Bryant & May – England’s Finest Page 15

  ‘Then we’ll have to surprise them,’ said Longbright, setting her jaw.

  Bimsley and Mangeshkar had changed from their black PCU uniforms into jeans, sweaters and dark jackets. Market Road had a wild, unkempt look. It was the kind of area where you kept your phone in your pocket. They stopped before the only remaining vehicle parked at the kerb. Colin cleaned a patch of glass with his fist and peered through the filthy windscreen.

  ‘VW Dormobile, 1971. It would have been blue and white originally, probably worth about twelve grand after a bit of panel work. It was found unlocked. Someone’s nicked the tyres.’ He opened the door and slid it back. ‘Blimey, it’s a bit fragrant inside.’

  ‘He was living in it,’ Meera replied. ‘I’m sure others have been since then.’

  Once, the street that ran between Tufnell Park and Pentonville had been lined with gap-year camper vans up for resale, just as Warren Street had once been filled with used cars. Both markets had existed on the borderline of legality and had been closed down.

  The interior of the vehicle was plastered with colourful pages from art books. Colin poked his fingertip into the corner of the dashboard and showed it to her. ‘Print powder. Looks like Mr Flint’s team has been over the interior. Their tech is probably better than Dan’s. We won’t find anything here.’

  ‘How can we determine a cause of death without the body? If his people have already conducted their own investigation, why use the PCU at all? And how are we expected to file a report when someone else has already trodden over the evidence?’

  ‘As I see it, the PCU has one advantage.’ Colin climbed out and dusted himself down. ‘We don’t work the same way. We take our cue from a couple of detectives who don’t just think outside the box, they tear off its hinges, smash it flat, stamp on it and start the investigation somewhere else. Sort of thing.’

  ‘Thank you, Colin, for that erudite explanation of the unit’s philosophy,’ Meera said, pulling the van door shut. ‘Let’s try the Vinyl Café.’

  It was a ten-minute walk to Tileyard Road, a dead end of new orange-brick boxes that existed on the fault line between Pentonville and Somers Town, an odd no-man’s-land created by a rough triangle of railway cuts, embankments and arterial roads. It was an area that had long been suited to grey skies and rain, but lately the factories and warehouses had been replaced by rows of cloned apartments.

  ‘My dad wouldn’t recognize this place now,’ Colin said. ‘The air’s almost clean.’

  ‘What did he do?’ asked Meera.

  Colin smiled to himself. ‘He was a patterer. That’s what my great-granddad used to call it. A newspaper-seller. They shouted out the headlines, and the gorier they made the stories sound the more papers they sold. He had the gift of the gab all right. That’s why my mum fell for him.’

  ‘It’s funny, you don’t have that at all, do you?’ said Meera.

  ‘Are you saying I’m inarticulate?’

  ‘No, I’m saying you’re honest.’

  ‘He had other jobs but they were all a bit sketchy.’

  ‘Sounds like Mr Bryant’s old man. No wonder you two get on so well.’

  The Vinyl Café was clearly operating in its own creative ecosystem. The customers were unpretentiously fashionable, with the easy-going air of industry creatives who had seen it all before.

  They headed to the coffee counter. ‘Glad I found this place,’ Meera told the barista. ‘A mate of mine recommended it. Jericho Flint, used to come in here sometimes, do you know him?’

  ‘Meera, what’s the point of us being undercover if you act like a copper?’ Colin whispered.

  The girl handed over two soy decaf flat whites. ‘This is my first week.’

  ‘Who’s been here longer? What about your regular customers?’

  The barista pointed to a table in the corner. ‘They’re session musicians, been coming here since it opened.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Meera dropped some coins into her tip saucer and beckoned Colin to follow.

  ‘Who am I supposed to be?’ he asked as they approached the table.

  ‘You don’t have to be anyone, we’re not making small talk. Hi. Can I have a word?’ She waved at the table and dropped on to a spare chair without asking. Colin hovered awkwardly behind her. The group broke off its various conversations and studied her. ‘My name is Meera, and I’m looking for this guy.’ She thumbed open the photograph on her phone and showed it to them. ‘We think he used to come in here sometimes.’

  ‘That’s the artist,’ said a young girl with a blue ponytail and one side of her head shaved. Elegant tendrils of a pastoral tattoo crept up her right arm and over one bare shoulder. ‘I’m Abi, I’m one of the sound engineers here.’ She raised a hand. ‘He used to come around selling his paintings. Sort of like surreal circus posters. Very cool. I bought one.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’ asked Meera.

  ‘Are you friends of his? He’s a nice guy. I wouldn’t want—’

  ‘We’re police officers,’ Colin announced.

  The temperature around the table dropped a degree or two. Meera mentally slapped a hand on her forehead. ‘Do you remember his name?’ she asked.

  ‘Jericho,’ Abi replied. ‘Not a name you forget. I haven’t seen him for a while.’

  ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘August, maybe. Definitely summer.’ She looked to the others for confirmation. ‘Is he missing?’

  ‘I’m afraid he died,’ said Colin. ‘We know very little about the circumstances. We’re trying to help his parents.’ It wasn’t a lie. ‘Did he have any friends, anyone he came in with?’

  ‘No, he was always alone,’ said Abi. ‘Wish I could help you.’

  ‘Abi, he sold a painting to the café,’ said one of the session musicians. ‘It’s in the other room.’ Abi shot him a poisonous look.

  They trooped through to the tables by the hot food counter, behind which were arranged dozens of pictures. Meera spotted the primary-coloured poster at once: a human rhinoceros in chains, surrounded by cobra women. ‘Is that one of his? Quite a vivid imagination.’

  ‘He had a whole portfolio of artwork like that,’ said one of the other engineers. ‘They’re based on old Barnum & Bailey posters but they all feature mythical creatures.’

  Colin turned the poster on its hook and looked at the back. In the corner was a sticker. ‘He had an agent?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so,’ Abi replied. ‘He was selling them in pubs and cafés. I saw him in the Star of Kings one evening with a portfolio full of photocopies.’

  ‘That’s the framer’s sticker,’ said Meera. She knew the place well, just under the arches opposite the platforms of St Pancras Station.

  It took ten minutes to walk to Bill & Ben’s Framing Emporium. Within the Victorian red-brick arches were a handful of dusty old shops, including the frame-makers. Opposite, the modern glass-tiled wall of the station rose up, two halves separated by a century and united by a single road.

  ‘It makes sense,’ Colin said. ‘He was living in the van and selling his work in the same area. He had no transport so he would have used the nearest place.’

  ‘We should have been allowed to file the first report.’

  ‘Meera, we’re the crime scene.’ Colin pushed open the door in the arch and stepped into a chaotic geometry of hanging frames. ‘Afterwards they’ll compare the two investigations. It’s an old tech trick, setting up a duplicate procedure to keep your own data clean.’

  Bill and Ben were obviously brothers, working beside each other in old-fashioned brown carpenters’ aprons in the shop’s cluttered studio. They scrutinized the picture on Colin’s phone and conferred.

  ‘He came in here quite often,’ said Bill. ‘Music-hall posters, circuses, strange artwork. Produced guerrilla street art as well. The council paid him to brighten up some of the tunnels around Waterloo. Wasn’t very struck by those pieces myself. He looked a bit on his beam-ends, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, living rough,’ B
en agreed. ‘You know how people get a sort of frayed look after a while? But clean, though, and always cheerful. Young, of course. American. We must have framed half a dozen of these for him. We did floaters and box frames with natural veneer finishes, a couple with nice mouldings. He was selling them and making a living, I’ll tell you that.’

  Bill opened the order book on the counter and turned it around. ‘Business must have been picking up, because he started coming in regularly last summer. And he was choosing more expensive frames.’

  Colin showed them the photograph again. ‘Would you go on record with an identification?’

  ‘It’s definitely him,’ replied Ben. ‘I remember because he always sent his girlfriend to collect the finished pictures.’

  ‘She was a real looker,’ said Bill. ‘Young, though. Probably not much more than eighteen or nineteen.’

  ‘He had a girlfriend?’ Meera was surprised. No one at the Vinyl Café had mentioned her.

  ‘We haven’t seen either of them for a while now.’

  ‘How long?’

  They consulted again. ‘A few months?’ said one, and the other nodded. ‘A few months. August or September.’

  ‘How were the frames paid for?’ asked Colin.

  ‘Cash, she always paid cash.’

  ‘Can you give us a description of her?’ Meera asked.

  ‘Long dark hair, fancy dresser,’ said Bill. ‘There’s never much you can say about pretty people, is there?’

  ‘She had an accent,’ said Ben. ‘She sounded Eastern European.’

  ‘Did you find out her name?’

  ‘It might be on one of the old receipts. She had to sign to collect.’ He checked the counterfoils in the receipt book. ‘Here you go. Rose something. Bill, what does that say?’

  They all studied the handwriting. ‘What is that last name? Clavi, Slavi?’

  ‘I think the first letter is a C,’ said Meera.

  The rest of the receipt read: ‘For collection 7 September.’ ‘She never picked it up. It’s still here. Hang on, I’ll get it for you.’

  Bill came back with a small bubble-wrapped rectangle eighteen inches by twenty-six inches, then cut it open with a Stanley knife. The artwork showed a bikini-clad girl on a Lambretta scooter, 1950s-style. Her glossy black hair was tied back in a ponytail.

  ‘That’s her,’ said Ben. ‘It’s a really good likeness.’

  ‘So his girlfriend modelled for him. Can we take this with us?’

  ‘Sure, if you pay a hundred and twenty quid.’

  ‘Keep the frame – the picture’s evidence.’

  After looking uncertainly at his brother, Bill turned over the painting and set to work. ‘You know, we just knew him as Jerry. A nice lad.’ Bill removed the picture and rolled it up.

  ‘If anyone comes in asking for this, give them our number.’ Colin handed Bill his PCU card.

  ‘We know you guys,’ he said, showing his brother the card. ‘We own the antiques shop next door. I sold Mr Bryant some bits and pieces just the other day.’

  ‘What sorts of bits and pieces?’

  ‘A rifle-range target, a ventriloquist’s dummy and a grate.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’ muttered Meera.

  ‘Has this girl done something wrong?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Why?’ Colin countered. ‘Did she look the type?’

  ‘Frankly,’ replied Bill as his brother nodded vigorously, ‘yes.’

  ‘Let’s get back.’ Colin held the door open for Meera. ‘We can’t go any further without some help.’

  PCU DEBRIEF – UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT

  DAN BANBURY The CCTV above the bus stop on Pancras Road recorded the girlfriend leaving the framers on July the sixteenth, heading in the direction of Market Road. We’re trying to trace her whereabouts but we don’t have much to go on.

  MEERA MANGESHKAR You have her full name.

  BANBURY I’ve had no luck so far so I’m trying other spellings. We’ve got one receipt signature that’s open to interpretation. There are five postcodes around here: N7, N19, NW5, N1 and now N1C. Do you know how many residents aren’t on the electoral register?

  JOHN MAY And there’s no one left at Market Road who might recall seeing her.

  COLIN BIMSLEY The cops cleared them all away, and there are no residential properties on that stretch, just football pitches. Meera and I figured they had to eat, so we took the screen grab and the poster to the nearest supermarkets on Camden Road. There are five minimarts on that stretch. One guy recalled seeing her around the same time she collected the picture.

  MAY Really? Why would he remember her?

  BIMSLEY She used to come in regularly. He had to write the customer’s name on the coffee cup, and saw that she had a red rose tattooed on her upper arm. It’s a kind of vegan-organic place called Butterfly, the only place like it in the area – a lot of the musicians go there.

  ARTHUR BRYANT So much for rock ’n’ roll. Have they all gone gluten-free now?

  MANGESHKAR We’re running a check on ink parlours but it’ll take some time. There are dozens, and a red rose is one of the most common tats.

  BRYANT Anything else?

  MANGESHKAR That’s all we have at the moment.

  BRYANT Because you’re going about it backwards.

  BANBURY Sorry, Mr B.?

  BRYANT Are there any biscuits? Something I can dunk. Not Lincolns, they fall apart. Something a little more robust, Bourbons, perhaps. Oh, wait, I have these.’

  Janice Longbright paused her recorder while the unit’s most senior detective emptied a bag of Barratt’s Shrimps, Love Hearts and Milk Gums all over the table.

  MAY Perhaps we could steer you back on to the conversational highway, Arthur?

  BRYANT Jack, how did the US consul seem to you?

  JACK RENFIELD Angry. Impatient. We only saw him for a moment.

  JANICE LONGBRIGHT He didn’t want anything to do with us.

  BRYANT So how would you proceed?

  RENFIELD What, me? I’d take a good look at how Jericho Flint spent his time. Maybe he found himself caught up in something he couldn’t get out of.

  BRYANT I’m sure that was the first thought to pass through his father’s mind. But there’s nothing on record about Jericho Flint, is there? No online profile, no political affiliations?

  LONGBRIGHT Not that we’ve found so far. Of course, they could easily have been removed.

  BRYANT During the time Howard Flint’s team had the case they filed a coroner’s report plus all their findings on us, the victim and the circumstances surrounding his death. The consul’s wife told you their investigation is not subject to UK jurisdiction. So what do you do? You immediately follow in their footsteps.

  LONGBRIGHT You’re saying we should start somewhere else?

  BRYANT I’m saying you should do what this unit does best. Go with the gut instead of the brain. They used deductive logic, technology and common sense.

  MAY Not weapons that usually exist in our arsenal.

  BRYANT I assume they studied the boy’s movements and got to his friends. They may even have tracked his final hours. Yet they still came up with nothing.

  RENFIELD We don’t know that.

  LONGBRIGHT We wouldn’t have been given the case otherwise, Jack. They’d have informed the Home Office that the investigation was satisfactorily concluded.

  BRYANT Exactly. So there’s no point in trying to reproduce their investigation without the same resources. You need to start at the other end. What’s the key thing we know about the consul and his son?

  LONGBRIGHT They fell out.

  BRYANT Why?

  LONGBRIGHT Personal differences, I imagine.

  BRYANT Opposing ideologies, really? I had nothing in common with my parents but we stayed close.

  RENFIELD But a Republican consul and an artistic dropout? The old man must have been disappointed. Maybe he didn’t approve of the girlfriend.

  BRYANT Forget the friends. Forget the politics. Start with the gi
rl. She’s the only one we may be able to find.

  MAY You won’t get very far. I already ran some online searches. Every single piece of information on the case can be traced back to a central government source. Neither the consul nor his wife have a Facebook page or a Twitter account. The son had both for a while when he first arrived but they were deactivated long ago.

  BRYANT The government only wants an official version out there. That’s why we need a new approach. I appreciate that this is your baby. John and I won’t interfere in any way. I don’t want to influence you. Cherchez la femme.

  LONGBRIGHT How?

  BRYANT An attractive young girl always has friends. Find them.

  Bryant stood on the staircase leading to the basement of the Ladykillers Café. The entrance to the cocktail bar was lit with crimson neon handwriting: ‘The Wilberforce’.

  He wandered in, sucking at his unlit pipe, and took a look around. There were red leather bar stools, framed 1950s posters of Ealing comedies and a still of Mrs Wilberforce herself, Katie Johnson, posing with her parrot, General Gordon.

  A scenario was forming in his head. Soon after midnight on 10 August, Jericho Flint had left his van on Market Road. Perhaps he had arranged to meet Rose Clavi. If they were looking for somewhere to drink, their best option would have been to head south towards King’s Cross. Here they would have had the choice of at least six bars and two private members’ clubs.

  Bryant seated himself on a bar stool and swung it around. The posters and photographs of King’s Cross in 1955 passed him again and again. The years fell away. King’s Cross had had hidden bars and clubs in the basements of its buildings for as long as he could remember. Bottled beers, cheap gins, the spoor of perfume and tobacco, Matt Monro and Kathy Kirby on the jukebox, the smell of urine and Dettol wafting in from tiled toilets.

  The decades drifted. The stools became vacant as barflies died off, décor changed, the jukebox vanished. The bumble of banter was etched into the walls: Macmillan, Wilson, Heath and Thatcher; Man U, Arsenal, Chelsea and Spurs; the Maltese, the Krays, the Great Train Robbery; Tommy Steele, Alma Cogan, Frank Ifield and Dusty Springfield. He was cursed with a memory for ephemera: the times and places, the characters and their conversations. So vivid was the past that the present seemed insubstantial and ghostly by comparison.