Bryant climbed in and dug out his Spitfire.
‘Oi, mate, you’re not going to smoke that in here,’ the driver warned.
‘Police officers,’ said Bryant. ‘Open a window and get us to King’s Cross within ten minutes or I’ll find over thirty reasons to nick you.’
May fell back as the disgruntled driver tore away. Bryant filled the bowl of his pipe with Ancient Mariner Full Strength Naval Shag and lit it, sucking noisily.
‘You know, late-sixteenth-century printers made up all kinds of wild stories to sell news pamphlets,’ he said, as if continuing some academic banter that had begun earlier. ‘They ran stories of seven-headed monsters and women who lived on nothing but air, men with goats’ legs and battles that had been won instead of lost. The art of lying has been with us since the birth of civilization.’
‘As usual I have no idea what you’re on about, Arthur.’
‘Why do we believe things we’d be better off not believing?’ Bryant jabbed his point home with the end of his Spitfire, scattering sparks. ‘Tricksters know how to override our natural instincts. By averting our gaze they turn us blind.’ He threw his partner the grimy envelope English had collected from the great Bow bell. ‘This is why he went to the church. Not to attack anyone but to get his hands on this. The one job he couldn’t trust to anyone else. Take a look.’
May studied the bank statements in his hand. It didn’t require a bookkeeper to see that the Better British Business deposit account held in the Cayman Islands contained an eye-watering amount of cash. ‘Monthly transactions with no provenance,’ May noted. ‘Dan already checked that out but found no red flags.’ The second page showed the same transactions through a different bank. He gave a low whistle. ‘No wonder English was anxious to get this back. London, Algeria, Indonesia – it’s a money-laundering route.’
Bryant tapped at the bottom line. ‘The National Fraud Intelligence Bureau will kill his party before it gets launched.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said May. ‘Why is someone blackmailing English at the site where he’s meant to commit his final murder?’
‘You have a knack for overcomplicating things,’ said Bryant as they swung past St Paul’s. ‘I admit it takes some nerve to use a man like English as a stooge, but it worked. We’ve had the same bait-and-switch trick pulled on us again and again, and we’ve fallen for it every time. They say the perfect deception is the one that fools the victim twice.’
‘But what’s the point of sending English out to Bow and phoning in a non-existent attack?’ asked May. ‘We have him in custody. The end of the rhyme has been reached. All we need to do now is wring a confession out of him.’
‘Those pages are all you need,’ said Bryant, puffing away so furiously that the driver opened all of the windows despite the rain and made retching noises. ‘The fraud trial hasn’t received a revised date, so I guess this can be introduced as new evidence.’
‘What about his involvement in murder?’
‘You asked me if he was guilty and I said yes – but not of murder.’
May’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know what’s going on.’
‘And you know I’m superstitious. I can’t explain until I’m absolutely certain.’ Bryant looked out of the window. They were on Farringdon Road heading north, passing Exmouth Market, climbing the incline to King’s Cross. Thunder boomed above them. Dumbfounded, John May watched as the cab sped on through the evening rain towards the unit.
52
Here Comes a Candle
Raymond Land pulled the plug out of his rebellious computer and followed its lead under his desk, lifting up carpet remnants to expose the trail. Crawling around on the floor covered him in cat hairs but finally proved pointless as the cable disappeared down a jagged hole in the floorboards. He was sure it had always been plugged into the skirting board by the window where Stumpy the pigeon sat watching him. Pressing his eye to the floor, he tried to see into the darkness below.
Something was faintly beeping.
There was a louder noise in the corridor, a roll and a thump. Were the two Daves still here? Now there was silence. He sat up and tilted his head, listening.
Clear and loud, chiming through the corridors, came the clamour of a bell being swung back and forth, back and forth. It sounded like a teacher in a school playground gathering her pupils.
Land couldn’t work while the power was out but nor could he leave the building, not when their only suspect was about to be brought in and charged. There was more light in the operations room because it faced the dazzling bar of the youth hostel opposite and had taller windows, so he headed there.
The bell suddenly stopped ringing, as if a hand had clamped itself over the clapper.
The operations room was bathed in a cartoonish crimson chiaroscuro, much of it flooding in from a large bar sign in the street that was written in neon and read ‘Soup of the day: Negroni’.
The grey pewter handbell had a pocked iron handle and was very old. It sat in the middle of the Formica-topped table at the front of the operations room. It looked suspiciously like the one that had been stolen from St Sepulchre-without-Newgate.
Land took another step forward and trod on the cat’s tail. Strangeways screamed and sank its teeth into his trouser leg, mercifully missing flesh.
A candle flame popped alight on the other side of the table. Land could not see who was holding it. As unit chief this would have been a perfect time to assert his authority, but instead he said meekly, ‘Look here, what’s going on?’
The candle flickered and moved. The bell was raised – for a brief moment Land thought it was supernaturally lifting itself – and went along with it. The figure kept the light low. It seemed lopsided and somehow shortened, until Land realized that it was limping.
Downstairs, Sidney tried the newly installed electronic code and found that the main entrance’s temporary door would not open. She had received an email from Janice asking if she would pick up a package at the railway station. Just as she was trying the door again, Longbright turned up.
‘There was nothing there for me to collect,’ Sidney said. ‘Did I go to the wrong place?’
‘I didn’t ask you to collect anything.’
Sidney showed her the email she’d received. ‘It was sent from your office laptop.’
Janice turned her attention to the door. ‘Why do these codes never work?’ She gave the door’s base a hard back-kick with her boot. The lock popped and the chipboard panel swung open. ‘Dave Two taught me that. Good job I wasn’t wearing heels today.’ She held the door wide.
‘No one’s answering,’ Sidney told her, going ahead. ‘The phones are down and it looks like all the lights are off.’
‘That’s nothing unusual,’ said Janice. ‘I’ve just arranged for the Happy Hotel & Bistro to take Peter English tonight. They have a secure room on the lower ground floor for “problem guests”. It’s like a drunk tank with a trouser press. It’ll take us until tomorrow to get through the charge sheets.’
‘We could put a cell in our basement,’ Sidney suggested. ‘It’s big enough down there.’
The light from the street faded as they climbed. ‘Have you been down there?’
‘I’ve measured it,’ said Sidney. ‘They keep the plans online.’
Janice stopped her at the top of the stairs. ‘You know we have to tell them the truth sooner or later, don’t you?’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘I’m surprised nobody’s figured it out.’
Sidney stopped again. ‘Are you sure you didn’t send me an email?’
‘Not me.’
Janice took out her brick. Together they went into the darkened corridor.
‘What are you doing here?’ Land nervously asked the pool of candlelight.
There was no answer. He was being led back to his office, the cat darting ahead of him. It was obviously unwise to keep following, but curiosity overcame his fear.
As he stepped into the room, the
door swung shut behind him and a lock turned, which was surprising as he was pretty certain that the last time he looked his office had not only been missing a lock but was also minus a door.
The pewter handbell was rising again and began to toll with shocking loudness, its cavity swinging at him like the jaws of an animal.
Land tried to remember where his phone was. He felt his pockets. ‘Put down the bell and we’ll talk,’ he said, trying to muster a commanding voice.
The candle grew brighter in the still air and Land saw who was holding it. The awful weight of the truth fell upon him. As did the bell, which caught him on the side of the head, knocking him off his feet.
The candle went out.
Peter English had forced Bimsley to stop the car at his lawyer’s office in Duke Street, Mayfair. ‘Because he has to be present at the meeting, you amoeba,’ he said, stabbing at his phone.
‘It’s not a meeting, mate,’ said Colin. ‘There’s nothing to negotiate. You’re being charged with murder.’
‘I am not your “mate”. You are my public servant.’ English turned his anger to the phone. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing your face when you discover what a horrible mistake you’ve made. Digby, we’re outside your office right now. Why the hell aren’t you here?’
They waited as English’s lawyer bobbed through the rain to the Vauxhall Astra. Edgar Digby burst into the vehicle, lowering a Financial Times from his head and spraying everyone with water. ‘I was about to leave for the airport, Peter,’ he said, budging into the back seat. ‘A couple of days’ golf in Geneva.’
‘You wouldn’t have got very far,’ said Meera, pulling away. ‘Your client’s in for multiple counts of murder.’
‘First of all, you’re not allowed to share this information in the car,’ warned Digby, who had been eating garlic. ‘And second—’
Nobody found out what the second thing was, as a young woman on her phone ran across the road ahead and Meera was forced to brake sharply. The rain-slick road caused a Toyota Prius to drive into the back of them, spraining English’s neck and giving him a bloody nose.
As the taxi drove away, Arthur Bryant stood at the edge of the pavement on Caledonian Road and looked up at the PCU’s first floor. He saw a ghostly light drifting across the penumbral operations room.
‘Why is it in darkness? And what’s that?’ asked May, pointing.
‘He’s striking at our heart. It’s where he always intended to end this.’
May stared at his partner, appalled. ‘Do you actually know what he’s doing?’
‘I have a pretty good idea. It makes sense. He’ll have found ways to send everyone else away. He’s terribly good at misdirection.’
Bryant set off for the front door.
There was no sign of the Incident Response Vehicle bringing in Peter English. May looked around. ‘He should be here with Colin and Meera.’
‘I’m sure he’ll have found a way to stall them,’ said Bryant. ‘Everything he does now will just make him look more guilty. It’s the superciliousness, coupled with the fact that he’s not very bright. People fear his power but they don’t like him. We decide within seconds whether we’re drawn to someone or repelled by them. That’s why the best actors are complete blanks offstage.’
‘You didn’t stop any of us suspecting English,’ said May, even more confused.
‘Perhaps not but I know you, John. You would have continued to be suspicious anyway. It was good fun annoying him, though.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me earlier?’
‘You’ll see why in a moment.’
May grabbed Bryant’s arm. ‘Nobody died at Bow. We’re still a victim short. Tell me who it is now.’
‘Oh, John.’ Bryant’s eyes were filled with sorrow. ‘If only it had been anyone other than Raymond.’
‘Raymond? You mean our Raymond?’
‘Oh yes. You see, that’s why we’re back here. All of this – it began with Raymond and it ends with him. We’ve come full circle, like the rondo bell-ringing in St Mary-le-Bow.’
May was dumbfounded. He reached the entrance and found the door hanging open. Pushing it back, he entered, hauling himself into the gloom.
Arthur overtook him. ‘Let me go first; you’ve got your stitches to think about.’
‘All right but be careful,’ May warned.
Bryant reached the top of the stairs. ‘At my age there’s nothing more to be afraid of.’
At the end of the dark corridor they saw a distant flickering candle.
53
Erasing the Ghost
Bryant reached Raymond Land’s office and was surprised to find a door on it. He tried the handle and it swung open. There was no one at his desk.
He continued on to the operations room. He could see funfair lights ahead.
The PCU was most definitely not a church, yet here in the broad communal room that overlooked the street was a tableau as striking as any stained-glass window: a figure with its head bowed, kneeling on the floor, with an executioner standing tall beside him, the hilt of a sword resting in the executioner’s fist, the tip of its blade touching the floorboards. The pair were motionless but alive with neon rivulets, yellow and purple flashing to scarlet.
Bryant kept back in the shadowed corridor, pushing May to the wall beside him. He held his finger to his lips. The detectives listened.
‘I always knew you would have to be killed last,’ said Tim Floris. ‘The little coward who took the final turn. I can’t think of it without becoming physically ill. I look at each of you as so-called respectable adults and find it impossible to imagine that you were there in the church at my conception.’
‘Well, it’s impossible for me to imagine it because I wasn’t bloody there,’ said Land, his indignation overriding his fear. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He tried to push himself upright but was held firmly in place. ‘I’ve got nothing whatsoever to do with this.’
‘Of course you think you haven’t. You’ve all been in denial for years. It’s understandable, something to be so ashamed about. A very British trait, avoiding a subject until it goes away. You can say whatever you like but I will always know the truth.’
‘Then you know bugger all,’ said Land, chancing his arm. ‘How do you know?’
‘The truth came from the one person who would never lie to me.’
Land wanted to move his knees but was terrified of having his head cut off. ‘I didn’t know your mother. I never met her. How could I have done anything wrong?’
He thought back to the moment when he had finally studied the photograph on Floris’s desk. The awards dinner, and the smiling line-up that included the sweating Faraday, the elegant Floris, the startled Fatima Hamadani and the clearly bored Home Secretary himself. He had glanced at it at least twenty times in the last week, but this time he truly saw.
MAKING A MURDERER
I suppose I should have taken it as a compliment, Cristian Albu editing and typesetting a copy of the manuscript I’d sent him to read, then having it printed and bound as a very attractive book. Twelve copies, he told me shyly, handing me the first. A deep-red cover, the title picked out in gold, my name underneath. He thought it could be a breakout success.
I was horrified.
If anyone read it my identity would be revealed, all the years of sacrifice and planning for nothing. He said the other copies were all in the shop but he wouldn’t tell me exactly where they were. All obsessives have a greedy side, an attitude that makes them throw their arms around their valuables and draw them back like poker players gathering in winning chips. Sensing my panic, Albu had backed away and become possessive about his discovery. He promised me he would get rid of the copies but I knew he was lying. He had far too much love for his little sideline.
I’m good with chemicals. They’re easy to learn about, easy to get hold of and carry around. I added a little benzodiazepine to his drink, a retro-amnesiac sedative about a dozen times more potent than Vali
um. The trick was getting him out of the pub before it kicked in so heavily that he became a dead weight. I sat him in the alley, took his keys and searched the shop.
Albu’s filing system was non-existent. It was impossible to find anything. I only thought of torching it because he had cans of linseed oil left over from when he had varnished the wood floors. I poured it through the shop and lit it. I knew it would look like arson but it didn’t matter. The important thing was to destroy every last one of the copies.
And then, the strangest thing happened.
A bowl of oranges burst into flame.
I had no idea that oranges could burn. It turns out that their oily skins contain a hydrocarbon called limonene that’s highly flammable. All through the shop you could smell varnish and paper but, above all, oranges, sharp and overpowering.
I thought of my mother’s story – she had just one, repeated in endless variations until she could speak of nothing else. The church, the boys, the childish games that stopped being childish, a grotesque version of Oranges & Lemons, the pain of each of them on her in turn. The second half of her downfall, which could be elaborated infinitely over time – that being the one thing we always had – was my birth, her shame, the slow destruction of our lives.
She remembered their faces. She remembered all their names. Michael Claremont, who started it all. Chakira Rahman, who did nothing to stop it. Kenneth Tremain, Jackson Crofting, Gavin Spencer and Raymond Land. How could she have failed to remember every last detail about them?
When her grandmother reported it, she was far too frightened to tell the police much. She said she didn’t know, couldn’t remember, didn’t want to know. Filled with guilt and shame, she cut herself off from everyone. She wanted to forget but the more she tried, the more she remembered. Whenever she felt the need to talk she sat at the end of my bed and told me. To begin with I didn’t understand her because she left so much out. I was five years old the first time she spoke of it.
Bryant & May - Oranges and Lemons Page 35