Bryant & May 07; Bryant & May on the Loose b&m-7 Page 3
“Property,” he said, pointing at the deserted arcades housing empty shop fronts. “It’s all about who owns the land. I read that London has become the most expensive city in the world. Apparently, even during the economic downturn an apartment in Knightsbridge has still managed to sell for ninety million pounds. Dear God, Knightsbridge, the most dreadful place in the entire city. All those ersatz English houses filled with dodgy millionaires pretending they’re in some kind of Edwardian time bubble, assuaging their guilt with bling and bad restaurants. And it’s not even near town!”
“You sound just like Uncle Arthur sometimes, you know.”
Whether it was criticism or a compliment, May ignored the remark. “I suppose the land was simply too valuable to be left in our hands any longer.”
“It wasn’t your fault, John.”
“Oh, it was. We extended the lease on Mornington Crescent until 2017 but I didn’t check that all the documents had been properly notarised.”
“That was just a technicality. You were tricked by the Home Office. I went through the paperwork myself. The mistake was a small one, little more than a tick in a box and a date stamp. They wanted you out.”
The Peculiar Crimes Unit had been made homeless. The detectives who ran it were the leaseholders of the maroon-tiled building that rose above Mornington Crescent tube station, but their agreement with the owners, the Crown Estate, had been declared void. Despite pleas and threats the Home Office stood firm, and the unthinkable had begun to happen: The staff had started to disperse to other forms of employment.
“You knew the HO would put the unit on ice the moment they moved it under their jurisdiction,” said April. “You embarrassed them. You showed them up at every turn, instead of making them look good. Every case you solved was another slap in the face.”
“I suppose I thought we could eventually win them over. We had public opinion on our side.”
It was true that the PCU had breached behavioural codes of conduct in the course of their duty, but it had always got the job done, and there had been very few complaints from the public registered with the IPCC. For most of its life the unit had operated perhaps not in secrecy, but in an absence of information that had granted it an extraordinary amount of freedom. When civilians finally became aware of the unit they had wholeheartedly endorsed it, but the publicity had brought condemnation from naturally secretive government officials. A new generation of number-crunchers had come forward to insist on regulations being followed to the letter. For them the concept of an agency run on principles of instinct and experience seemed anathematic.
“I know how much professional jealousy you’ve had to put up with over the years. I saw the files, John. The pair of you managed to upset just about everyone.”
“We resolved most of the major cases we handled. Okay, a few got away from us, but our success rate was higher than anyone else’s in the force. We’re not being judged by our success, but by our failure to conform. Well, you know Arthur – what chance did I have of ever changing his ways? Now Raymond Land can’t even get his calls answered.”
“He’s the wrong person to change their minds. Only you would be able to do that. They like you, John; they’ll hear what you have to say. They won’t listen to Uncle Arthur because they think he’s completely loopy.”
“April, we have no equipment, no money, no offices, no status, no technical backup, nothing. How the hell are we supposed to proceed?”
She twisted out of the breeze, pushing back her bangs of ash hair. The sharp methylene blue of her eyes always came as a surprise to him. “Why don’t you suggest we continue operating from rented accommodation? You can’t give up now. Half the staff have relatives who worked in the unit before them. It’s a family business.”
May appeared not to hear. “The Home Office knew it would be better to weaken the unit step by step. I’ve been to see Raymond four times since the day we were thrown out of our offices, but he can’t get an appointment with anyone. Leslie Faraday keeps making the most pathetic excuses not to see him. Any day now our temporary leave will end and our resignations will be officially accepted. There’s nothing that anyone can do.”
As part of the closure deal, the staff of the PCU had resigned en masse in order to prevent the blemish of prosecution from appearing on their employment records. The unit was in a limbo created by process and paperwork; neither officially disbanded nor reinstated, but suspended in a state of non-operation. In this fashion, the Home Office could disarm its critics by denying that they had entirely abandoned one of London’s most prestigious departments. The official line was that the staff was on temporary hiatus pending investigation, but everyone knew that Faraday and his security supervisor Oskar Kasavian had no intention of allowing them back into the field. Faraday and Kasavian could afford to bide their time and wait while the ties of friendship and loyalty within the team loosened and staff members drifted apart, driven by the need to earn a living wage.
“Why did you bring me here, John?” asked April. “We already had a farewell drink at the pub. If you’re not going to fight for us, what more is there to say? I know we’ll always be family but right now I’m still angry, not about the way you’ve been treated, but by the fact that you’re not going to do anything about it.”
“I think growing older affects you in one of two ways,” said May. “Either you sink into a state of perpetual fury, or you cease to get angry about anyone or anything. You make your peace with the world, and I want some peace. We came here so I could show you this.” He pointed to an empty office unit tucked behind the redbrick arches, all neon panels and lowered ceilings. “This may become my new home. I’ve been offered the opportunity of setting up a small private detective agency. Apparently they’re really starting to take off again in London. A couple of old colleagues from the Met have bought the lease on the ground floor. It’s a wealthy area. There are a lot of divorce cases to be had, lawsuits involving private businesses, civil actions worth a lot of money.”
“I don’t think Uncle Arthur would approve of that very much.”
“I’m afraid the offer doesn’t extend to him,” May admitted uncomfortably. “The other partners – well, they don’t think he’d be insurable.”
“You couldn’t possibly go on alone,” said April, shocked. “Not after all the two of you have been through together.”
“I didn’t say I’d definitely take the job, April. I said I’d think about it. The work would be easier. And the change of pace would do me good.”
May’s recent cancer scare had caused him to reconsider how he might live the remainder of his life. His emergence from the gloom of University College Hospital into the dazzling daylight of the city streets had wrought a fundamental change in him. Watching commuters, shop assistants, bus drivers and newspaper vendors going about their business without a thought to the battles raging in the great white hospital that towered above them had made him realise how precious each passing day had become. He had been granted a new lease on life. The world was brighter and more colourful than he could ever remember seeing it. The operation had left him sore and scarred, but more alive than he had felt in years, and he needed to make the most of every passing minute.
April was adamant. “Going private would be a betrayal of everything you both believe.” She shook her head in disbelief.
“Would it? I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of Arthur since the unit was disbanded,” May replied hotly. “He’s gone to ground. He refuses to speak to anyone. He won’t even come to the phone. What am I supposed to do?”
“At least go and talk to him; you owe him that much.”
“It wouldn’t do any good. He’s a stubborn old mumpsimus.”
“You’re the only person he really listens to. You can get through to him.”
“Look, I want to see him – he just doesn’t want to see me. I can’t wait around forever.” May felt sure that Arthur would not return to his old position now, even if by some miracle he was offered a
chance to do so. The pair had barely spoken since being forced to move out of the building. May had left several messages for his partner, but uncharacteristically, they had not been returned. Such behaviour usually signified Bryant’s descent into Black Dog days, and when he was in a foul mood he was impossible to talk to.
“So that’s it; we all just walk away from each other.” She tried to control her rising anger. With the stress of the unit’s closure her moodiness was starting to return, and she had reluctantly resorted to taking medication. “We agreed to hand in our resignations for Uncle Arthur, to show him our support. You always said we were a team.”
“For God’s sake, April, be realistic. How can we remain a team when we have no support and no work? It’s over. We have to move on.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what you do when there’s nothing else left.”
“If Arthur stops now, he’ll die. You know that. If he stops using his brain he’ll age overnight and simply go to sleep, like a tortoise. Except he won’t be hibernating, he’ll never wake up, and it will be your fault.”
“You can’t lay the blame for this on me, April. That’s not fair. Believe me, if I could think of a way of getting us back together, I would. I’m sure the others are out there looking for jobs. They’re all talented. Something will come along, and if it doesn’t I’ll help them find employment, okay? I swear it. I’ll take care of you, too. Then I’ll go into private practice for myself. You think I want to handle divorce cases and office lawsuits after wading through the sewers with Arthur in search of a murderer?”
“I don’t understand how you can just give up. I know you’ve been ill and probably feel different about things now, but you came through it. You survived. You’ve been given another chance.”
“That’s right. I have to be prepared to make a new life for myself, form new friendships. Without police work taking up my time, I can start planning a future. I’d like to travel. I’ve hardly seen anything of the world.”
The truth dawned on April. “You’ve met someone,” she said.
“As it happens, I have. Her name is Brigitte. She’s French and completely impossible, and I can’t imagine that we would ever be good for each other, but I want to spend some time with her, just to see if it’s possible for me to let go. Work imprisons us, April; we only do it because we have to. I see that now. I have some savings, enough to enjoy a little time off. I want to travel home with Brigitte to Nice. I’m fed up with always doing the right thing and being broke.”
“And I don’t suppose the fact that she’s a sexy French divorcée has clouded your judgement in any way.”
“How did you know she’s a divorcée?”
“Oh, come on, they always are. When it comes to women, you reveal a painful flair for the obvious. Most men do. Where did you meet, in some dimly lit Soho dive bar?”
“No, at the wet fish counter in Waitrose. She was having a fight with the fishmonger over prawns. She only wanted the ones with their orange tails on, and started shouting at him in French. I helped her out, then we went for coffee. I knew a little about her hometown because of that business Arther keeps referring to as the White Corridor case. She poured cognac into her café au lait from a hip flask. It was ten-thirty in the morning.”
“So she’s an alcoholic, too.”
They walked on in silence. If a woman came between Bryant and May, April doubted that her grandfather’s partnership could ever be restored.
∨ Bryant & May on the Loose ∧
5
Career Opportunities
The first punch sent the postman slamming into the oak table at his back. The second knocked him over the bench and onto the floor. Glasses from the tipped table rolled and smashed about him. Colin Bimsley had barely wiped the blood from his grazed fist when the other postmen jumped on his back and dragged him toward the door. One of them punched him in the kidneys while another planted a boot on his coccyx, propelling him outside and sprawling into the street. They swore and spat on him, emptying packets of crisps over his head, before returning to their fallen mate and their waiting pints.
Bimsley had not expected postmen to be so ready for a punch-up, but they had not taken kindly to being described as a bunch of useless work-shy tossers. Contrary to popular belief, Londoners are generally hard to entice into a scrap. Usually they’ll settle for a sarcastic remark and a withering look before walking away, but the postmen of the Pakenham Arms, the pub nearest to North London’s Mount Pleasant Royal Mail Sorting Office, were clearly made of sterner stuff.
Bimsley dusted himself down and examined the torn sleeve of his jacket. This had been his third fight in as many days, and none of them had proven really satisfying. Anger and alcohol were a lousy combination, he told himself, but for now it suited his mood. He felt betrayed, not by Bryant and May, who had done everything within their power to keep the unit open, but by their cowardly bosses, men who hid behind their computer terminals as they totted up the savings to be made on each closed department.
Bimsley had no job to go to. The Met would never take him back, because he had repeatedly failed his medical. Only the unit had agreed to overlook his condition, which was brave of them considering that Diminished Spatial Awareness, an inability to judge distances, was a pretty serious drawback in a job that required him to chase criminals down alleyways and over rooftops. He had hoped to make Detective Inspector, but was now considering taking a position as a private security guard. As his self-respect faded he had started hitting the pubs, and then their patrons. Bimsley had trained for three years at Repton Amateur Boxing Club in the East End, but the fact that a bunch of postmen could whip him suggested it might not be worthwhile pursuing a career as a pugilist.
Meera Mangeshkar had stopped returning his slurred late-night phone calls. Bimsley’s hopes of winning her respect and her love had vanished along with his ambitions. Tucking his ripped shirt back into his jeans, he headed off toward the next pub in the street. He was vaguely aware that he smelled of sweat, spilled beer and crisps. So much for the innate dignity of the unemployed, he thought with a grimace.
♦
“Hullo? Are you open?” Dan Banbury, the late unit’s Crime Scene Manager and IT expert, pushed back the door of the little red-painted shop in Camden High Street. Yield to the Night was named after a noir film starring buxom British sex-bomb Diana Dors, and sold clothes from the 1950s and 1960s. Its windows displayed the kind of sequined battle-dresses that could transform a shy, slightly overweight woman into a hardbitten, sexy nightclub hostess.
“Hullo, Dan, what are you doing here?” Detective Sergeant Janice Longbright made a magnificent entrance through a shimmering curtain of rose-coloured beads. She had pinned back her newly auburn hair with tortoiseshell barrettes and was wearing a curvaceous Dorothy Lamour sarong, one of the shop’s best sellers and a masterpiece of intelligent engineering. Her maquillage was a theatrical mask of exaggerated sensuality. Her lipstick was bright enough to warn ships away from rocks.
“Blimey,” said Dan.
Thick, sweet incense smouldered in the air. The crimson-draped counters were stacked with pink garter belts, patent-leather stilettos and forgotten cosmetics. Longbright gave her old colleague a kiss that marked his cheek like a cattle brand.
“I thought you were going away on holiday,” she said, releasing him.
“We were until I lost my job,” Banbury explained, wiping his face and looking around. “I decided we couldn’t afford it. My nipper was well put out. How are you doing?”
“All right, I suppose. I’m helping an old friend, just to tide me over.”
“You enjoying it?”
“Yeah, I’m on commission. The money’s better than I was getting at the unit. Want to pick up something for your wife?”
“You’re joking. This stuff’s a bit too risqué for her; she’s more the jeans and t-shirt type.”
“We can soon change that. We run pole-dancing courses every Wednesday and Friday.�
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“I’m not having my missus sliding her gusset down a length of cold steel when she should be defrosting my dinner, thank you. I just wondered if you’d spoken to anyone.”
“I’ve talked to John a few times. I left a message for Mr Bryant on the old work number but he hasn’t called back.”
As Banbury was surrounded by pointy-busted mannequins sporting wired cutaway brassieres, he elected to stare down at his shoes. “So, no news from anyone. About the unit, I mean.”
“Not a sausage. I had a spot of lunch with Meera the other day. She says Colin’s drinking too much. He’s been making booty calls at two in the morning, begging to come round. But she hasn’t heard anything about the unit. According to John, the Home Office isn’t prepared to discuss the matter with us, so I wouldn’t keep your hopes up. I’m beginning to think that too much time has passed now.”
“Oh.” Banbury was never the most voluble of men, but he seemed even more tongue-tied than usual. “I just thought – you know the Met has frozen us out as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought there was a chance that we might get our old jobs back, so I made a few calls. None of them want to know.”
“You can’t be surprised about that, Dan. They barely tolerated us at the best of times. The only one who’s likely to be offered his old job is Jack Renfield, and that’s because he’d only just joined the PCU when it was closed down. They’ll probably feel sorry for him, and he was on their soccer team.”
“Even so…I keep thinking if I just wait for a while, Mr Bryant will somehow persuade them to re-form the unit.”
“I did too at first. I think when something gets this badly broken, it’s pretty tough to fix. We went down upsetting a hell of a lot of people.”