Arthur Bryant stretched his legs and spread his fingers, breathing deeply. He tried to imagine himself floating in a pastel-blue aura of pure calm.
‘Mr Bryant, are you eating?’ asked the Master, leaning over him.
‘It’s only an aniseed ball, your graciousness,’ Bryant replied, displaying it between his gleaming dentures.
‘The noise is distracting the others. I’ve told you before.’
‘Last time wasn’t my fault. We’d had sprouts.’
‘Your aniseed balls are all around the hall. Several of the monks have slipped over.’
‘Yes, there’s a hole in my pocket.’ He pulled the pocket from his trousers to show the Master.
‘That’s another thing. Your manner of dress. You’re wearing a suit under your robe.’
‘I couldn’t get a meditation spot near the fan heater. And I can’t do the legs-crossed thing. That’s why I brought my rubber ring.’ He clambered to his feet. The ring deflated flatulently as he folded it.
‘Nevertheless, this is your … let me see …’ The Master checked his little gold notebook. ‘Ah yes, your seventeenth infraction in four days.’
‘How many am I allowed?’
‘I don’t know, nobody’s ever incurred this many before.’ Worry lines furrowed the Master’s brow. He carefully smoothed out his crimson robe. ‘How long do you intend to stay?’
Bryant counted on his fingers. ‘Let’s see, I did three days at the Shri Swaminarayan Temple, then the Brick Lane mosque, a synagogue in Golders Green – amazing bagels – a refugee camp in Earl’s Court, the Silent Order of the Monks of St Benedict – they asked me to leave because I didn’t know how to turn my phone off – the Quakers on Euston Road and an ashram in Highgate. Oh, and half a morning at Our Lady of Perpetual Misery in Clerkenwell. They chucked me out for cleaning my pipe with one of St Sebastian’s arrows. It wasn’t my fault it had fallen off his statue. So I think I’m just about done with the enlightenment thing.’
‘Well, I can’t say all of us will be heartbroken to see you go, Mr Bryant, but I hope we’ve been able to guide you towards spiritual illumination.’
Bryant gave the old fellow a friendly pat on his saffron arm. ‘I think you have, your magnificence, although it’s been rough on the knees. And I’ve been able to give something back. I took your novices through some of our more interesting murder cases.’
‘As violence is expressly forbidden here I’d rather you hadn’t stirred them up.’ The Master tried to recompose his sagged features into an optimistic smile. ‘You came in very late last night.’
‘The chanting left me parched so I slipped out for a quencher.’
‘You came back singing.’
‘Nothing too rude, I hope.’
‘Unfortunately yes. Something about a gentleman from Devizes. So if you’ll just let me have your finger-cymbals back I’ll bid you good-day.’
‘Oh, I thought they were a gift. You’ve a touch of Felix Aylmer about you, have people said that before?’ Bryant shook his hand vigorously. ‘It’s been a pleasure, your delightfulness. I’m sorry to miss the end-of-term knees-up.’
The Master paused and thought for a moment. ‘Tell me, Mr Bryant, what did you come here seeking?’
‘What everyone seeks,’ Bryant replied. ‘An explanation. You see, I am an incomplete person.’
The Master looked down. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘I mean psychologically. I view the world as an outsider. I have no patience or empathy with the common man. I am like the Tin Man, missing a heart, and it has grievously affected my work. Happily, over the years my great friend Mr John May covered for me. And in his hour of need I failed him.’
The Master looked sympathetic. ‘Then I hope your time with us helped to return you to the path of understanding.’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Oh.’
‘But it allowed me to consider what I might do to make amends. I thought I’d buy him something nice as a peace offering. A new whistle.’
‘I didn’t know the police still used them.’
‘A suit.’
‘I like to think that we can rise above the material, Mr Bryant.’
‘Don’t worry, it’ll be quality schmatta. He’s a bit of a clothes horse. I want him to know how important it is that he lives.’
‘It’s important for us all to live.’
‘Yes, but with all due respect you haven’t had a bullet up the jacksie.’ He poked at the Master’s saffron robe.
The Master’s face furrowed further. ‘I’ve been watching you, Mr Bryant. I think you’ve been at war all your life with those whom you perceive are trying to undermine you.’
‘Not the French?’
‘You have been contemplating your future here, but you cannot resolve it because you are trying to achieve the impossible, when your goal should be to discover what lies in your heart.’
Bryant pointed a finger at him. ‘Right, got you, no idea what you’re talking about but it’s been lovely. I want you to know that I’ve had a great time, and I adored the food. Don’t listen to what the others say – nobody ever gets fed up with pad thai.’ He gave the Master a nudge. ‘After I’ve gone take a look in the collection box. I know people can be mingebags when the plate comes around so I’ve tried to make up for the inconvenience of you having me. Tell the lads to have a few ales on me.’
The Master had a feeling that he and this peculiar old man were fighting the same fight, just from different points of view.
Even so, he was glad to see him go.
As Bryant collected his stuff and strolled out, he stopped before a statue of the smiling golden Buddha and set an offering of pear drops before it, then returned to the street with a small leather suitcase, his homburg, his four-loop scarf and his mackintosh. The Golden Buddha temple was situated in a former chapel in suburban Wimbledon. Looking back at it with affection, he set off through teeming rain for the station.
Bryant had hoped that spending a few weeks exploring his spirituality would restore his equilibrium, and besides, he could not bear the thought of watching the unit dismantled before his eyes. As no one had come knocking at the temple door, he assumed that his landlady had kept his secret well.
As he walked, he switched on his phone and was bombarded with dozens of missed calls and messages. Raymond Land had rung eighteen times, which seemed rather excessive.
When he turned the corner he was shocked to find Land standing in the middle of the pavement, right in front of him. He looked back at his phone in puzzlement. ‘Raymondo. How did you do that? Is it an app?’
‘Bryant, there you are.’ Land was holding a sodden Daily Mirror over his head and dripping ears.
‘That’s me, what do you want?’
‘What do you mean what do I want?’ He bellowed so loudly that Bryant had to turn his hearing aid down. ‘You really are the most irresponsible – where the bloody hell have you been?’
Bryant blinked bluely. ‘There’s no need to shout. I went out. Is that all right with you?’
‘Out? Out is nipping to the shops for a paper, not vanishing into limbo.’
‘This isn’t limbo, it’s Wimbledon,’ Bryant said. ‘They’ve got a Fired Earth store and a Farrow & Ball, it’s dead posh. I’ve been looking for the real me.’
‘So have we, for nearly a bloody month. Why didn’t you tell anyone where you were going?’
‘I needed some time to think. My partner made the kind of mistake any normal human being could make in the line of duty, and I should have forgiven him. Instead I behaved abominably.’
‘You always do. John is recovering at home, no thanks to you.’
‘Alma sent me a message. I’m glad he’s on the mend. How did you find me?’
‘I didn’t. Janice did. One of your loopy academic pals set her off on a ludicrously complicated treasure hunt involving a schedule of your whereabouts hidden in an apothecaries’ hall.’
‘So she got the Dead Diary open. S
mart lass.’
‘Have you seen the news?’
‘No, I’ve been in a temple. We weren’t even allowed to get racing tips.’
‘The Speaker of the House of Commons got buried under half a ton of fruit. You need to come and take a look.’
‘It may have escaped your notice, vieux haricot, but the unit no longer exists.’
‘The Home Secretary himself has intervened,’ said Land. ‘I’ve been called to a meeting with someone who’s sorting out our accommodation. If he tries to get away with offering us a Portakabin he can stick it up his arse. Just get yourself over to Marconi House on the Strand, and read this on the way.’ He gave Bryant a thick envelope of notes.
‘Aren’t you going to say it’s good to have me back?’ Bryant suggested.
‘I don’t know if it is yet.’
‘Well, I’m glad to see you.’ Bryant looped his arm through Land’s. ‘Would you care to share a hansom back with me?’
Land looked horrified. ‘A handsome what?’
‘You’ve never really been on my wavelength, have you?’ said Bryant.
‘I’ve never been on your planet,’ said Land, releasing himself.
‘I suppose not. All I can offer you is my essoinment,fn1 my dear obganiatoryfn2 mataelogian.fn3 I shall bid you au revoir.’
‘I’d rather you just said goodbye,’ muttered Land as his bungalow on the Isle of Wight started to look appealing once more.
8
A Living Paradox
‘Mr B., my word, you do look well,’ said Dan Banbury, the PCU’s crime scene manager, delightedly shaking the detective’s hand, even though he then had to wipe his fingers with a tissue as Bryant was eating a jam doughnut.
Arthur Bryant stood before him in a squashed homburg and a cobra-like red and green scarf, an oversized tweed coat and baggy grey trousers. One hand was leaning on a snakehead walking stick and the other was wrapped around a fat doughball oozing raspberry glue.
‘I’d given you up for dead,’ Banbury admitted, leading him inside Marconi House. ‘I’ve been monitoring the Thames Police chatter in case you turned up at low tide.’
‘How very kind. I am very much alive, thank you. It looks like we’re back in business, thanks to this Claremont fellow. I’m not sure how we’re going to work without a unit, though. What have you got?’
‘Apparently Claremont’s being moved from Chelsea and Westminster to a small private hospital in Scotland.’
‘He can’t do that. We’ll need to interview him.’
‘His wife won’t let anyone near him, and she has a doctor to back her up. Come upstairs – you need to see something.’
Claremont’s apartment was a dark library with a bed. Every wall was lined with leather-bound legal volumes and documents. Mahogany, copper, brass and gold created a welcoming womb. There were low orange lamps and a gigantic green leather sofa smothered in periodicals, court circulars and parliamentary papers. Best in winter, Bryant imagined.
‘Apparently he was some bigwig in government,’ said Banbury, carefully ushering the detective through a pinned-out route to the sitting room.
‘Some bigwig?’ echoed Bryant. ‘He’s the guardian of the nation’s democratic process. He monitors the debates and maintains order. He represents the Commons to the monarch and the Lords. There’s only ever been a hundred and fifty of them in the whole of British history. They get their names inscribed in gold leaf in the House of Commons Library.’
‘He must be under a bit of pressure then.’
‘Which is why the Home Office thinks he’s having a breakdown and is shooting his mouth off to anyone who’ll listen. They want to know who’s behind the attack on his life. The Home Office is pursuing its own agenda.’
‘Where did you get that from?’ Banbury asked.
‘It’s why we’re being resuscitated, Dan.’ Bryant rolled his eyes. ‘Obvs. What did the porter have to say?’
‘Just that Claremont’s a friendly chap, always stops by for a chat.’
‘How’s his family doing?’
‘The wife never leaves his side.’
‘And her reaction?’
‘No idea. I’m on the side of the dead, Mr B., not the living. That’s your job. This is what I wanted you to see.’
On the sofa sat Banbury’s fingerprinting equipment. Next to it, a cardboard box had been opened. Bryant pulled its wrapping free and examined it.
‘Don’t do that!’ cried Banbury, angry with himself for having failed to issue the standard warning.
‘Sorry, I’ve got jam on it.’
Bryant unstuck the wrapper from his fingers and looked into the box. It contained six oranges and six lemons. ‘No return address or courier details.’ He went to the window and looked out. ‘Very suggestive.’
‘The porter says it wasn’t delivered.’
Bryant headed to the kitchen and turned about on himself like a dog taking in new surroundings. ‘Brand new, unused, no juicer. What was he supposed to do with the fruit? Either somebody thinks he needs vitamin C or it’s a warning he failed to appreciate. Anyone else been in or out?’
‘The porter wasn’t here on Sunday morning – it’s his day off.’
Bryant picked up a bronze figurine of Hermes and turned it over. ‘See if anyone was in the building when this happened, would you? I hear there are a couple of witnesses.’ He headed back to the kitchen for a poke about in the cupboards.
‘They’re being brought up here, seeing as we don’t have an office,’ said Banbury, checking his watch. ‘Don’t touch anything in the—’
Bryant upturned a silver salt cellar to see who’d made it. ‘I understand the PCU building is going to house a new dining concept, Casa Beansprout or something.’
‘You’re getting salt everywhere— What’s wrong?’ Banbury asked as Bryant started emptying out the contents of a shelf.
‘Has Claremont got health problems?’
‘Why?’
‘His cupboards are full of painkillers. That’s the best part about being old; you get to do a ton of drugs. I know most of these. I’ll have a word with his doctor. How old is Claremont?’
‘Not as old as you.’
‘Nobody is as old as me.’
‘Mid-fifties, I think. Have you spoken to your partner yet?’ Banbury’s tone was deceptively casual.
Bryant tipped a tablet into his palm and touched his tongue to it. ‘No, but I heard he’s out of danger.’
‘Go and see him.’ Dan took the pill pot out of Bryant’s hand. ‘You’re going to need him on the case.’
Bryant ignored him. ‘There was a bin lorry at the kerb – anyone in it?’
‘The driver was asleep in the cabin when it happened.’
‘Did you check the pavement and gutter?’
‘I didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. Junk food wrappers, a few empty bottles and an abandoned skateboard.’
Bryant checked the other cupboards. ‘Was Claremont just incredibly unlucky, Dan? Head in the clouds, stepped out without looking? Or does the Home Office really think there’s a conspiracy? He talks to the wrong person and says something so revealing that they try to kill him in a staged accident?’
‘Accidents are easier to establish than conspiracies,’ Banbury told him.
Bryant stood on the front step of the Marconi building and drew out his pipe. He looked on to the street and tried to see where Claremont’s body had fallen, but the pavement had been cleaned and reopened. It was city policy to reduce the impact of any public drama as quickly as possible, but he wondered if some detail had been swept away in the process. Why had it occurred on a Sunday morning in daylight and in public? Why had the driver run? Why were there oranges in Claremont’s flat?
Bryant looked up at the windows and puffed at his Spitfire. He called Banbury. ‘Can you make sure that Westminster sends you their forensic report on the van?’
‘There may not be one. They only took it away because it violated parking regulations.’
>
‘Then put in a formal request to go over it.’
‘I’ll try. We’re only on this to ascertain the Speaker’s mental health, remember?’
I’ll have to do something about that, thought Bryant, drawing deeply on his aromatic leaves.
Seated on a bench in Claremont’s kitchen, Koharu Takahashi looked small and frightened. This was not how she had imagined she would be spending her holiday in London. And now, to be confronted by this tramp-like old man with luminous outsized false teeth and a hearing aid was enough to make her feel like crying.
‘He is very strange,’ she whispered in a microscopic voice.
‘Strange in what way?’ Bryant asked. ‘Please be more exact.’
‘Like wafuku but for westerners,’ she said, watching his uncomprehending eyes. ‘Um, formal – suit.’
‘Did you see him close up? Was this him?’ He showed her the photo on his phone.
Koharu looked around for help but none came. She wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘Beard,’ she said finally. ‘And this.’ She tapped her lapel. ‘Chrysanthemum.’
‘Ah, carnation.’
‘Flower, no flower.’
Bryant tried again. ‘Did you see him step out between the parked vehicles?’ He mimed the action.
‘He goes under the fruit.’
‘What did you do?’
‘A lady comes to help. I go away.’
‘I know it was a couple of days ago but is there anything else you can tell us about the accident?’
‘Is dangerous to cross the road in London.’
‘Thank you, Ms Takahashi. Utterly useless, we have your details, you’re free to go. This thing that happened, it’s not normal. London is safer than you think, and welcomes you. Enjoy the rest of your holiday.’ Bryant smiled briskly and dismissed her.
Margot Brandy had helped the PCU many times in the past. She gave Bryant a peck on the cheek and slipped off her faux-leopard coat. ‘I’m glad you’re all right, lovey. I’ve been hearing all sorts of stories about you.’
Margot’s voice always came as a shock to him, even now. She sounded like an East End bricklayer, solid, rough, fundamentally warm-hearted. Her voice was the secret weapon in her arsenal because it caused some of the plummier lawyers to underestimate her, to their lasting regret. ‘How’s your hand?’ he asked.
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