Bryant & May and the Invisible Code (Bryant & May 10) Page 9

  12

  THE ENGLISH HEART

  HAMPSTEAD HAD ALWAYS prided itself on being a cut above other London areas. The homes of Byron, Dickens, Keats and Florence Nightingale had now been usurped by financiers who had turned the village into one of the most expensive places in the world. Its street names were printed in elegant reverse text, white lettering out of black tiles, its avenues were sumptuously leafy, its houses gabled and slightly suburban, set back from the sight of vulgar vehicles. It had lakes and the largest open heathland in London, and looked down on everyone else from a windswept peak where the city temperatures cooled, and on a summer day like this you could almost believe you were deep in countryside until you saw the high-street prices.

  May wondered aloud who lived there, and Bryant was delighted to enlighten him; in 1951, he explained, the Church Commissioners, who owned most of Hampstead, were advised by their estate agent to sell everything off as prices were about to plunge. They sold, prices soared, and Hampstead Man, the pipe-smoking chap who wrote books that didn’t sell and supported nuclear disarmament, moved down the hill to shabbier postcodes, leaving Hampstead to rapacious property developers. Even the politicians moved to cheaper areas.

  The Cedar Tree Clinic was founded in a house formerly owned by an English composer who had chosen the spot for its tranquillity. In 1937 it was bought by a wealthy American benefactress who came to paint and stayed to heal. The clinic’s gardens sloped to manicured woodlands and had provided a sheltered spot for officers recuperating from a devastating war. Now the main house was used by burned-out musicians and detoxing media executives, but the east wing was for more troubled souls, those with recurring addictions and nervous disorders.

  ‘Put that out,’ John May instructed. ‘The last thing they want is the smell of tobacco drifting over their lawns.’

  ‘Lightweights.’ Bryant knocked out his pipe, unscrewed the stem and without checking for embers dropped the bowl into his jacket pocket. He stamped his feet on the porch steps. ‘Bloody English summer, my feet are frozen.’

  ‘You should try wearing thicker socks.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have to. I’ve already got the linings from my carpet slippers tucked inside my boots. It’s not like this on the continent. Everyone’s in flip-flops and Bermuda shorts. They smile at each other and eat vegetables that still have earth on them. They’re happy. If I lived over there I’d have retired by now. I’d be living a life of luxury and deceit. Instead I’m stuck here with a pension that wouldn’t buy a beach hut. They have sunlight. What do we have? Sublight. D’you know, I accidentally caught sight of myself when I shaved this morning. I looked like a very old apple. Slightly green with a wrinkled skin, probably full of worms. I need a suntan.’

  ‘If you don’t stop complaining, I’ll leave you here.’

  ‘You couldn’t afford to.’

  ‘If you dressed smarter, you’d feel better about yourself.’

  ‘You can’t pour a pint of bitter into a cocktail glass.’

  May sighed. ‘I don’t know where you get these sayings.’

  The door was opened by one of the senior nurses, who introduced herself as Amelia Medway. She led them through to the wing where Sabira Kasavian had been settled. ‘The main thing is to ensure that you don’t upset her,’ she said as they passed the empty dining room. ‘We try to avoid medication wherever possible, preferring to encourage our guests to participate in holistic programmes and natural therapies.’

  ‘Is she allowed out?’ asked Bryant.

  ‘Sabira isn’t a prisoner, Mr Bryant. She is free to come and go as she pleases, although she is required to keep us informed of her whereabouts at all times.’

  ‘What’s to stop her from doing a runner?’

  ‘Her access to money is limited. Her credit cards have been put away, and she is provided with a daily cash allowance. There’s a wardrobe restriction, and for bigger trips she’s required to wear a bracelet that allows us to track her movements, although we find that’s rarely necessary. Most of our guests only go as far as the heath or the high street. They like to return in time for meals and special events; there’s always something going on. Many of our guests soon find they enjoy having a structure imposed on them, and try their best to maintain the regime, but it can prove challenging for some.’

  ‘You mean they either become institutionalized or they get stroppy with the staff. I suppose getting them into a load of smells-and-bells therapy is better than doping them up.’

  May could see the nurse was trying not to be defensive. Considering his partner believed in all manner of bizarre alternative practices, it surprised May that he was so sceptical about private clinics, but consistency had never been Bryant’s strong point.

  Inside, the atmosphere was calm, relaxed and low-key. There were no locks or bars, just carers and guests and a full schedule of daily activities with which to occupy fretful minds. Banning definitions like ‘nurses’ and ‘patients’ was meant to speed the journey to recovered health.

  Sabira Kasavian was sitting in the morning room wearing a thick white towelling robe. Without make-up she looked diminished and ghostlike. ‘They’re bringing you some herbal tea whether you want it or not,’ she whispered. ‘I’m going to be a model patient.’ She raised her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, I said the forbidden word – I keep forgetting we are all guests here, except guests don’t usually have to pay their hosts five hundred pounds a day.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked May.

  ‘Fine for a woman who has just been locked away in a madhouse by her husband.’

  ‘It’s hardly a madhouse. It was your doctor who recommended your admission, and you agreed that it was a good idea.’

  ‘I met some of the inmates this morning and they are pretty crazy. There’s a TV talent-show winner who has to be kept out of the kitchens because he knows how to make drugs from household items, and some PR woman who had a screaming fit this morning because they took her mobile away from her. But it’s fine, I am safe here.’

  ‘Safe from what?’

  She looked blankly at them. It was as if she disconnected from their questions when faced with anything uncomfortable. ‘My mind. Being poisoned. I think they are putting spells on me. It’s some form of witchcraft, but I don’t know how it works. Do you think there are books on witchcraft in the local library? Why did you come to see me?’

  ‘Why do you think Mrs Lang accused you of having an affair? Is that why you attacked her?’

  ‘How is she – have you seen her? Does she have a scar? I hope so. I think they’re deliberately trying to manufacture a scandal to humiliate me and drive me back home.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘The establishment. The members of the club.’

  ‘Including your husband?’

  ‘Of course. He has no choice but to go along with the others. If he refuses, his initiative will fail and he won’t get his promotion. Without a vote of confidence, his career will be over.’

  May leaned forward. ‘Mrs Kasavian … Sabira, this makes no sense. I understand the anger you feel at being excluded, but why would anyone go to so much trouble?’

  ‘Because I know what’s going on.’

  ‘And what is going on?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. At least, not yet, until I have more proof.’

  May tried another tack. ‘Why did you steal papers from Edgar Lang’s office?’

  ‘I didn’t steal them. They were important documents.’

  ‘You didn’t steal them? Then how do you know they were important?’

  A cloud of doubt crossed Sabira’s features. ‘I’m – I get confused. They were taxi receipts.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re telling us the whole truth,’ said May.

  ‘It is true. I saw them for myself. I am the victim. You cannot make this sound as if it is my fault!’

  ‘What do you mean, your fault?’

  ‘The press says I am trying to damage my husband’s reputation, b
ut they don’t know what he’s like.’

  ‘Has he ever hurt you, threatened you, subjected you to mental cruelty?’ May asked.

  ‘No, of course not. He has always been wonderful to me, but don’t you see, that is all part of the trick.’

  Bryant could tell that his partner was losing patience, and made a rare attempt to be the voice of reason. ‘Sabira, we know there’s no truth in the rumour that you were having an affair with your photographer. But I think you spoke to him. He knows a little of your language. I’d like to know what you talked about.’

  She looked away, watching a crow hopping about on the lawn. ‘I asked him if he had ever had to photograph a dead body. I asked him to do something for me. Something it was impossible for me to do.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘I asked him to explain what was in the English heart. He didn’t know the answer, and that is why I must die.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for the fact that the man in charge of our future personally requested the investigation, I’d have walked away from this by now,’ said May when they reached Hampstead Tube station. ‘I told you what I thought of her at the outset. She’s one of those women.’

  ‘One of what women?’

  ‘You know, the ones who always need an audience, an attention-seeker.’

  ‘She’s overwrought and imaginative, I agree. But what if she really is being victimized?’

  ‘Over what, Arthur? We haven’t had one word from her that’s made a lick of sense.’

  ‘That’s because she’s frightened. I think she honestly believes someone is going to try and harm her. And we know someone’s been watching her. Renfield talked to the neighbours in Smith Square. A couple of dog-walkers remember seeing someone standing on the grass at night, but they didn’t get a good look at him. She’s safer where she is, but I don’t want her leaving the place and wandering about. I’ll have a word with the nurse.’

  ‘If she’s that scared, why won’t she tell us anything that will help catch him?’

  ‘Because she doesn’t trust us. She thinks we’re part of the problem, and for all I know she may be right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If Sabira’s life is being threatened, it can only be by someone she knows through her husband. She has no friends of her own here except this Albanian woman Waters saw her with. We should try and talk to her.’

  ‘If she can’t tell us what’s wrong I don’t see how anyone else will be able to help.’

  ‘That’s the trouble. We answer to the same people Sabira hates. It’s a closed circle. I think Jeff Waters was given information that holds the key to her behaviour. If she won’t tell us, we have to get the truth from him.’

  ‘What makes you think he has any inkling of what she’s talking about?’

  ‘He lied to us, didn’t he?’ said Bryant.

  13

  IN CORAM’S FIELDS

  THE MOTORCYCLE RIDER had been following the photographer all day. Now he watched as Waters slipped between the tables outside Carluccio’s, and wondered what the hell he was doing. He seemed to be searching for someone, but it was hard to tell from here. The enclosed concrete rectangle of Brunswick Square was crowded with shoppers and diners enjoying the sunny afternoon.

  He saw Waters clearly for a moment, and spotted the object of his search: the small girl in a yellow T-shirt and jeans. He only glanced away briefly, but when he looked back the pair had disappeared.

  Pushing his way through the pedestrians, he headed into the walkway beside the Renoir Cinema. It was the only exit on the east side. Waters was a hundred yards ahead, hurrying down the street with the girl in his arms, and looking as guilty as hell. The rider followed at a safe distance, trying to see where they were going, then realized they were heading for Coram’s Fields. Waters would be able to enter, but he would be turned away.

  Smart idea, he thought, but it’s not going to keep you alive.

  ‘Christ, I’m going to be arrested for abducting a bloody minor,’ Jeff Waters muttered as he looked down at the little girl. He already had quite a few arrests on his police file. Adding Suspected Paedophile to the list wasn’t going to do him any favours when it came to getting visas for overseas assignments.

  ‘It was just a game,’ said Lucy. ‘We didn’t mean to hurt anyone.’

  ‘I know you didn’t, darling, but something went wrong and we have to see if we can put it right. This is the best place to talk, trust me.’

  Setting her down, he led her across the busy road to the entrance of the playground. Coram’s Fields was a unique seven-acre park for children in the centre of the city, constructed on the site of the old Foundling Hospital. At the gates a sign read: ‘No ADULTS UNLESS ACCOMPANIED BY A CHILD’. Right now, it was the safest place for Waters to be.

  He had followed the child all morning, starting at her school in Belsize Park, then to her father’s office off Fleet Street, heading across to Hamley’s toy store in Regent Street, where Lucy was bought a talking pink poodle (‘Comes with Built-in Wi-Fi!’ said the box) and finally to the crowded farmers’ market that filled the central courtyard of the Brunswick Centre in Bloomsbury.

  He had used his Nikon zoom to track the girl in the yellow T-shirt and jeans as she trotted behind her father with the toy poodle under her arm. His name was Mansfield; Waters called the office just after the pair had left and asked a few questions; he was good at teasing out answers from suspicious receptionists. Apparently Mansfield was taking care of his daughter today because she had an appointment at Moorfields Eye Hospital to have her new glasses fitted, which meant that either the wife worked or he was divorced.

  Waters had kept the Nikon trained on the yellow shirt. It darted behind the Portuguese food stall, reappeared briefly by a woman selling iced cupcakes, and then slipped between a fence of dark blurs that proved to be a line of Chinese tourists taking photographs of London litter bins.

  The crowd was denser on this side of the square because it was directly in the sun, and people were sitting on the edge of the fountains that never seemed to be working, eating sausage baguettes, waiting for friends, talking on their phones.

  Lucy’s father had released her hand and was walking over to a bookstall, where he turned his back for a moment to examine a hefty volume of New York City photographs.

  It was long enough. Waters had lifted the girl off her feet and made a run for it before she could cry out, slipping away down the steps and beneath the raised concrete platform of the precinct. To his surprise Lucy didn’t cry out. ‘You again,’ was all she said. Waters’s great advantage was his face, handsome, wide and friendly. Girls turned to him and smiled even before they realized that he was a photographer.

  He had been following Lucy for days, and they had reached the point of smiling and tentatively waving, but Waters was under no illusions – Lucy was likely to turn and shriek in the way that only little girls could if he put a foot wrong now.

  He figured he had less than ten minutes before her father thought of searching the park and all hell broke loose.

  ‘Why are we here?’ Lucy asked, clutching her pink poodle. ‘You said you knew about the witch.’

  ‘I do, Lucy, I just wanted to ask you something very quickly before we go back to your daddy.’ He crouched beside her, reducing his height to something more manageable and safe. ‘About the lady who went into the church. The one on Saturday.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Lucy warned him. ‘Tom agreed with me. His father works with my father. I’m nine months and seven days older than him, and I know all the rules of the game because my brothers used to play it, but they got bored with it and gave it to me.’

  ‘What game? Is this the game you were playing on Saturday morning?’ Waters checked over his shoulder, watching the plaza steps, expecting to see Mansfield appear on them at any minute.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lucy loudly and clearly in her best explaining voice, which you had to do because adults were slow. ‘It’s called Witch Hun
ter and you have to find the witches and kill them. And me and Tom looked for a witch and found the lady who was one, and we put a curse on her to make her die.’

  ‘How did you put a curse on her, Lucy?’ Waters’s sight-line remained fixed on the steps, watching for a distraught father.

  ‘You have to make her pass a test,’ said Lucy. ‘The man showed me how to do it.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘He works with my dad but I don’t know his name. He brings the food.’

  ‘What do you mean, he brings food?’

  ‘You know, pizzas. He has a big bike.’

  ‘What exactly happened?’ asked Waters. ‘I mean from when you saw the lady?’

  ‘She was sitting eating a sandwich and she was reading a book about how to eat babies.’

  There was a sudden movement across the road. Mansfield’s Ray-Bans flared in the sunlight. He was running down the steps, taking them in pairs, watching the traffic, seeing when he could cross the road to the park.

  ‘Shit,’ said Waters under his breath, rising.

  ‘You mustn’t say that,’ said Lucy.

  ‘I have to go. You mustn’t mention this to anyone, do you understand? It has to be our secret. Like your game.’

  Lucy remembered the rules of Witch Hunter and smiled. ‘All right.’

  He turned and checked the park for cover. It was a bright, clear afternoon, but there was deep green shade beneath the immense plane trees and oaks that lined the path to the petting zoo.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Lucy softly, ‘he’s here.’ But Waters didn’t hear her.

  A young man in a black motorcycle jacket and black jeans was shifting out of the shadows, moving swiftly towards Waters. Judging by the bulk of his chest he’d either been in jail or spent his life on a bench press.

  Waters was still checking Mansfield’s progress across the road. He stepped back from the little girl and waved her away. ‘Lucy, I can see your daddy, he’s coming to get you right now, and it’s very important you don’t say anything about us being—’