Bryant & May and the Bleeding Heart

  About the Book

  It may be a fresh start for the Peculiar Crimes Unit, but their first case is as unnerving as ever …

  Two teenagers claim to have seen a dead man rise from his grave in a London park. And if that is not alarming enough, one of them is then killed in a hit-and-run accident – and in the moments between him being last seen alive and being found dead on the pavement, his shirt has been changed.

  Much to his frustration, Arthur Bryant is not allowed to investigate. Instead, he is looking into how someone could have stolen the ravens from the Tower of London. All seven birds have vanished and, as the legend has it, should the ravens leave, the nation will fall.

  As they explore further, detectives Bryant and May confront a group of latter-day body-snatchers, visit an eerie funeral parlour and unearth the gruesome legend of Bleeding Heart Yard. But the Grim Reaper seems to be following their every move. More graves are desecrated, the body count grows, and everywhere they turn they find the symbol of the Bleeding Heart. It is only when Bryant is taken to the headquarters of a secret society that they begin to understand just how complex this case really is, and that everyone is hiding something …

  Rich in strange characters and steeped in London’s true history, this is Bryant and May’s most peculiar and disturbing case of all.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1: Dead of Night

  2: Cemeteries and Graveyards

  3: The Hanged Man

  4: The New Broom

  5: Corpses and Constellations

  6: Eternal Rest

  7: The Price of Failure

  8: Cry Corpse

  9: Girls and Boys

  10: Reversal

  11: The Lazarus Complex

  12: Losses

  13: Coincidences

  14: A Sign of Death

  15: Fowl Play

  16: The Bleeding Heart

  17: Abandoned

  18: Disturbed

  19: Alone

  20: Connections

  21: Burying the Living

  22: City of the Dead

  23: The Headsman

  24: Altruism

  25: Death Among the Gravestones

  26: Afterlife

  27: Linguistics

  28: Ice in the Heart

  29: Disbelief

  30: Stress Fracture

  31: Contamination

  32: The Unhaunting

  33: Infiltration

  34: A Deal

  35: Mr Bryant Expatiates

  36: Waste Management

  37: Shafted

  38: Runner

  39: Wives and Mothers

  40: Between the Lines

  41: Cascade

  42: Meeting Merry

  43: Underneath

  44: The Rose Garden Boffin

  45: One From the Vault

  46: Sealed Fates

  47: Cool

  48: Stars, Wine and Diamonds

  49: Waterloo Bridge

  About the Author

  Also by Christopher Fowler

  Copyright

  For Sally Chapman

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I think there are probably two secrets to the longevity of a detective series. The first is that you must get the balance right between freshness and familiarity. The second is knowing that there’s someone who trusts you enough to let you keep doing it. I write on many other subjects, but keep coming back to Bryant & May because I have some incredible support for my rather odd ideas. Plus, they’re ridiculously good fun to write.

  On the support front, I’d especially like to send a hurrah to my agent, Mandy Little, for grace under pressure and endless notes over the retsina in Daphne’s, Camden Town. And to Simon Taylor, my editor, for his ridiculously cheery enthusiasm, and for the lunch we had in Bleeding Heart Yard that inspired this book. Huge thanks also to Kate Green and Kate Samano, for PR and proofing.

  Jan, you’re a London freak who’s more curious about the city than anyone I’ve ever met. Stalky, you know way too much about my books. Pete, you never complain that I’m writing when I should be behaving like a normal person. And readers, I salute you for sharing ideas and posting them so regularly on my website. As always, the strangest facts in this novel are the truest, particularly those in Chapter Sixteen. St George’s Gardens and the rest of the places mentioned here are real. You can discover more background to the book at www.christopherfowler.co.uk.

  Done with the work of breathing; done

  With all the world; the mad race run

  Through to the end; the golden goal

  Attained – and found to be hole!

  Ambrose Bierce

  Peculiar Crimes Unit

  The Old Warehouse

  231 Caledonian Road

  London N1 9RB

  STAFF ROSTER FOR MONDAY 8 JULY

  Raymond Land, Unit Chief

  Arthur Bryant, Senior Detective

  John May, Senior Detective

  Janice Longbright, Detective Sergeant

  Dan Banbury, Crime Scene Manager/InfoTech

  Giles Kershaw, Forensic Pathologist

  Jack Renfield, Sergeant

  Meera Mangeshkar, Detective Constable

  Colin Bimsley, Detective Constable

  Crippen, staff cat

  PRIVATE & PERSONAL MEMO – DO NOT FORWARD OR COPY

  From Raymond Land to All Staff:

  So, it’s a new beginning for us. I’m sure we’re all going to find it very exciting, although I’d much prefer it if we didn’t.

  This is the unit’s first week under City of London jurisdiction. Even though the PCU’s coverage extends far outside the Square Mile, we are now part of their workforce and they will come down on us like a ton of bricks if we break their rules. Would it be too much to ask that you don’t upset them for the first few weeks? This means no weird stuff. Try to behave normally for once. Keep regular hours. Avoid provocative behaviour. Don’t be imaginative. Play it strictly by the book and keep your paperwork up to date. And if anyone from the City of London calls, don’t give them your opinions on anything. If you’re in any doubt, refer them to me. In fact, it’s probably better that you don’t talk to them at all.

  The City of London Police headquarters is in Love Lane, behind the Barbican, so they have no reason to come over here to King’s Cross. Let’s try to keep it that way. I don’t want them seeing how we operate and thinking we’re a bunch of amateurs. I’ve tried pointing out that some of us are older than the trees they’ve got round their building and deserve respect, but they still talk to me as if I was born yesterday.

  As you know, one of the PCU’s key remits is to prevent or cause to cease any acts of violent disorder committed in the public areas of the city, but luckily for us this is very loosely defined in our terms of contract. Let me tell you how the new system is going to work.

  Investigations will be referred from CoL HQ in all but the most extreme circumstances (i.e. acts of terrorism and serious fraud, which are handled by separate divisions). They will only commence once we have received full clearance to proceed from our Public Liaison Officer. From then, every step will be documented and approved by me.

  What this means – and I’m talking especially to you, Arthur – is that I don’t want you running around like a superannuated Harry Potter spreading insurrection, holding meetings with fake spiritualists and causing thin
gs to explode. I’m absolutely determined that the next major investigation we undertake will not end up with anyone having to gallop through a cemetery at midnight.

  We’re going to start solving crimes the proper way, by sitting at desks and working things out with bits of paper, and going home while there’s still something decent on the telly. By the way, you’ll notice that I’ve dropped the ‘Acting’ part from my job title. After fifteen years of trying to escape from you lot I’ve resigned myself to the fact that they’ll probably carry me out of the PCU feet first. This doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t rather be somewhere else. If I had to choose between this rundown doss-house and a nice little sinecure in Somerset, I wouldn’t think twice.

  OK, general housekeeping. There seem to be kittens everywhere. Will somebody please find homes for them and take Crippen to the vet before she decides to have any more? I counted nine but there may be others. Also, the towel rail in the second-floor toilet is electrified, something to do with a damaged heating element. Unfortunately it has to remain in use as the first-floor loo is still blocked, thanks to Mr Bryant’s experiments with a cooked ham the size and shape of a human head. Just be careful when you’ve got wet hands, that’s all.

  The CoL is sticking us with an intern for two weeks. Try to be nice to him. That means no showing him how the handcuffs work and ‘losing’ the key, or sending him along to autopsies. Don’t make him cry on his first day.

  The new face-recognition system is being installed in the ground-floor hallway as an added security measure. Dan informs me that to activate it you just need to stand before the screen and press the red button. And in Mr Bryant’s case, try taking your balaclava off first.

  As you can tell, British summertime has arrived, so water is pouring through the third-floor roof extension whenever it rains, i.e. all the time. If you’re going to leave anything in the evidence room that you don’t want ruined, wrap it in a Tesco bag. Remember we’re professionals. Apart from that, we’re open for business as usual. Good luck, ladies and gentlemen, and may God have mercy on your souls.

  1

  DEAD OF NIGHT

  For a teenager who had never been outside of London, Romain Curtis knew a lot about astronomy. His knowledge seemed pointless in a city where the night sky was usually barricaded behind an immense lid of low sulphurous cloud. When he looked up between the buildings, all he could see was a wash of reflected saffron light. But behind this he sensed the glimmering tracery of constellations, and could point to them with the certainty of a sailor.

  Unfortunately it was a talent that impressed no one, least of all the girls from the Cromwell Estate in Bloomsbury, where he lived with his mother. Shirone Estanza was no different, and had stared blankly at him when he offered to name the stars, but she still pursued him. She was physically unlike most of the girls he had hung out with – shorter and rowdily brash – but she seemed like a lot of fun. She changed the colour of her nails every week (tonight, acid green) and wore the tightest skirts he’d ever seen. But he was still finding his feet with girls, and couldn’t be sure if he even liked them, or if they liked him.

  Romain appeared younger than his fifteen years. He had his father’s flat nose and wide forehead, but never appeared intimidating because he was rail-thin. He read voraciously, preferred heavy metal to hip-hop, and wanted to study textile design at Central St Martins. He saw movies about angry West Indian kids on council estates and failed to recognize anything of himself in the characters. His father had told him to be his own man, to keep close with his mates, to stay fit and fight back, pointless advice from a warehouseman who spent his days borrowing money from girlfriends, shuttling between the pub and the fixed-odds terminals in betting shops.

  For a kid with hardly any money, London is a city of closed doors. Astronomy was a free hobby. Romain could go to museums and libraries, and sit in parks on clear evenings, using the app on his mobile to identify constellations. Tonight, Shirone had insisted on paying for their drinks in the Gunmakers, a pub she could enter without being carded because one of her brother’s best mates ran the bar. Although Romain had nowhere to take her now, it was a warm, muggy night, and as he had been running wild in the neighbourhood since he was old enough to stand, he knew every dark and secret space for miles around. Leading her down Wakefield Street into the narrow gloom of Henrietta Mews, he reached the closed iron gates of St George’s Gardens and stopped, turning to her.

  Shirone had folded her arms and was offering a defiant jut of the jaw. ‘If you think I’m going in there you’ve got another think coming.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Romain asked innocently. ‘There’s never anyone in here.’

  ‘Been inside with a lot of girls, have you?’

  ‘No, what I mean is it’s dead quiet and calm, all grass and trees an’ that, and sometimes it’s dark enough to see the stars.’

  ‘You gonna start naming ’em all again?’

  ‘No, I just fancied a sit-down with you. Look.’ He swung a long leg over the black iron railings and stepped lightly down inside. ‘It’s easy. You need a hand over?’

  ‘I can manage.’ A moment later she had joined him and was looking around. ‘That’s nice, innit? You didn’t say we was going to a graveyard.’ She pointed to the stone circle of sarcophagi that rose between the paths like sacrificial altars, and the broken line of verdigris-topped headstones leaning against the back wall, under the shade of the plane trees. She had been in the little park many times but had never really taken much notice of the graves before. By day most of them were lost in the shadows.

  ‘It’s a garden; it’s not used for burials no more, not for ages.’ Romain ushered her past the headstones, towards a grassy area between the stone memorials. Tall buildings hemmed the park in on all sides. Here, at the backs of several blocks of flats, sheltered by the dense canopy of branches, they moved unobserved. Even the pale nimbus of the moon was lost from view. He dropped to the neatly clipped lawn and pulled out his mobile. She sat more gingerly, wary of ground that felt perpetually damp, even after a few days of dry weather.

  ‘I got this tracking app that shows you the position of the planets,’ he said, tilting the light to her. ‘See?’

  ‘How old are these graves?’ asked Shirone, twisting about. She was wearing stretch jeans and very high heels, and sitting on grass of any kind was a tentative activity at best.

  ‘About three hundred years, maybe more.’ He returned his attention to the phone. ‘See, Ursa Major is right overhead. In Greek mythology Callisto got turned into a bear and was almost shot with an arrow by her son. He was turned into a bear too. Ursa Minor. It’s supposed to be the only constellation that never sinks below the horizon.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  Something ticked down from a nearby tree: a bird releasing a twig, perhaps. Shirone looked as if she was about to spring to her feet. She had no problem pushing her way through a gang of ten classmates but more than three trees in the same place bothered her.

  Romain pulled a battered joint from his jacket pocket and dug for his lighter. ‘I used to come here when I was little, for picnics and that.’ Perhaps it was best not to go on about the cemetery, he decided, as it would ruin his chances with her tonight, but he hadn’t been able to think of anywhere else they could go. He dragged on the roll-up and tried to pass it to her, but she pushed his hand away. A single car broke the silence, heading south. The little park’s greenery insulated it from surrounding sounds.

  ‘I used to see you around all the time,’ said Shirone, ‘but you never said nothing. I didn’t think you liked me.’

  ‘It wasn’t that, I just didn’t know what to say. You was always with your brothers.’

  ‘Yeah. They’d kill me if they found out I was here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re joking, right? They’re Italian. I’m just half-Italian.’ She laid herself back on the grass. ‘It’s weird being in here at night. Like we’re in the country. What’s that park in New York?’ />
  ‘Central Park.’

  ‘Yeah. My dad’s got pictures. It’s really big, right, but you can see buildings all around it.’

  ‘I s’pose it was planned that way. Like a garden.’

  ‘Yeah, but this …’ She gestured vaguely around the green. ‘It’s not, is it? It just got sort of left behind. I mean, it was here first, and everything else got built around it. Like it’s the original land, and everything else is just—’

  He stopped her with a kiss. He wanted to take it slowly but there was something wonderful about her that he wanted to capture in his mouth. She tasted of mint and lemons; she had chewed the garnishes in her drink.

  She broke off and turned her head. He thought he had made the wrong move, but then she raised a hand and said, ‘Listen.’

  There was somebody else in the grounds. He heard a scrape, a crack of wood, a grunt, a displacement of earth, a cascade of small stones. He pushed himself up from the ground and looked about. On the far side of the park there was a shuffle of movement, a black-on-grey shape that folded, rose and folded again. It almost looked as if something was coming out of one of the graves. It made him think of a Lucio Fulci zombie film, one of those once-forbidden Italian B-movies that now looked so cheesy on YouTube.

  What if Shirone’s thuggish brothers had followed them in? She was fifteen years old, and he was lying on top of her beneath a pall of dope smoke.

  ‘Get off me,’ she whispered, ‘someone’s here. Let’s go.’

  Reluctantly, Romain rose. To get back to the railings they had to pass whoever was watching. Shirone grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and made him keep up with her.

  The curve of the path took them near the wall, the graves and the bushes. As they drew closer, the rowans shook abruptly and violently, scattering leaves and twigs. He could see a figure now, tall and angular, swaying drunkenly. ‘Oi, mate,’ Romain called, ‘what you doin’ there?’

  Before any answer came Shirone ran forward and began shouting something about perverts, angry at being followed. A moment later, her shout turned into a scream.