Bryant & May and the Secret Santa Page 2

  That night, as the detectives sat working late in their offices and the crusted snow on their window ledges started to roast black from car exhaust fumes, Dan Banbury turned up, ridiculously underdressed. ‘I’m glad you’re still here,’ he told them, pulling off his scarf to reveal a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt. ‘I was supposed to be at a party tonight. The trains are up the spout. Why does London have to grind to a stop when it snows? They manage all right everywhere else. Look at Russia. They can’t even produce an edible salad but their trains run on time. We’ve just finished at Selfridges. I think we’ve got something.’

  ‘I hope you have,’ retorted Bryant. ‘We’ve got nothing. It’s starting to look like our Santa’s done a bunk.’

  ‘Well, don’t get too excited. There was nothing on or in the box, but we lifted this from the tunnel.’ Banbury unclipped his forensics box and took out a small clear bag, emptying its contents onto the desk.

  Bryant donned his trifocals and squinted at the object. It appeared to be a tiny, ragged scrap of dark blue cloth. ‘What’s that?’ he asked. ‘It looks like there’s something written on it.’

  ‘It’s hard to read but definitely a signature. “Branways,” ’ said Banbury. ‘Picked out in gold and silver thread. I thought you might have an idea what it means.’

  ‘Not a clue. Did you run a search?’

  ‘I just got back,’ said Banbury. ‘I thought you’d like to do that.’

  ‘Found it,’ said May, checking online. ‘It’s an old-fashioned school-uniform shop, supplies exclusively to St Crispin’s School for Boys. It says here the school was founded in 1623 by the Right Honourable Sir Thomas Lindsay. “For almost four hundred years the institution has prospered, with many of its Old Boys going on to great achievements in the world of politics, sport and the liberal arts.” Did Sebastian go there? The mother said something…’

  ‘I made a note somewhere,’ said Bryant, scrubbing about among the rubbishy scraps of paper on his desk. ‘Ah, it would seem he did. We’ve missed the shop tonight. You might as well go to your party, Dan.’

  ‘I’m supposed to take a pineapple,’ said Banbury.

  ‘The Asian place over the road will be open,’ said May. ‘Take a tin.’

  —

  The next morning, the detectives headed for the Covent Garden shop. It had snowed again overnight and then frozen hard, which made the pavements as treacherous as mountain paths. ‘I’m not breaking a hip over this,’ Bryant complained, picking his way through stalagmites of ice and frozen bags of restaurant garbage.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll catch you if you go over,’ said May. The idea of requiring a helping hand did not, of course, appeal to Bryant, who would rather have plunged to his death than shown the need to accept assistance. The young man who had once cycled to work every morning and knew every pothole in the Strand had given way to the old man who sometimes struggled to get off the sofa, but his mind was as sharp as ever.

  The outfitters’ shop proved to be one of those odd anomalies London has a habit of producing from nowhere. Its windows were decorated with gilt shields and its interior was dark wood, but it was wedged between a mobile-phone store and a Pret A Manger. Its manager, Miss Prentice, was a formidable presence, as stately as a galleon in full sail. Bryant imagined that she might have once been a headmistress, reluctantly released by the board of governors for being too free with the cane.

  ‘Branways has been supplying school uniforms to St Crispin’s for nearly four hundred years,’ she said with fierce pride. ‘My staff can get the measure of a child in a single glance. Of course, they’re getting chubbier these days, but boarding school soon knocks that out of them.’

  ‘I bet they hide the doughnuts and save the dosh,’ said Bryant. ‘Schools like St Crispin’s are a closed book to me. What’s to stop the parents from shopping elsewhere?’

  ‘We hold the licence for the uniforms,’ Miss Prentice explained. ‘No other stylings are allowed. Lapels, ties and belts must all be a certain width, collars must be a specific distance from the hair, sleeves and cuffs have rigidly dictated lengths and cuts. And of course no one else has the right to hand-sew pocket badges, heraldic devices or crests. They’re unique and impossible to duplicate. St Crispin’s sportswear is renowned for its quality. Our pants have a double-lined gusset for those chilly mornings on the rugger pitch.’

  ‘So it’s fair to say you have the school uniform racket stitched up,’ said Bryant, laughing at his own joke. Miss Prentice shot him a look that could have dented a frying pan.

  He placed the plastic bag on her counter and shook the scrap of material out of it. ‘I presume you’ve seen one of these before?’

  Miss Prentice pushed back her iron-grey hair and peered closely. ‘That’s one of ours. It’s the manufacturer’s tag from the school tie. It’s been cut off. They can’t be torn. And it’s not more than eighteen months old.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ Bryant asked.

  ‘We briefly flirted with nylon thread but switched back to our own blend after complaints. This is from the new stock.’

  ‘Can you provide us with a list of all the customers who have bought a tie like this?’ asked May.

  Miss Prentice pursed her lips alarmingly. ‘I’d rather not divulge our client details.’

  ‘Good Lord, you’re not a doctor, you’re flogging togs to nippers,’ said Bryant, exasperated. ‘Everybody’s a big shot. I want a list of all the parents who bought this tie, right now, please.’

  ‘There are one hundred and sixty boys in Covent Garden day school and four hundred and twenty in the main boarding school in Sussex.’ Miss Prentice was suddenly agreeable. She had been stood up to, and respected that.

  ’Is there any way of narrowing that number down?’ asked May.

  ‘Let me see. Actually, yes. There are three ties, first year, junior and sixth form. They’re all slightly different in length and colour. This label is from the first-year size.’

  ‘We only need you to check the boarding school,’ said Bryant.

  May was puzzled. ‘Why?’

  ‘This boy’s family lives in Lewes. He and his mother had come up to town for the Christmas lights. He was in the first year so the tag is likely to be from someone of the same age.’ He turned to Miss Prentice. ‘St Crispin’s. I’m sure it provides a wonderful education but I vaguely remember it being in the news.’

  ‘I—heard something…’ Miss Prentice began tentatively. ‘There was a culture of bullying among the new boys. Of course, you tend to get these things in boarding schools but this one was particularly unfortunate.’

  ‘Unfortunate in what way?’

  ‘I think a boy died.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘About a year, right around this time.’

  May had already found a report of the case on his phone. ‘Andrew Gormley, aged eleven,’ he said. ‘Hanged himself in the school dorm. An independent investigation carried out by the board of governors found a culture of persistent bullying existed among the first-year students.’

  ‘I remember Andrew.’ Miss Prentice suddenly softened, and Bryant saw kindness in her grey eyes. ‘He was a sweet little boy. I remember fearing for him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bryant asked.

  ‘He didn’t want to board,’ she said. ‘He was a very gentle, rather fragile-looking child. You worry about the ones who can’t stand up for themselves.’ Her steeliness returned. ‘But it’s important that they learn to do so. It’s a training course for later life. The world is a cruel place, Mr Bryant, as I’m sure you know all too well.’

  —

  Mr Gormley lived in Redington Road, one of those twisting Hampstead backstreets that had once been filled with gruff artists and lady novelists but was now entirely the province of international bankers. Bryant preferred to catch those he interviewed by surprise, but as Gormley was liable to be out he phoned first to arrange a meeting. That evening the detectives walked down the road from the tube, and found themsel
ves inside a Christmas card. The thick snow had rendered the winding hillside road more picturesque than ever. The laden trees and holly bushes, the terra-cotta chimney pots beneath lowering yellow skies, the odd red robin on a gatepost…there were only a few tyre tracks to mar the perfect scene.

  ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, I’ve only just got back. I may have to take some calls,’ said Edward Gormley, shaking their hands. ‘We’ve got a wildly fluctuating exchange rate on our hands tonight. It’s all about finding the most favourable rate for our clients. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘We just have a few simple questions, then we’ll get out of your hair,’ said May. Gormley was completely and prematurely grey. He looked as if he hadn’t taken a day off work since his son died. The detectives were shown into a sterile, elegant front room with charcoal walls, filled with scenic sketches and watercolours. There were odd spaces, Bryant noted, as if someone had removed a number of items. He could smell an acrimonious divorce a mile away.

  ‘It’s about your son,’ said May. ‘We understand there was an investigation into his school’s culture of bullying.’

  ‘Yes, but as it was conducted by the school’s own board of governors nothing happened as a result of it,’ said the financier. ‘They were scared of putting parents off. Why, has there been a development?’

  ‘It’s an ongoing investigation,’ May explained. ‘I know it’s a matter of record now, but we’d like to hear what happened to your son, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Andrew hated it at St Crispin’s and wanted to come home,’ Gormley explained. ‘I was persuaded that this was the initial reaction of many children away from home for the first time, and told him he had to stay. I later found out that he tried to run away on several occasions.’

  ‘Did you ever find out who was bullying him, or why?’

  ‘Not really. There had been some cruel things posted online, but Andrew never named anyone in particular.’

  ‘So the name Sebastian Carroll-Williams doesn’t ring any bells?’

  ‘I think he might have been in Andrew’s class. Why?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Bryant.

  ‘How? What happened?’

  ‘He ran out into the road after being frightened by someone.’

  The financier remained motionless, simply staring back at them. All that could be heard was the mantelpiece clock ticking loudly. The phone rang suddenly. ‘Excuse me,’ he apologized, ‘I have to take this.’ He left the room.

  ‘What just happened?’ asked May.

  ‘Something interesting.’ Bryant rose and walked to the window overlooking the back garden. At the other end of the lawn was a bird table. A single set of tracks led out to it and back, through the otherwise pristine snow. Bryant frowned.

  May knew that look all too well. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ Bryant left the room, heading towards the rear of the house. He was gone for less than a minute, scooting back just in time to reseat himself before the financier returned.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Gormley. ‘Where were we?’

  ‘Winter’s tough on the birds, isn’t it?’ said Bryant. ‘It’s nice to see you’ve been feeding them.’

  ‘Oh.’ Gormley turned around to look out of the window. ‘It’s very calming, having them around.’

  ‘The Wellingtons,’ said Bryant.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘By the back door, still wet. I thought you’d only just made it back. It’s not normally the first thing you’d do when you come in, is it? Feed the birds?’

  Gormley checked his watch. ‘Well, I may have been in a little longer.’

  ‘An unusual colour for Wellington boots,’ said Bryant. His partner shot him a where-are-you-going-with-this look. ‘Red, I mean. What did you do with the rest of the outfit?’

  Gormley held his eyes again with the same unnerving stare. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I think you do, Father Christmas.’

  This time the stare could not hold. The boots were hard evidence. ‘They don’t supply the outfits,’ he said, his voice thinning in pain. ‘You have to buy your own.’

  ‘Didn’t they think it was strange, someone like you applying for a temporary job as a department store Santa?’

  ‘You’d be surprised who takes a job as a Santa. People you’d never expect. Anyway, I didn’t actually apply.’

  ‘And you didn’t know that the boy went under a bus.’ Bryant took out the tie tag and placed it on the coffee table between them. ‘I made a mistake,’ he admitted, ‘thinking this tie label belonged to your son. It didn’t, did it?’

  ‘No,’ said Gormley softly.

  ‘Tell me how it worked,’ said Bryant.

  ‘I never had the chance to go to a good school,’ Gormley said. ‘Our divorce was tough on Andrew. He was a bit of a crybaby about the whole thing. I could afford to give him a decent education. I thought it would toughen him up. Instead he got picked on. They called him “Gormless”—not much of an imaginative leap there. It only takes one boy to poison the rest.’

  ‘And that boy was Sebastian Carroll-Williams.’

  ‘I complained about him, but my complaints were ignored. “It’s what happens,” they told me. “It’ll pass. Strong metal must be forged in flames.” But it didn’t pass. The bullying got worse. I take it you know about the ties.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell us?’ said May.

  ‘The only time they ever come off is when you go to bed. They’re a mark of respect and honour. Schools like St Crispin’s have strange old customs. If someone cuts the tag off your tie, your life at the school is over. You lose any respect you might have won. You become an object of ridicule. Sebastian cut off Andrew’s tag while he was in the showers, so after that it wasn’t a case of my son being picked on by one kid; they all did it. They sent him to Coventry, took away his pocket money, ate his lunches, tore up his schoolwork, defaced his books. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.’

  A look of devastation crossed Gormley’s face. ‘I was busy trying to sort out the end of my marriage and keep the business afloat. I should have done something about it earlier. After Andrew died, I kept an eye on that little thug. I talked to some of the other parents and found out that his mother was bringing him up to London to do some Christmas shopping. One parent told me that Mrs Carroll-Williams had a tradition of forcing her child to visit Santa, to have his picture taken. It was the perfect opportunity. I paid one of the Santas to get lost for the afternoon and took his place. You can’t tell who’s who behind those beards. As Sebastian was struggling to get into his polar-bear outfit I moved his tie over his shoulder so that he could get the suit on. I cut off the tag and slipped it into a gift box. I wanted him to suffer the same punishment my son suffered. I guess when he realized what had happened he fled.’ He looked even more haunted now. ‘I didn’t kill him, I just made him feel the same way Andrew felt. There’s nothing you can arrest me for, except perhaps impersonating Father Christmas.’

  ‘If you hadn’t panicked the child he’d be alive today,’ said May. ‘The prosecution will play on that.’

  ‘I lost my wife and son, and I’m losing my business,’ said Gormley. ‘For God’s sake, isn’t that enough?’

  ‘You created another grieving parent,’ said May angrily. ‘No one should lose their child, at Christmas or at any other time.’

  It was a conclusion that satisfied no one. As they trudged back up the hill in the snow, Bryant was silent and thoughtful. Finally, just before the pair reached Hampstead Heath, he spoke. ‘You think about them a lot, don’t you?’

  May looked up. ‘Who, my son and granddaughter? Of course I do. He won’t speak to me, and she’s so terrified of turning into her mother that she had to leave the country to feel at peace. Of course I think of them, especially around this time of the year.’

  ‘Christmas is hard on people like us,’ said Bryant, poking at a frozen pigeon with his walking stick.

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sp; ‘One tends to think of what might have been,’ said May sadly.

  ‘Well, you’ve always got me,’ said Bryant. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a pint in the Flask.’

  They made their way past an amateur theatrical group in Victorian dress loudly performing A Christmas Carol outside a supermarket. It was a very Hampstead scene.

  ‘I suppose Christmas serves its purpose, if only in reviving memories of happy times,’ Bryant conceded as he eyed the declaiming theatricals. ‘But if that Tiny Tim comes anywhere near me with his collection bucket I’ll break his other leg.’

  ALSO BY CHRISTOPHER FOWLER

  Featuring Bryant & May

  Full Dark House

  The Water Room

  Seventy-Seven Clocks

  Ten Second Staircase

  White Corridor

  The Victoria Vanishes

  Bryant & May on the Loose

  Bryant & May off the Rails

  The Memory of Blood

  The Invisible Code

  Bryant & May and the Bleeding Heart

  Paperboy: A Memoir

  Film Freak

  About the Author

  CHRISTOPHER FOWLER is the award-winning author of more than forty novels—including twelve featuring the detectives Bryant and May and the Peculiar Crimes Unit—and short-story collections. The recipient of the coveted CWA ‘Dagger in the Library’ Award for 2015, his most recent book is the Ballard-esque thriller The Sand Men. Other works include screenplays, video games, graphic novels and audio plays. His weekly column ‘Invisible Ink’ runs in the Independent on Sunday. He lives in King’s Cross, London, and Barcelona.

  christopherfowler.co.uk

  Facebook.com/​chrisfowlerauthor

  @Peculiar

  If you enjoyed “Bryant & May and the Secret Santa,” read on for an excerpt of the next impossible case for the Peculiar Crimes Unit:

  Bryant & May and the Burning Man

  Available in hardcover from Bantam Books

  December 2015