She was lost in thought as she cut off the corner of Duncannon Street and St Martin’s Lane, diagonally climbing the three-sided steps to St Martin-in-the-Fields. As much of her day involved sitting in windowless rooms, she tended to use London’s street furniture like gym equipment, getting in her steps and turning stairs into thigh-and-glute exercises.
On the other side of the road a group of tourists had gathered for a new exhibition of Martin Parr photographs at the National Portrait Gallery, their colourful umbrellas hoisted against the famous English weather they’d heard about and now wished never to see again.
Chakira was thinking about her upcoming conference call with the German Minister of Housing, and wondering if her researcher had provided her with enough material about their project, when she became aware of the man limping towards her.
He suddenly moved his hand and her first thought was that he would ask her for money, but a moment later there was a pain in her chest. It felt as if she was experiencing a heart attack.
She heard the sound of coins dropping nearby. Her mind raced: a protestor, a terrorist, just a black shape, fleeting and gone.
Her balance went. She slipped and fell head-first down the wet steps. Somebody cried out. She fought to regain her equilibrium but the staircase was wide and sloped away at two different angles. It was impossible for her to break her fall. As she landed she felt something snap in her wrist. She slid to a stop on the corner of the staircase with the coins cast on the steps above her, extending from her heels like a row of copper raindrops.
The man had already gone. A woman ran over to help. Chakira wanted to say don’t move me, but now there was an iciness spreading from the base of her skull, and her tilted view of Trafalgar Square sparkled and dissipated as bells began to ring.
‘I’m afraid she’s dead,’ said the vicar of St Martin’s, the Reverend Stephen Mallory, who was the first to understand what had happened. He called an ambulance and they called the police, who arrived and spoke to the Serious Crime Command, who summoned the Peculiar Crimes Unit, the entire process taking eight minutes, during which time Chakira Rahman lay on the steps with an overcoat covering her face. The drama coincided with a party of tourists being led out of the church, so Mallory was forced to divert them, and by doing so drew even more attention to the fallen woman.
Dan Banbury collected Bryant in his car, but by the time they arrived the body had been moved inside the church and shielded from public view by the Emergency Medical Team.
‘The steps aren’t very steep,’ Bryant observed. ‘Even I could get up and down them without slipping over. They’re disorienting, though.’ He stepped back under the eaves. The rain was sheeting down now.
‘We had a bloke fall down these last month,’ said the EMT leader. ‘American. Aneurism. He was in sniper’s alley.’
Bryant looked about. ‘And where is that?’
‘Not where, when. Forty-eight to fifty-two. Males who don’t change their lifestyles in that age bracket have a tendency to drop dead. Went down like a toboggan, straight under a lorry.’
‘You think she’d have survived being stabbed if she hadn’t fallen as well?’
‘Probably not,’ said the EMT leader. ‘The blade went in deep and was removed.’
Bryant wrinkled his nose. ‘Are you chewing?’
‘Fruit gum.’
‘Can I have one? Dan, nobody’s taped off the spot where she fell.’ He waved at his crime scene manager, who was balanced on the rain-slick steps. ‘Do something about it.’
‘Sure you don’t want to go and trample all over it with your big boots first, drop a few sweet wrappers, tread some mud in?’ Banbury asked. ‘It’s what you usually do.’
‘Just secure the site, would you? The Met officers can handle a weapon search, they’re good at that.’
‘Surely there’s no need to bring—’ Banbury began before he caught the trapped-wind look on Bryant’s features. ‘I’ll tell them.’
‘I don’t suppose anyone saw where her attacker went.’ Bryant sighed and looked about. ‘Do we even have a description?’
Behind him was a ragged queue of tourists in rain macs. ‘They’ll start drifting away in a minute if you don’t take their statements. Dan, run them into the narthex and make sure there are at least two officers with notepads.’
‘Where’s the narthex?’
‘The porch bit at the front, you heathen. They can’t phone anyone about this until we’ve put out a statement. If anyone’s filmed it, take their device away. Chakira Rahman is an MBE so news of her death will get out there quickly enough, but we have to be in control of the information.’
Bryant stuck his hands in his pockets and looked out at the scene. The fat, inelegant plumes of the Trafalgar Square fountains were spattering over their basins in the wind. Rain had driven everyone from the square. Crimson exhibition banners clanged and slapped at their poles. A taxi was stuck across a junction. Tourists in clear plastic rain-hats advertising some kind of musical – ironically, Singing in the Rain – were politely waiting to get around the congested corner of the church steps. A Japanese couple in full wedding regalia, the bride in a frothy white frock that made her look like a shepherdess, were being photographed on the steps of a church where a woman had just been stabbed to death.
It’s happened to another high-profile figure in public, Bryant thought. Sheer devilry. I know where we’re going with this, I just don’t know how to tell anyone without being ridiculed. John could have helped him explain, if only he could be here. The pistol might have been aimed at his partner but the blast had damaged him as well. Bryant took death more seriously than people realized.
Two constables guarded a roped-off corner beneath the organ where the body had been placed. Now that the coach party had left the church, the nave was almost empty. St Martin’s was busiest during its evening concerts. Then the chandeliers would be lit so that the gold tracery of the white interior could glow and sparkle above the heads of the congregation. Today the seething grey morning had turned the wooden pews to charcoal, filling the space with deep shadows.
The ambulance team wanted to take the body away. An initial examination noted injuries caused by the fall, a broken wrist and a cheekbone contusion, and the cause of death, a single stab wound penetrating deeply and directly into the heart. It was Bryant’s worst nightmare, someone struck down in a public place. He had seen the aftermaths of street bombs, innocents attacked by fanatics. It was as if the city, birthed in ancient paganism, periodically demanded sacrifices of its people.
For now he had to think about the practical. Banbury had checked Chakira Rahman’s online profile and lifted her contact details, including her husband’s office numbers. Her face was familiar to many in the capital. One of the most levelling characteristics of London was that the majority of its inhabitants, rich or poor, walked, biked or used public transport to cross the city. It was important to ensure that they never became afraid of doing so. He looked over at the waiting group of witnesses, corralled behind the rear pews.
‘She’s well known, isn’t she?’ said the vicar softly, staring in wonder at the covered shape being removed from the floor. ‘She raises money for humanitarian aid. I’ve watched her being interviewed on television.’
‘What did you see?’ asked Bryant.
‘I heard someone cry out and immediately came outside. I couldn’t see her at first. She had fallen face down.’
‘Was there anyone else near her?’
‘Not that I noticed. My concentration was on Mrs Rahman. And there was the blood of course. I didn’t want anyone coming into the church to see it but it had spread across the steps. We overlook the heart of the city. To have such a thing happen here is unthinkable. People have had accidents before but no one has died.’
‘The medics said there was a fatality just last month.’
‘Yes, but he went under a truck. That’s not us.’
‘Are there cameras covering the steps?’ asked Bryant.
‘Not from the church. It’s a very old building. You can’t just drill into the brickwork.’
‘Perhaps we’ll be lucky with the ones in Duncannon Street. We’ll make sure he doesn’t get away.’ It felt like something he should say rather than something he believed right now. ‘There’ll be some disruption here for a while. We’ll try to be gone as soon as possible.’
‘I think I should say a prayer for him,’ said Reverend Mallory.
For once, Bryant did not indulge his penchant for vicar-baiting. Instead, he turned his attention to the removal of the body, staying with the EMT while they made it safe for transporting down the steps. As he headed outside, an argument started.
He glanced back at the witnesses. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘We’ve got half a dozen phone recordings of the attack,’ said Banbury, ‘maybe more, and they’re kicking up hell. No one wants to hand over their phone. Two of them are arguing over copyright.’
‘Who’s the scariest Met officer on site right now?’
‘Sergeant Maxfield.’
‘Louise? Perfect. Let’s put her in charge of the witnesses. We must be able to get an ID of her attacker.’
Bryant located the no-nonsense sergeant and had a word with her. Within moments she completely silenced the mob. Met officers cultivated that ability; they could put a full stop to arguments with as much efficiency and more warmth than British Airways counter staff. It was a skill no one at the PCU had ever managed to develop.
Banbury found him again. ‘This is going to do your head in, Mr B. They were scattered at the spot where Mrs Rahman fell. One of the witnesses says she saw a man throw them down but she didn’t see what they were.’ He handed Bryant a plastic evidence pouch.
Bryant unsealed it and squinted inside. ‘You have got to be joking.’
‘Don’t take them out of their—’ Banbury began but it was too late. Bryant had already tipped them into the palm of his hand.
‘Five farthings?’ he said incredulously. ‘Tell me this isn’t what I think it is. Did anybody else see you pick them up?’
‘I don’t think so, no.’
‘It has to be kept out of the press. Can you imagine the field day they’d have?’ He handed back the pouch. ‘Do whatever you feel is necessary to suppress it.’
Banbury caught his eye.
‘What?’ snapped Bryant, nettled.
‘I’ve seen that look on your face before. You think it’s all connected now, because of the churches.’
‘I’m keeping an open mind,’ Bryant lied. ‘That’s what John would do.’
He called Longbright. ‘Janice, everything has changed. I need you to be with Giles Kershaw when he receives this body. And get Raymond to put a news blackout on the death until you and Giles have spoken.’
He heard her sigh of impatience. ‘I was due to go to Holborn Police Station to discuss the Cristian Albu suicide,’ she told him. ‘You told me it was important.’
‘This is going to override everything else for now.’
‘OK, but it’s your case.’
‘Don’t talk to anyone about Rahman’s death.’ He put his hand over the phone while a police siren passed. ‘We have to keep the news from spreading until we’re ready to release official information.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘What haven’t you told me?’
‘I have to be absolutely sure first.’ He tried to keep his voice low. ‘We could soon have lynch mobs roaming the streets looking for a killer.’
‘Why would that happen?’
‘Because we’ll have given them a map showing them exactly where to look for him.’
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Longbright said.
‘Oranges and lemons,’ Bryant replied, and rang off.
19
Oranges & Lemons
Bryant was wrong; it took no time at all for the news to flare and spread across London. The rolling captions on Sky News were changed from ‘tragic accident’ to ‘attack at church’ and finally to ‘police looking for assailant’. News teams began to congregate on the steps of St Martin-in-the-Fields, but by this time Bryant and Banbury had spirited the body away to St Pancras.
Seven witness statements went directly back to the PCU. Five called it an accident, pointing out that Chakira Rahman appeared to lose her footing on the steps and fall awkwardly on the corner where the two inclines met. The other two agreed that someone appeared to brush against her first. One suggested it was this collision that caused her to lose balance. The collider had been in a rush, and was wearing black sweatpants, white trainers and a grey hoodie with the top up, a common sight on a rainy day. That person had suggested he moved with a limp.
As soon as John May saw the first statements he understood the implications. Opening his laptop, he logged into the PCU’s private site. In the chaos of cross-chatter that ensued he noticed Leslie Faraday contacting Raymond Land to ask him what was going on. Land appeared to have ignored the liaison officer’s questions and instead of going on the offensive had shut down all communication with the Home Office. He had never been able to handle conflict.
May shifted restlessly on his sofa. He’d had enough of being on the outside looking in. Pulling a sports vest over his bandaged shoulder, he found a loose sweater that would allow him some movement, packed painkillers in his jacket and called a cab, telling himself that there would be plenty of time to rest after the case was closed. If he warned anyone that he was coming they would find a way to stop him, so he decided to head directly to the St Pancras morgue.
‘Oranges and lemons,’ say the bells of St Clement’s, he thought. ‘You owe me five farthings,’ say the bells of St Martin’s. The idea was absurd, but it wouldn’t take long for hacks to start putting the pieces together.
Where May saw something as mundane as an angry kid targeting strangers, he knew that his partner would be hunting for something more exotic, an elaborate plot to bring down the government, say, or a sociopath with a degree in Victorian campanology.
As it turned out, Mr Bryant was not entirely wrong in his assumptions.
They say the old are more fearless than the young because nothing surprises them, but there was something Arthur Bryant still feared, and it was facing him now. The sign on the wall said ‘Sunny Days Nursery School’. From within came the sound of a hundred starlings being torn to pieces by cats.
He was in Bayswater, among the white stucco terraces and kebab shops, a schizophrenic neighbourhood that wanted to be Kensington but felt more like Paddington. The neighbourhood’s scruffy soul had been scooped out along with most of its renovated apartments’ non-load-bearing walls, yet it was still not quite reputable.
A scream split the air, rising so high that it vanished into a range only dogs could register. Bryant turned down his hearing aid and pressed the door buzzer.
Ruth James was wearing yellow dungarees and quite a lot of paint. She had a number of coloured pencils in her knotted red hair. ‘Come in, Arthur, how lovely to see you. This must be important. I know how you loathe small children.’
‘If they get too unbearable I’ll make them cry by taking my teeth out,’ said Bryant, reluctantly pecking her indigo-smeared cheek. ‘How do you stand the screaming?’
‘Earplugs.’ She showed him the orange foam bullets in her hand. ‘Free expression brings out the worst in them. Their parents think they’ve given birth to baby geniuses. The truth is that most are uninteresting, a few have the electricity of curiosity in their eyes and the rest have the intelligence of molluscs. But in order to justify the cost of dumping them here everyone goes home with a gold star, a shiny badge or an important-looking certificate. They’re all right most of the time but occasionally I wish I could buy them guns.’
Ruth led the way through the rainbow-striped play area, stepping over a dozing romper-suited boy so smothered in red paint that he looked like an axe murderer’s victim. Ruth lectured in childhood studies, specializing in Victorian poetry, but these
days she made more money running the day nursery. She summoned one of her helpers to monitor the room, then led Bryant to her office. When she shut the door all outside sound ceased.
‘Isn’t it blissful? Double glazing.’ She poured two mugs of tea from an enormous brown pot. ‘I can’t imagine why you’re here. There’s not much call for my area of expertise these days.’
‘I’d have thought we could learn a lot from old English songs,’ said Bryant.
‘Many of them are deemed inappropriate for tinies now. I’m all for protecting them but I’ve seen a mother take an apple away from her little girl and give her a protein bar instead because she’s never heard of the old saying.’ She checked the wall clock. ‘I have ten minutes to spare before they sense it’s getting close to break time and go berserk.’
Bryant examined the spines on the bookshelf behind Ruth’s head. ‘Some of those look quite rare.’
‘Folk songs.’
‘Read me one.’
Ruth opened a volume at its marker. ‘Try this:
‘There was a man of Newington,
And he was wond’rous wise,
He jumped into a quickset hedge,
And scratched out both his eyes:
But when he saw his eyes were out,
With all his might and main,
He jumped into another hedge,
And scratched them in again.
‘And there’s a nice illustration of a screaming man with blood pouring from his eye sockets. It’s a paradox poem, a subset of songs that present inexplicable situations with logical-sounding solutions.’
Bryant & May - Oranges and Lemons Page 15