS
BRYANT & MAY AND THE MEMORY OF BLOOD
PAPERBOY: A MEMOIR
For more information on Christopher Fowler and his books,
see his websites at www.peculiarcrimesunit.com and www.christopherfowler.co.uk
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BRYANT & MAY AND THE INVISIBLE CODE
DOUBLEDAY: 9780857520500
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN: 9781446465059
First published in Great Britain
in 2012 by Doubleday
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Christopher Fowler 2012
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ristopher Fowler has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
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