‘Unless they met in the park, like spies always do on TV.’ Bryant had to put on a burst of speed to avoid a pizza-delivery bike. May noticed he didn’t need his stick to do it, either. Had he been faking the need for his brass-bevelled Malacca cane?
As they headed towards the unit, he wondered what else the old devil was holding back from him.
36
Competency
Dan Banbury pushed back from his desk and pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. He had been examining footage from all the locations for hours, and could no longer tell one blurred human shape from another. He was delaying the call he needed to make to his wife because he hadn’t said goodnight to the kids and was going to be home late again.
He turned his attention back to the blue-grey pixels. The new security cameras were supposed to contain facial recognition software, but as always the biggest problem was a physical one: the lenses weren’t rainproof. On dry days they accumulated a powdery fine-grain residue from vehicle tyres. The rain made it stick to the lenses and it had to be removed manually.
He had broken down the sequence from St Martin-in-the-Fields frame by frame, had watched the poor woman fall to her knees a hundred times, and still could not see the most vital moment. The killer had examined every camera angle before his victim’s arrival. Rahman could have climbed at any number of different angles across the steps, which meant that her attacker had studied all of the sightlines and memorized their weak points.
Banbury had examined the remains of the clock from St Leonard’s Church. It was almost two feet across but not as heavy as it looked, an almost empty cylinder that sat unsecured in a roundel carved in the stone. Not the original clock, the vicar had explained, but a battery-operated replacement made fifteen years ago, and slightly too small so that it was easily shifted. Access? Oh, that was easy, straight up the stairs to the side of the narthex and there it was, the back of the clock, but who would ever think of standing on a chair and pushing it out?
A madman, thought Banbury grimly, but there’s method in it. He had stabbed Jackson Crofting first and positioned the body below the clock, running up the steps to send it down. Dan timed the run up the staircase and felt sure that the entire act could have been completed in less than a minute.
Colin Bimsley wandered past with a piece of toast wedged in his mouth. He extracted it and stared at the screen. ‘Did you get anything from your drone?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Dan, ‘I got some Power Rangers, a few unicorns and some sweaty little sod who’d been bunged a monkey to keep Her Majesty’s law enforcement officers amused for the afternoon. Is there any more toast?’
‘Last slice. You can have a bite of this one.’
‘No thank you. You’ve got ketchup on – actually it’s all over you. And lettuce and something else.’
‘Liver sausage.’ Colin flicked the debris away.
‘I can’t look at this any more. Either he’s a master of disguise or I’m seeing a bunch of different people involved.’
‘What, you mean like a group of subversives?’
‘I don’t know, Colin,’ said Dan irritably. ‘He’s chucking money at a few chancers, getting them to stand around at his crime scenes and stir the mud a little. Like the van driver he hired, Mohammed Alkesh. Make a delivery and get lost – easy. I bet if you went out on to the Caledonian Road right now and asked the first sketchy roadman you saw to go and stand in the station, no questions asked, cash up front, he’d volunteer and offer to bring a friend.’
‘You could be right.’ Colin dropped backwards on to the swivel chair next to Banbury. ‘If somebody wanted to destabilize things, right, like the leader of a protest group, it would be easy to make everyone paranoid about going out. I’ve been looking into them. There’s a bunch of incels demanding justice for meat-eaters because they feel threatened by vegetarian options on menus – it was good for a laugh until they started kicking in restaurant windows and poisoning foodstuffs. It’s like this bloke: the nursery rhyme stuff is great publicity.’
‘We should be holding a press conference to get all the rumours dismissed,’ said Dan. ‘Raymond told me he wanted to do it but Faraday never got back to him.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’re playing silly buggers. How can you get anything done when two people on the same side won’t talk to each other?’ Banbury fast-forwarded to the end of his footage and binned the file. ‘What are you going to do after this is over?’
Colin stopped mid-chew. ‘What do you mean? Career, like? I kind of assumed everything was all right now, the way it’s always been in the past. Like when Meera says she never wants to see me ever again and then asks me if I want to go to the pub.’
‘No, Colin, this was our last hurrah. Epic fail. We were given it because everyone else knew it would be toxic. We’ll be punting around for new jobs within two to three days.’
‘Unless Mr Bryant—’ said Colin. He decided not to tempt fate and swallowed his toast.
At the other end of the building, Meera yawned and stretched her neck. ‘I have to go home. I’m knackered. What a day. What time is it?’
‘Half ten,’ said Sidney, her face made paler by the light from her laptop. The pair were sharing an office full of plasterboard panels at the end of the first floor, but Meera had surrendered her territory without grace. Even so, it was hard to dislike the intern. She had a natural feel for the job, almost as if she had been briefed on what to expect. ‘So,’ Sidney said again, ‘Mr Bryant. Tell me.’
‘Why are you always asking about him?’
‘He has to undergo a core competency test or he’ll be thrown out.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘It was in Mr Land’s emails.’
‘You hacked into them?’
‘He doesn’t exactly make it difficult. I also tried to get into the Peter English Associates website but it’s got dual-tier protection.’
‘Should you have been doing that?’
‘Someone’s convinced your bosses that English is untouchable.’ Sidney flicked through screens of data at a dizzying speed.
‘Do you take all that in?’ Meera rose and looked around for her PCU jacket. She wore it off duty as well because it stopped her thinking about what to wear.
‘I know what I’m looking for. English looks invulnerable but he’ll have a weak spot.’
Meera zipped up her jacket. ‘Are you coming?’
‘I’ll stay here for a while.’
‘You’ll be able to get home OK?’
‘You don’t have to worry about me.’
As Meera left she looked back at Sidney, working in semi-darkness, hunched over a new window on her laptop screen. Something nagged at the back of her mind. The girl reminded her of someone or something else. She dismissed the thought and headed out, passing the detectives, who were coming up the stairs and looked as if they were just arriving for work, except that John May’s face was grey with exhaustion. Bryant seemed to age backwards when he was on a case.
The detectives had returned in order to file their competency tests before their midnight deadline passed.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ Bryant complained. ‘It’s late and we’re both tired. I don’t have time to waste on gibberish like this.’
He squinted at his laptop screen like a pawnbroker examining a disappointing engagement ring. Before him were thirty pages of multiple-choice questions.
‘You have to do it if you want to stay on the case,’ May said, pressing lightly at the sore muscles in his chest.
‘My keyboard’s sticking. I spilt some lamb pasanda on it but it’s normally fine with Indian cuisine. I think clarified butter might work like WD40. It certainly does on me.’
‘Here, have this one.’ May handed over another keyboard and paired it for him. It was faster to supply Bryant with spare keyboards than try to clean food off them.
Armed with an extra cushion, Bryant settled to the task. ‘Right. Question one. A warehouse fire prove
s to be arson. A man was seen running away just after it started. He had been sacked from the company for stealing.’
‘Read it to yourself,’ May suggested.
Bryant continued aloud. ‘For each of the following statements, answer: A equals TRUE, B equals FALSE, C equals IMPOSSIBLE TO SAY.
‘One. The man seen running away from the fire was the man who started it. Well, that’s ridiculous. Who wouldn’t run from a fire? B, false.
‘Two. The incident is the second one to occur. That obviously has nothing to do with it. How big is the factory? Is its safety manager reliable? Are flammable items stored on the premises? B, false.
‘Three. The man who was sacked from the factory may have started the fire. Well, that throws up more questions. Had the company unfairly docked his wages? Was he being exploited by the bosses? Was he framed after reporting health and safety infringements? This is exactly what’s wrong with the police, narrow minds, limited imagination. How do they know it was a man and not a woman? What does the factory make? Has it been built in a storm corridor without lightning rods?’
‘You’re over-thinking it, Arthur.’ May looked over his shoulder. ‘And you’ve answered the questions in the wrong order.’
‘I’m not a linear person. It’s no good.’ Bryant pushed the laptop away in exasperation. ‘It’s all a load of miscellaneous rubbish. I can’t be expected to correct all of their mistaken suppositions.’
‘Then just tick the boxes you think they’d like you to tick,’ said May gently.
Bryant shook his head. ‘My conscience would never allow me to do that.’
‘If they take away the investigation you and your conscience won’t get a look in.’
Bryant gave him a pleading look. ‘Could you do mine?’
‘Certainly not,’ said May. ‘There’s other stuff that needs sorting out. We’re short of information on Jackson Crofting’s background. Sidney sent me an email. She’s done some checking and found that all of the victims have disproportionate social reach.’
‘I’m not sure I entirely grasp what that means,’ said Bryant.
‘It means they have influence, but successfully ring-fence their own private data. Outgoing but not incoming. They are followed but don’t follow.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
May grabbed a sheet of paper from his partner’s desk. ‘Imagine a Venn diagram with each circle representing a victim’s field of expertise. Politics, justice, technology: they cross into each other’s lives, just not in the ways you’re used to finding. They’re not related, didn’t go to university together, didn’t have affairs with each other. But this’ – he stabbed the diagram with his pen – ‘shows they were connected in other ways. Dinners are work. Parties are work. It’s peer group data-sharing.’
Bryant stuck a finger in his ear. ‘No, you’re not getting through. It’s like distant waves crashing on the shore. Or it may be my tinnitus.’
‘We’re not finding a common causal link. Maybe they don’t remember meeting, or were only distantly affected by something Peter English did. Or something they unwittingly did to him.’
Bryant had been barely listening. He had a habit of tuning out when May became enthusiastic about typing and timetables. May did the same thing when his partner started going on about Greek mythology.
‘Claremont,’ Bryant said suddenly.
‘What about him?’
‘I can’t get hold of him. This private clinic where his wife is keeping him: nobody answers the phone. I think we should send someone to check.’
‘I’ll add it to the list of things to do,’ said May wearily.
‘So we’ll burgle English’s place first thing in the morning, and that just leaves the competency test to sort out.’ Bryant’s blue eyes were saucer-like. ‘Perhaps I could copy yours?’
May studied this strange childlike man who depended on him to navigate the treacherous shallows of modern life. He slid over his laptop with a sigh. ‘Don’t duplicate it exactly. At least make a couple of mistakes.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m fantastic at cheating,’ said Bryant with a grin.
37
Equal to the Law
They met at Holborn tube station at nine the following morning.
‘What on earth are you wearing?’ asked May as they headed towards Peter English’s building in High Holborn. ‘For God’s sake, finish that before we go in.’
Bryant was eating a chocolate éclair. ‘This is my casual attire,’ he explained, running a hand down his clothes like a magician’s assistant showing off a cabinet of swords. ‘Appropriate clothes for an office worker relaxing at the weekend.’
‘And that’s what you think they wear, is it? A Christmas jumper and corduroy trousers.’
‘I don’t own any jeans and the top was knitted for me by Alma’s church ladies.’ He opened his coat to reveal the full horror of the jumper, which featured Santa Claus being blessed by Jesus.
‘It looks like it was knitted by that woman who painted the Monkey Christ,’ said May.
‘This must be the place.’ Bryant put the remains of the éclair in his pocket. The entrance before them was daunting: a bronze and glass frontage with revolving doors and an acre of cream marble beyond. Within was a slab of sandstone that might have been stolen from Stonehenge, behind which sat a blank-faced young man in a blazer and tie, as smooth and unfeatured as a shop mannequin.
‘Act casual,’ said May. It would have been better not to say this, as Bryant’s casual act involved a strange, arm-swinging gait that belonged in an old Norman Wisdom film.
‘Hellooo.’ Bryant cheerfully approached the receptionist. ‘We’re just doing some weekend work … at the weekend.’
‘You still have to sign in.’ The receptionist pointed to an open book on the counter.
Bryant scribbled a line, then printed a random set of consonants. If the receptionist asked he’d say his name was Hungarian. Taking May’s arm, he aimed them at the brushed-steel barrier and waved his card at the panel.
Nothing happened. The receptionist started to take an interest.
‘That’s your Marks & Spencer card,’ May whispered.
Bryant searched his wallet and switched it for the pass.
‘Do you gentlemen know where you’re going?’ the receptionist asked.
‘But of course,’ said Bryant. ‘We’re doing a favour for Mr English, collecting … a thing.’
‘He didn’t leave anything for you down here. Maybe it’s in their reception.’
‘Of course. And where would that be?’
‘On the sixth.’
‘Oh, well, I’m sure that’s where it is then. Waiting for us to collect it.’ Bryant’s voice had become inexplicably posh and vaguely Oliver Hardyish. He stepped through the barrier and slipped the card back to May. ‘Thank you so much for your most caned concern.’
May was pulling a face at him. ‘Accent. And stop explaining.’ They headed for the lifts, where the swipe card was needed again.
The sixth-floor reception area of Peter English Associates was a brash show of power: more marble, signature designer lights, glamorously uncomfortable furniture. A bank of monitors was running the kind of colour-saturated footage usually found in television showrooms: drone footage of South American waterfalls, Venice under clouds of pigeons, Machu Picchu with an orange sky.
Bryant peered down a corridor. ‘Do you think anyone else is in? I should have asked the receptionist.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t while you were doing your Prince Charles impersonation,’ said May. ‘Come on, English is bound to have the largest corner office.’
They found it on their second try, but the door was closed with a traditional lock. This was where Bryant’s skeleton Yale proved useful. Inside was a surprisingly modest room – no central desk, just an expensive Italian sofa and three fire-engine-red armchairs set around a marble mushroom.
‘It’s a pity there aren’t laser beams criss-crossing the floor,’ said Bryant. �
�We could have rappelled through a heating duct.’
‘Says the man who has trouble bending over to tie his laces.’
‘Where do you think he keeps his stuff? Do people even have any stuff now or is it all online?’
‘Well, it’s not going to be in a grey filing cabinet full of manila envelopes, is it?’ said May. ‘This isn’t the 1970s.’
‘And yet it is.’ Bryant pointed to a filing cabinet standing in the smaller adjoining office. ‘Seventies wallpaper and an ironic filing cabinet. It’ll probably be full of whiskies or something.’
His prediction proved correct. The drawers opened to reveal an extravagantly stocked bar.
‘This place is geared for hospitality, not work,’ said May, looking for charging points. ‘There’s no computer equipment. He must take his laptop with him.’
‘There’s a safe,’ said Bryant, pointing to an unassuming black metal box set at the back of the bottom drawer.
‘How did you spot that? You can’t see buses.’
‘I have my special trifocals today.’ Bryant’s moon-eyes swam up through thick lenses.
‘Looks like it uses a Titan security key.’ May peered at a tiny slot in the front. ‘We won’t get it open. Google use them in their buildings.’
‘If he’s that secretive, he has something to hide.’
May rose and looked about. ‘I bet you that even in a company as security-conscious as this there’s a closet Luddite working here. There’s always one.’
They headed off along the corridor to look. In what appeared to be the HR department they found a single sheet of paper pinned to the back of someone’s chair: ‘English’s schedule for the week’. May photographed the page. ‘Nothing very revealing … he’s throwing a party at one of his properties on Sunday afternoon. Some kind of launch event.’
‘Excuse me, who are you?’
They turned to find themselves confronted by a stern-faced young woman holding a cardboard coffee cup.
Bryant tried to recall the name he had written in the reception book. ‘I’m Mr Harghzyszabó,’ he said. ‘I work here.’
Bryant & May - Oranges and Lemons Page 27