Bryant & May 03; Seventy-Seven Clocks b&m-3 Read online

  Jerry was the final piece in the creation of her mother’s image. She was there to help Gwen show a caring side to the world. Gwen’s friends gathered to watch in warm indulgence as mother and daughter played happily together. Look at them, they seemed to say, what a perfect, loving mother she is. How does she manage it with all of her charity commitments?

  “Hey, fancy meeting you here.”

  She turned in her seat and looked up.

  “Remember me?” said Joseph Herrick, smiling slyly. “I mean, how could you forget?”

  Jerry was stumped for a reply. She was suddenly thankful that Gwen had left.

  “You’re the receptionist at the Savoy, right? As I’m staying at your place, so to speak, I just wanted to thank you for your hospitality. Do many guests drop dead in your foyer? Is this some kind of regular occurrence I should know about?” He lowered himself into the opposite seat and set down his coffee cup without waiting to be asked. He seemed to be wearing some kind of leather biker’s outfit more suited to a science-fiction convention than the NFT caféteria. His dreadlocked hair was an odd look, but suited him.

  “Actually, that was the first corpse this week.”

  “I heard you found him. I’m sorry.”

  She smiled uncomfortably, not really wanting to talk about it. The true effect of the death was impossible to share. “How do you like the Savoy?”

  “Well, I’d have chosen something a little closer to the street, if you know what I mean, but it’s cool. I can’t believe what you charge for a coffee. I’m glad I’m not paying the bill.”

  “So you’re here on business.” She watched as Joseph emptied four packs of sugar into his coffee. He was a little older than she had first thought, twenty-five or thereabouts.

  “I’m preparing to start work on a show, set designing. This is my first big commission. They put me in the Savoy while we’re meeting with the backers. You’ve got a bunch of Japanese guys checking in tomorrow. They’re the ones putting up the money. Tasaka Corporation. Their boss is a man called Kaneto Miyagawa. In Japan he’s considered to be a great patron of the arts, and now he’s coming to London. That’s why I’m here tonight.” He pulled a National Theatre brochure from his jacket pocket. “I’m seeing a production at the Cottesloe. It’s supposed to be kinda lousy, but the sets are good. Big dreams on a tight budget. How about you?”

  “I was having coffee with an old school friend.” Thanks to her sessions with Wayland, lying came easy.

  “Listen, you want to come with me? They sent me loads of spare tickets.”

  She laughed nervously. “I couldn’t, not tonight.”

  “Why not? If it’s that bad we can leave. I’m alone and friendless in a strange land, many thousands of miles from home.”

  “Don’t push it. Where are you from, anyway?”

  “San Diego. I’m the only black guy ever to take theatre design there. I figured it would get me to Europe, and it did. Ten countries in eight days, package tour. I cannot recommend it. You want to come with me to the play?”

  After trying to think of a way to turn him down, she realized that there was no reason at all why she should. She knew she should try to set aside the memory of Nicholas pawing at her.

  “So, what’s your name? If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to try and guess, and that’ll embarrass both of us.” He studied her face with such an earnest expression that she gave in gracefully.

  “Jerry,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “Jerry, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Is that short for Geraldine?”

  “Damn,” she said. “Just when we were getting off on the right foot.”

  “How about I never call you that again?”

  “How about that.”

  So they went to the theatre.

  ∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

  7

  Detonation

  “My foot’s gone to sleep,” complained Bryant, stamping experimentally on the pavement. For the past hour they had been standing in the mistshrouded garden beside their suspect’s house. “Nearly eleven p.m. I wish he’d hurry up. I have to say you’re not much company.”

  “I needn’t have come at all,” May pointed out. “This isn’t my case.”

  “Yes, I suppose stakeouts are a bit beneath you these days. I like to keep my hand in. Look at this fog. The damp gets right into your bones. It’s doing my chest no good at all. I’ll need a vapour bath.” Bryant pulled down his scarf and peered over the sodden hedge. Dew had formed on his bald head and ears. He resembled a minor Tolkien character.

  “You’re getting old before your time,” warned May. “I can’t imagine what you’ll be like in your eighties.”

  “I’m ageing gracefully, which means not trying to look like a member of Concrete Blimp.”

  “I assume you mean Led Zeppelin. Can you hear someone coming?”

  A figure solidified from the surrounding haze. Bryant felt a chill as he recognized the whiskers, cape, and cane. Brass-heeled shoes clipped loudly on the street’s sloping pavement. May tapped his partner on the arm and the two detectives stepped in front of the garden gate. Their quarry drew up before them, his eyes staring angrily beneath bushy brows. There was an overwhelming sense of the past about him, from the heavy cut of his clothes to the sharp smell of rolling tobacco that hung over him. It was as if the man had stepped through the fabric of time.

  “Mr William Whitstable?”

  “Would that it were not.”

  May unfolded his wallet and held it aloft. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about an incident which occurred at the National Gallery…”

  “That was indeed my doing, but it remains no damned business of yours, Sir.” Whitstable’s hand tightened around the head of his cane.

  “The destruction of a painting on loan to the nation is reason enough to make it our business,” said Bryant angrily, “and to apply the full penalty of the law.”

  The figure seemed to fall back a little. When he spoke again his voice was tempered with reason. “My sympathy lies with Mr Waterhouse and with no other. Nature has burst the bonds of art. If I cannot remove the symptom of this sickness I must at least remind them of its root.”

  Whitstable was starting to back away, one boot sliding behind the other. May moved forward, wary of the cane. “Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why this painting?”

  “How would any other do?” cried Whitstable. “I made it known that our ranks are broken. They think they can get away with behaving as they please, but as God is my witness I’ll owe no further allegiance, and be gulled no more.”

  Suddenly he raised the cane and struck out, catching Bryant hard on the arm. Then he turned and fled into the fog.

  “I’m all right,” gasped Bryant, falling back against the garden wall. “Go after him, quickly.”

  May soon gained on his quarry, but the night and the fog had settled in a concealing shroud across the brow of the hill. For a moment he glimpsed a figure darting beneath sodium lamplight, then it was gone, the click of boot heels lingering in the murky air.

  “Are you all right?” asked May, returning to his partner and examining his arm.

  “Of course not,” complained Bryant, hauling back his coat sleeve and checking for bruises. “I’ve had a nasty shock. I need a cherry brandy.”

  “We have to put out a call and bring Whitstable in. He can’t get far dressed like that.”

  “Or perhaps a large Courvoisier,” continued Bryant. “He said he had to make it known that their ranks were broken. And what was all that about nature bursting the bonds of art?”

  “I don’t know. It sounded like a quote. That’s your department.”

  “It doesn’t ring any bells, but my memory isn’t what it was.”

  “Let’s hope your investigative powers are intact. We have our work cut out for us.”

  ♦

  On Friday morning, Bryant moved the last of his possessions to the new unit above Mornington Crescent station. As most of his friend
s were operating double shifts to cope with the criminal fraternity’s run-up to Christmas, there was no time for a farewell drink, party, or presentation from grateful colleagues. Bryant left the office with a parcel of belongings under his arm, feeling more like a prisoner leaving his cell than a transferring officer of the law.

  “You’ve an interview with the junior arts minister at ten,” said May as his partner entered the new PCU for the first time. “We’ll have to move some of this stuff if you’re going to base yourself here.” He clambered between the enormous typewriters that still lined the hallways of the unit.

  “Just find me a quiet corner to sit,” said Bryant. “All I need for the moment is a notepad and a telephone.”

  “You’ll require your own electric typewriter.” May indicated the IBM on his desk, knowing full well that although Bryant had attended a typing course, he steadfastly refused to operate any technical equipment more complex than a fountain pen.

  “I hardly think so, John. I blew up the last one.” Bryant removed his overcoat and began to peel off a variety of woollen layers. “If I’d known it was electric, I’d have been more careful about where I set my soup. Why is it so cold in here?”

  “We haven’t managed to connect the central heating yet. I’ll get you a bar radiator.”

  “How Dickensian. Right, I’ll settle here.” Bryant slapped the back of a chair and sat, staring straight ahead, his hands in front of him.

  “Wait a minute, this is my office,” began May, alarmed.

  “You said we could share. You obviously have the best street view, and you can work various bits of electric gadgetry for me on the rare occasions I require their services.”

  “But Arthur, I like to spread things around. You’re too tidy for me. You alphabetize your toxicology manuals.”

  “I’ll have to put up with your vile habits, too. Cleaning your nails while thinking aloud, I know what you’re like. It’ll be good for you to have someone in here to bounce ideas off.”

  May regretted his offer. He knew that after a few weeks he’d be wanting to bounce more tangible items off his partner. Bryant was searching around for a wall socket. “I hope you don’t object to music?”

  “Not the Mendelssohn,” groaned May. “It must be worn out by now.”

  “It helps me to think. Perhaps you could find me a three-pin plug. Do we have anyone assisting us?”

  He had obviously acclimatized himself to the office. There was nothing for May to do but accept it. “An old friend,” he replied. “Janice Longbright. She’s sitting outside.”

  “I thought she went off to get married?”

  “It fell through again. Ian asked her to choose between a husband and a career. Better not say anything about it.”

  Bryant straightened the huge knot in his tie and stuck his head outside the door. “Janice? What are you doing here? I thought you were going to live in a big country house and have lots of babies.”

  “No, I was going to live in a one-bedroom flat with a Labrador and a man who’s never home before ten. I thought I’d get more regular meals if I came back to work.” The sergeant gave him a bone-cracking hug which left lipstick on his collar. “Your ten o’clock appointment is already here. I thought you’d probably want to get settled in, so I told him you were in a meeting. Said you’d be free for just a few minutes.”

  Bryant smiled approvingly. Just as her mother had been before her, Janice Longbright was the kind of female officer he loved: strong, decisive, and not easily prone to emotion. Inevitably, her personal life had been subordinated to her work. His admiration for her had grown with the passing years, although he was careful not to show it.

  “The arts wallah? Let him in, will you?” He grabbed May by the sleeve as he attempted to slip out of the office. “I’d like you to sit in on this, John.”

  “We’re sharing the room, not individual cases. I’m down for witness interviews on the Max Jacob death this morning.”

  “You don’t need to be there for that, do you? Just give me twenty minutes. Have you had the pleasure of Mr Faraday before?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “The government’s most pedantic civil servant, which is saying something, a professional junior-status minister, but curiously useful for all that. In a brief and unillustrious career he’s been shunted all over Whitehall. First he was minister of snow, and managed to bring the roadgritters out on strike. Then he was appointed minister of sport, and sparked off a race riot by inviting a white South African paramilitary leader to a Brixton Jail cricket match – ”

  “Then how is he useful?”

  “Simple. He never forgets anything.”

  A pudgy young man with slicked sandy hair appeared before them. Shaking his hand was like removing wet laundry from a washing machine. His brown suit was expensive but badly cut, so that his trouser bottoms were accordioned over his shoes. It would have been hard to imagine a man less interested in any branch of the arts.

  “Leslie Faraday,” announced the minister. “We met two years ago, didn’t we, Mr Bryant? August seventh, I think it was, nice and sunny but it clouded over in the afternoon. I read about you in the paper last year, cracking secret codes in a multiple-murder case. The Daily Telegraph, wasn’t it? Someone fell out of a window and you were in trouble for hijacking a Porsche. This must be your partner. I wonder if I could possibly have a cup of tea? Brooke Bond will be fine, nice and milky, two sugars if you don’t mind.”

  Sweat was beading on Faraday’s pale forehead despite the chill in the room.

  “What can we do for you, Mr Faraday?” asked Bryant, anxious to short-circuit the minister’s recollections.

  “It’s about this vandalized picture, the Watermark thing. I know it was painted by an Englishman but the Aussies seem to own it now and they’re bloody furious, and not because it was worth a bob or two. To tell the truth, this is a relatively new field for me. I don’t go much for your modern arty-farty types. It’s not painting, it’s exhibitionism. They’re very good at building thirty-foot-high plaster models of their private parts but ask them to paint a decent duck in flight and see where it gets you. The trouble with artists is they’re not businessmen. What’s so awful about giving the public what they want? We don’t all have to like The Beatles.”

  May seated himself on a corner of the desk and watched, fascinated, as Faraday dabbed at his leaking brow with a handkerchief.

  “The Waterhouse painting,” prompted Bryant, as the tea arrived.

  “Yes, it seems that there’s rather a lot at stake here,” explained the minister. “Is that tea mine? Nice and hot, jolly good. As you know, the paintings were loaned against the wishes of the Australian government, whose talks concerning the return of aboriginal artefacts from the Museum of Mankind have stalemated. Her Majesty’s Government isn’t prepared to negotiate for their return because a precedent would be set, and we already have our hands full with the Greeks. Certain aboriginal items were placed on display years ago as part of what has become a highly disputed permanent exhibition. Just some old mud masks, nothing to get excited about. I remember seeing them on a school field trip. Rained all day, although it brightened in the evening as I recall. This chap Carreras is bellyaching and threatening to boycott the Common Market conference. Now, I understand that the painting can’t be restored, but the next best thing is to find the culprit as quickly as possible.”

  “We already know who he is,” said May.

  “You do?” Faraday grew visibly agitated. “Then why on earth hasn’t he been arrested?”

  “I am hopeful that he will be within the next few hours.”

  “This is capital news.” Faraday slapped his hands together wetly. “And you’ll tell me as soon as you discover a motive for this malicious act?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well.” Faraday set down his teacup and rose. “All in all, a good morning’s work. Lunch beckons, I think. Is it me or is it hot in here? I can see myself out.”

  ♦
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  “What an exhausting man,” said May, closing the door. “Why is he so interested in the motive?”

  “He’s hoping for a face-saver. Ideally his vandal would prove to be an Australian national protesting against the English, but I think there’s little chance of that.” Bryant shifted his chair nearer the window and looked out on to the street below. “It’s almost as if Whitstable destroyed the picture because he somehow believes himself to be living within its time frame. His speech was as archaic as his dress. He said he wouldn’t be ‘gulled.’ It’s an obsolete term. He may be mad, but he seemed sincere.”

  “Mad people always are. Have you had a chance to think about the phrase that sounded like a quote?”

  “You mean ‘nature and the bonds of art.’ I’ll have to run a check.”

  “Whitstable hasn’t returned home yet. The house is under surveillance, but so far there’s been no report of any activity. He has a brother, Peter, registered as living in the same house, although we’ve had no sight of him so far. Obviously we’ll interview William if and when he returns. I’d better let you get on with your unpacking.”

  “Looks as if you have a bit of a backlog to deal with yourself.” Bryant gestured at the unsteady stack of cardboard folders propped up on his partner’s desk. It was characteristic of May to take on more work than he could handle.

  While Bryant had remained at Bow Street to oversee specific ongoing operations, May had been staffing and organizing the new unit. This was a chance for him to set up a division running on entirely new lines. Their high arrest rate had been acknowledged by their superiors in the Met, but their unorthodox techniques were impossible to incorporate into the Greater London network. A revamped independent unit designed to showcase new methodology was the logical answer; much to his surprise, May had been able to persuade the legendarily slothful Home Office and Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary that this was so. Now they had to prove their claim.