The Water Room

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘You’re taking a leap in the dark with this,’ warned May. ‘There’s no reason to make such an assumption. The tramp has a history of mental problems, you said so yourself. He’s an unreliable source of information. It might even be him.’

  ‘And what would his motive be? Hang on, I want to get some sausages.’ Bryant dragged his partner into the butcher’s and tapped the cabinet. ‘Are those Gloucester Old Spots fresh? They don’t look it.’

  ‘The oldest motive in the world,’ May insisted, trying to concentrate. ‘They have something he hasn’t. Homes, money, security.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t he take anything? And why would he insist on showing me his escape route? Give me six Cumberlands and a couple of kidneys—nice fat ones, no rubbish.’ He turned back to May while rooting inside his coat for money. ‘Tate can’t come out and admit what he knows. Perhaps he’s afraid for his own life, so he’s revealing how the deeds were done, trusting us to figure out the rest of it. But he knows more than he’s telling, and that puts him in danger. It’s your domino effect: each person with knowledge being systematically removed. Perhaps if Mr Bush had signed the Kyoto Treaty, this might never have happened.’

  ‘Sorry, Arthur, you’ve lost me.’

  ‘Climate change. The rivers dried out during the long hot summer, making them passable. Now all hell is breaking loose underground, because when it rains, the tunnels briefly turn into white-water rapids. None of the deaths occurred before the bad weather, did they? Perhaps that’s because the conduits were too dry to dispose of any incriminating evidence. The killer patiently waited until the rain came back, providing him with a way of dumping anything that would link him to the murders. This is what the rivers were always used for. History repeats itself.’

  ‘Really, Arthur, it all sounds very complicated.’ May watched in some unease while the butcher chopped away at a pair of bulbous kidneys, wiping his bloody hands on his apron.

  ‘I have to hang on to this, John; somehow it all comes back to the tributaries of the Fleet. Without the river there would be no houses. Without the houses there would be no murders. The first death is the key: a harmless old lady killed by water, because of water, as though the killer was closing a circle, choosing a suitable punishment for her crime. Of course, it’s possible we’ve completely misjudged what’s going on. We may have to look at everything in a fresh light.’

  The butcher rang up Bryant’s purchases. The elderly detective looked at his change in disgust. ‘Is that all I get back from a tenner? Daylight robbery. Those pigs’ ears look past their best. You shouldn’t be selling things that look as if they’ve died of old age.’ He snatched the plastic bag of meat and dragged May with him to the door.

  ‘Another thing. That boyfriend of Kallie’s—he’s been away for weeks. Suppose he’s been conked on the head and dropped down there, the murderer or an accomplice posting his cards from all over Europe? And what about the next-door neighbour, Heather? No one’s seen her husband for ages. He’s meant to be in Paris—what if he’s actually floating about somewhere under King’s Cross? And Benjamin Singh, he’s supposed to be in Australia, but has anyone actually heard from him? Just how many men are missing from this damned street anyway? Wait, I forgot something.’ He turned on his heel and headed back to the surprised butcher. ‘Do you have any mutton? I may attempt a casserole.’

  ‘I wish you’d slow down for a moment,’ urged May. They were walking back to the unit because Bimsley and Banbury had taken the Rover to drop off evidence. ‘Let’s stop for refreshment, you can get your breath back.’ He steered his partner into a Greek coffee shop.

  ‘Two teas, one with lots of sugar.’ Bryant glared at the listless girl playing with her hair behind the counter.

  ‘We don’t do tea,’ mumbled the girl.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’s the national drink, how can you not do tea?’

  ‘Cappuccino, latte or espresso.’

  ‘Those are Italian beverages. You’re a Cypriot, surely,’ Bryant barked, reluctantly moving to allow a pushchair past. ‘You should have mint tea or little cups of Turkish coffee with half an inch of silt in the bottom. No tea! Good Lord, all you have to do is put some fresh leaves under boiled water.’

  ‘Come on, Arthur, ease up a little.’ May took his arm and led him to a table, then returned to order lattes.

  ‘You realize if we hadn’t started following Greenwood, we would never have made the connection?’ said Bryant as his friend returned. ‘Everyone knows about the London Tube map; why isn’t this other one public knowledge? Who else is in possession of it?’ He slapped the underground tunnel plan on the table between them. ‘The city functions in much the same way as its streets—every time you think you have something figured out it twists back on you. The answer has to be here in these numbered conduits . . .’

  ‘No, it isn’t, Arthur. I’ve seen you like this before, and to be honest, I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, or possibly the wrong stick entirely. The only answer you’ll get is by talking to people. You don’t observe, you don’t think about human nature.’

  ‘I have you to do that for me.’

  May sighed. ‘Look at the girl behind the counter, the one you just had a go at. What do you see?’

  Bryant squinted over. ‘A fat Greek schoolgirl who needs a few lessons in civility.’

  ‘Try again. Her name’s Athena and she’s about nineteen; she’s married with two children, and she has a younger sister. Her father owns the place, and she’s working here against her will. Her husband got drunk last night and they had a fight. She’s trapped and miserable, and wondering how her life turned out like this.’

  ‘You worked that out from watching her?’ asked Bryant, genuinely interested.

  ‘It’s not difficult,’ said May. ‘She’s wearing a wedding ring. Look at the photos on the walls behind her: family pictures taken in Cyprus—mother and father, no sons featured. The owner has given his oldest daughter a job because she needs it. Why? Her children are twins. The man who went past with the double pushchair spoke to her by name. He’s ginger, from around here. You see his type everywhere. Got into fatherhood too early, and to his dismay finds himself taking care of not one but two small girls—very angry about it. You don’t have to be a genius to read the disappointment in his face. Wouldn’t work here because it’s not a man’s job, and besides, the place belongs to her family, which means he would fight with them all the time. She puts in long hours, he puts the kids to bed and goes to the pub. She plays with her hair to cover a bruise. Facial marks like that are rarely self-inflicted. She’s trapped between controlling parents and an embittered partner, so she’s not really too bothered about whether you get tea, coffee or rat poison.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Bryant stirred his cup thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you’re right. I should pay more attention to people. Get my nose out of my books once in a while. I do like them, you know—people. It just seems as if I don’t.’

  ‘I know,’ said May gently. ‘You have a good heart, but you don’t reveal it very often. As a suspect, Aaron’s a non-starter; even you can see that. Tate is the closest we have. I think the first thing we need to do is put a watch on him. No one’s been dropped into the sewers, we’d have found drag marks in the gardens or the alleyway, but I agree that it may explain the lack of incriminating evidence. We have no weapons beyond a sheet of clingfilm. You have to admit that’s unusual. But you also have to admit that there’s another possibility.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You’ve allowed this whole situation with Greenwood to affect your instincts about Balaklava Street. You love collecting arcane knowledge about underground rivers, so suddenly they have to feature in an entirely separate investigation.’

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind, but you have to admit it’s a damned coincidence that Balaklava Street is built over a tributary. Have you decided what you’re going to do about Sunday night?’

  ‘I thought you and Mangeshkar could keep an eye o
n Greenwood and Ubeda. Whatever they’re planning has to end then, because we start fresh the next morning, whatever happens. Even Raymond agrees that we have a legitimate reason for putting more resources into Balaklava Street now. Meanwhile, post Bimsley at the hostel to make sure Tate doesn’t go anywhere. I’ll go and see Monica.’

  ‘So I get posted somewhere cold, damp and possibly lethal to a man of my advanced years while you pitch woo to a married woman,’ Bryant harrumphed, clattering a sugar lump against his false teeth. ‘I suppose I can’t blame you. You need affection and reassurance more than I.’ Bryant had decided a long time ago that he was far too strange to find anyone who would love him. He had, of course, underestimated the bravery and tenacity of the British female, but now he was convinced that he had left it too late, and had resigned himself to the consolations of work and friendship. ‘Still, I think it would be better if we followed Greenwood together. He knows you.’

  ‘I can’t be in two places at once. And you’re not coming with me to see Monica.’

  ‘So you are planning to woo her.’

  ‘Nobody says “woo” any more, Arthur. You’re so Victorian.’

  ‘Stop saying that, it’s just that there are certain modern habits of which I disapprove. Wet liberals, stealth taxes, the seduction of married women, telephone sales and hamburger outlets spring to mind.’

  They remained in the coffee shop as it grew dark, watching the raindrops meandering down the window panes like a million silver comets.

  36

  * * *

  BLOWBACK

  The passageway was lined with small dun-coloured paintings. May had noticed them on his last visit, but the light had been too low to discern any detail. The wall sconces had no lightbulbs in them. ‘We never replace them,’ explained Monica.

  ‘But you can’t see the pictures.’

  ‘Exactly so. There’s a light here somewhere.’ She struck a match to a candle and held it aloft. ‘Now do you see?’

  May found himself looking at several studies, roughs and pencil sketches for Pre-Raphaelite paintings. ‘I don’t understand,’ he murmured, watching as the coppery lines wavered in the candlelight. ‘These are beautiful.’

  ‘My husband thinks they’re worthless. He has an old-school attitude to Pre-Raphaelites that won’t allow him to see beyond the detailed textures to the beauty of intent. So, as a mark of rebuke, to those artists and to me, for having too much materialism, too much sentiment and so little taste, he insists that we leave them hanging here in the basement. The walls are getting damp, and many of the sketches have started to stain. The house isn’t alarmed, of course—we refuse to become prisoners in our own home, apparently—so I compromised by removing all the lightbulbs. That way, if we’re burgled, the thieves will miss the best pieces in the house. And so another small battle is fought and drawn.’

  ‘Why do you stay with him?’ asked May. ‘He limits your freedom and makes you unhappy.’

  ‘God knows we certainly like different things. He’s Berlin and Bauhaus and brutalism, I’m Turner and Tate Britain. But nothing’s that simple, is it? The children are in their nightmare years, veering between innocence and arrogance in a way that makes me fear daily for their lives. Gareth’s colleagues virtually dictate how to spend our finances. The paths of our lives seem set in concrete. Do you remember before you had to be grown-up every second of the day, John? How it always felt like morning?’ She lowered the candle, and light faded from the gilt frames. Tiny lines appeared on her face, like the craquelure on a painted heroine. ‘Now it always feels late in the day. Shadows are gathering, and the best pleasures feel far behind me. Gareth is looking for something he can never have and will never find: respect. I can’t help him, so instead I am a hindrance, or an embarrassment. He’ll make a fool of himself—or worse, break the law and be disgraced, his expertise ridiculed, his judgement dismissed. And it will kill him, because he has nothing else left.’

  Back in her studio, she turned on the radiator and poured tall whiskies. ‘He’s become indiscreet of late, leaves books and maps lying all over the lounge. But I still have no idea what this ridiculous quest is all about, and nothing I say can change his mind.’

  ‘I can tell you what we know,’ said May, ‘because I hope tonight will see the end of it. There’s something called The Vessel of All Counted Sorrows—an Egyptian alabaster vase like a death urn, intended to represent the woes of the world. It occupies a key place in pre-Christian mythology, but is as likely to exist in a tangible form as the Holy Grail.’

  ‘Gareth is the kind of man who’d prefer to believe in such a thing. He’s always been a huge fan of Atlantis. A reasoned intellectual with a fatal idealistic flaw—you see them all the time in our little circle.’

  ‘Ubeda believes the vessel ended up in this country, brought over by the Romans and thrown into one of the rivers, where it became silted up and concreted over, waiting to be rediscovered. The least of your husband’s problems is his loss of credibility. Ubeda’s past collaborators have shown a tendency to vanish when they’ve outlived their usefulness; at least, we’ve had no luck contacting any of them.’

  ‘And he’s in this mess because of something that doesn’t exist?’

  ‘It’s a little more complicated than that. Imagine for a moment that the vessel is real. This isn’t some impenetrable search for the true pieces of the cross. You can carbon-date a piece of wood, but you won’t prove it came from the crucifixion. Ceramics are hard to copy, because you need clay from the same source as the original. Cast metals are easier to fake. Stone statues are almost all authentic.’

  ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘Forging them is too labour intensive. Sometimes there’s a point where a truly elaborate forgery passes into authenticity. But the vessel—ceramics can be dated with thermoluminescence, which measures the natural radiation absorbed by the clay since it was fired. The technique is only useable on very large objects, because it’s pretty destructive. But whether the artefact Gareth is trying to find exists or not, it’s desirable for the most appealing reasons.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It occupies a key position in mythical history, its provenance is intriguingly incomplete, and it possesses just the right amount of romantic appeal. Whenever those factors coincide, human nature takes over and makes such an item appear.’

  ‘You don’t think he’d try to palm Ubeda off with a fake?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting that, but the stakes are high. In terms of revenue, the artefact market fits comfortably behind drugs and arms. Looted items from Iraq ended up in the hands of European and American sellers within days of the troops moving in. The problem arises in your husband’s eagerness to locate such an item. If by some miracle he achieved his aim tonight, he would be helping to hide a world treasure from sight. Such a valuable item would never surface in public hands.’

  ‘So Gareth will make a fool of himself, whatever the outcome,’ said Monica, draining her glass, ‘and you can’t stop him.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re no longer able to keep track of him after tonight,’ May agreed. ‘But perhaps we won’t have to.’

  ‘Then let’s make the most of the evening.’ She brushed his arm lightly, but allowed her fingers to linger. May had intended to rebuff her, but was tired of doing the right thing, of always placing duty ahead of his personal feelings. For once, the image of Bryant’s disapproving features did not appear as a rebuke, and he found himself placing his arms around Monica’s shoulders, kissing her lightly, seeking out those guilty pleasures they had both sought so hard to avoid.

  It was a matter of loyalty—if not to Greenwood or his wife, then to John. His partner had never begged a favour in all the years they had worked together. The least Bryant could do was see it through tonight.

  They set off along the Paddington arm of the Grand Union Canal at ten p.m., reaching the point where it joined the Regent’s Canal at Little Venice, continuing past the bright enamelled buckets and ta
rred ropes of the red and blue houseboats. If Bryant had possessed the energy, they would have detoured through Kensal Green Cemetery, just for the pleasure of it, but Greenwood and Ubeda were walking ahead of them, and they could not afford to drop out of range.

  May had persuaded Monica to place a tracker in her husband’s coat pocket when he left, so that there would be no mistakes. The device belonged to Banbury, and was the size of a five-pence coin, with a battery life of six hours. They hoped it would transmit a signal long enough to last the PCU through to the end of their involvement in Greenwood’s affairs. The continuation of the murder inquiry at Balaklava Street took precedence over rescuing the reputation of an academic.

  ‘So many back gardens,’ Meera pointed out. ‘It’s a secret world down here.’ They passed the sloping lawns and willow trees of large Victorian villas. The steadily falling rain made the footpaths safer; there was less danger of being caught in the internecine wars of the alcoholics who frequented them. Meera checked the tiny red light on the reader May had given her. ‘They’re heading toward Regent’s Park and the zoo. This isn’t their usual patch, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Bryant agreed, pausing beneath a dripping green bridge. He leaned on his stick to catch his breath. The spatter of rain on the canal surface echoed on the curved brick ceiling, pulsing distorted reflections. ‘Of course, they might be going all the way to Hackney, but I think not. They’ll stop at Camden.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘It’s the only point where any of the western tributaries of the Fleet can empty out. They’ve been narrowing down their search since this whole thing began. Ubeda is driven, and they’re running out of places to explore. Take my arm, would you? This looks slippery.’ They continued on over the tilted paving stones and muddied pools of the footpath.