Bryant & May - Oranges and Lemons Page 9

  ‘Stout fellow!’ He made to slap May on the shoulder but managed to stop himself. ‘We’ll get started at once.’

  ‘Your first lesson in caring more about people,’ said May. ‘Try to sound concerned about my health.’

  ‘OK.’ Bryant thought hard for a moment. ‘Is someone looking after you?’

  ‘Blaize brought me some things. I should be able to—’

  ‘Fine, whatever, I’ll have Janice send you the witness transcripts and make sure you’re copied in on everything, although we’ll only have mobiles and bits of paper so I don’t know how it’s going to work, but if we pull this off without upsetting anyone or destroying anything we could at least show them we’re still employable.’

  ‘—get around a little in a day or so,’ May finished lamely.

  Bryant clapped his hands with relish. ‘The preliminary files have already been uploaded to the cloud-thing so you can access them, yes? I haven’t a clue how to do it. I asked Dan to explain but he said if he did so again he would have to be restrained from strangling me, so it’s best to let him handle the technical bits and bobs. We’ve a lot to do.’ He paused for a moment in the doorway, trying to recall something. ‘Oh yes. Sorry. Caring. You’re looking as well as can be expected for someone who managed to get himself shot. Right: get on with your work; there’s no time to lose.’

  ‘Not good enough, Arthur.’ May’s tone stopped him. ‘Ask me how I really am.’

  Bryant waved away the thought. ‘We’re police officers, we don’t do that sort of thing.’

  ‘Ask me.’

  He tried to clutch words from the air. There was a faint squeak first, like someone stamping on a stoat. ‘How – are – you – in – yourself?’

  ‘Funny you should ask because when I was shot and felt myself falling, do you know what I thought? Arthur will be fine because he lives for his work, but I don’t. I’m leaving behind nothing. I have no legacy. My wife and children have gone; there’s very little left. There are barely even any photographs. Who was I? Nobody should die with that thought in their mind.’

  ‘It’s just as well you didn’t then.’

  ‘What I’m trying to say, Arthur, is—’

  ‘I understand, John, I really do,’ said Bryant impatiently. ‘When we get really old I’ll help you up the stairs and you can tell me what day it is but right now the important thing is to keep working and the seconds are ticking by.’ As he wasn’t wearing a watch he looked pointedly at his bare wrist. ‘It’s time to turn the ignition key. Start all the clocks. We have a lot to do before the world comes to an end so we’d better get a move on. Are you with me?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I might be able to help.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Now let’s go out there and upset a few carthorses.’

  ‘Apple carts.’

  ‘If you prefer. Just don’t worry about the cow going blind.’

  ‘Horse.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  And with that he was gone. May prepared for the pain of sitting up and found, much to his surprise, that it was suddenly easier to move about. He flexed his wrist, then his arm, and found them more pliant. Perhaps seeing Arthur had done him some good after all.

  There was something in a brown paper bag sitting on the window ledge. He carefully raised himself from the bed and went towards it.

  The bag of glued-together sherbet lemons had a biro-scrawled note stuck to them: ‘I hope you are feeling better we all missed you esp me stop lazing about feeling sorry for yourself we have work to do.’

  10

  New Blood

  Like most London addresses, the Peculiar Crimes Unit had had many previous lives. In 1786, number 231 Caledonian Road had been a notorious brothel. In 1873 it was a shabby coffee house visited by Rimbaud and Verlaine. In 1900 it had been a dubious hotel owned by Catherine ‘Skittles’ Walters, the last Victorian courtesan. Between these raffish incarnations it had also found time to serve as stables, a working man’s pub called the Hoop and Grapes, a boarding house where Aleister Crowley had held spiritualist meetings and a cocktail bar. Housed in an awkward corner on what might best be termed a pedestrian black spot, it had, during the tenure of the Peculiar Crimes Unit, been set on fire, quarantined and declared unfit for habitation.

  Now it was opening again.

  A truck had delivered furniture from a derelict Met building in Gravesend but most of it was too wide to go up the stairs, so Colin Bimsley and the two Daves sawed three inches off the legs of all the tables, and now they were too low to fit chairs beneath them. Dave Two had also accidentally sawn through a desk leg, so they set that one aside for Raymond Land. The main staircase smelled of fresh-cut wood and was stacked with pine beams and plasterboard. From above came the constant noise of sawing and hammering.

  The Daves’ first job was to put hardboard over the gaping holes in the floorboards and lay tripwires of electrical cables across doorways. Half of the ceiling in the operations room was missing. Worst of all was Land’s old office. Someone had put a sledgehammer through a partition, breaking a pipe. Rusty water was meandering down the wall into a hole that led who-knew-where. Somewhere a junction box fizzed and sparked as water dripped on to it.

  ‘I never thought this dump could look worse,’ said Meera, climbing out from under a table with several electrical cables in her fist. ‘This is Dan’s job. Why isn’t he helping?’

  ‘Because he’s at a crime scene,’ said Longbright reasonably. ‘Do you know how to connect them?’

  ‘I’ll try all the permutations. I’m bound to find the right one eventually.’ There was an ominous creaking from above like a heavy truck crossing a plank bridge. Clouds of sawdust sifted down on them.

  ‘It sounds like they’ve taken too many support beams out,’ said Janice, looking for somewhere to set down an armful of folders.

  ‘Has anybody seen my office?’ Raymond Land asked from the door.

  Colin was busy unrolling an oddment of crimson carpet over several uneven floorboards. ‘Why, has it moved?’

  ‘I mean have you seen it? When I left it had no door. Now it’s got a water feature. I know King’s Cross used to be a spa but this is ridiculous. I thought they were supposed to be rebuilding the place, not tearing more down.’

  ‘At least you’ve got a desk,’ said Colin.

  ‘I’ve got most of a desk.’ Suddenly a buzz saw started up. ‘How are we supposed to work with all this racket?’

  ‘We need a toilet door. I’ve put a blanket up for now.’ Janice wiped sawdust from her forehead. ‘Colin, did you steal that carpet from an Indian restaurant?’

  ‘I got it from my gran, actually,’ said Meera, bristling.

  ‘Also there’s a woman downstairs who wants to make a formal complaint to someone in charge.’

  ‘I’ll deal with her,’ said Land. ‘Has anyone seen the electric kettle?’

  ‘She wants to see someone in charge.’

  Colin pointed to a box of tea mugs on the window ledge. ‘I’ll do it but she can’t just tip up without an appointment.’

  ‘Apparently she has one. It was originally booked for the week we were disbanded. She’s been kicked around the system for the best part of a month.’

  ‘OK, I’m on my way.’ Colin stamped the carpet flat and was about to set off when he stopped and his mouth fell open. ‘Mr Bryant.’

  Arthur Bryant stood in the doorway of the operations room with a carpet-bag in one hand, looking like a disreputable relative of Mary Poppins. Some plaster dust dropped from the ceiling and spattered his homburg but he failed to notice.

  ‘It’s looking good.’ He beamed. ‘Nice to be back. I hope everybody’s well. John sends his regards. Close your mouth, Mr Bimsley, we are not a codfish.’

  ‘You’ve been to see him?’ Colin was still incredulous.

  ‘Of course. He’s in fighting form and can’t wait to get started.’

  ‘But I thought you weren’t on speaking terms any more,’ Colin began.

 
‘We’re far above such childish behaviour. John wants – hang on.’ He unscrambled a shred of paper and held it at the end of his nose. ‘Open access codes for the Bakerloo secure cloud documents, whatever that means – I may have written it down wrong. Colin, can you take care of that? Janice, lumière de ma vie.’

  Her eyes softened. ‘Arthur.’

  He held out a wrinkled hand. ‘I wasn’t being difficult, you know.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The address book. I couldn’t leave it lying around with so many people coming in.’

  ‘One of your contacts sent us to the Apothecaries’ Hall in Black Friars Lane. There was a painting over the fireplace of Elizabeth the First watching the Spanish Armada. But we knew she didn’t. Watch it, I mean. I know how your mind works; you always look for anomalies. We found your schedule stuck behind its frame.’

  ‘Alma knew where I was too,’ said Bryant, ‘but she was under strict orders not to tell anyone unless I allowed her to do so.’

  ‘Why does everything have to be so bloody complicated with you?’ cried Land. ‘Why can’t you just do things in a simple, straightforward manner like everyone else? Look at this place, utter chaos, and that’s how you like it, isn’t it? You function better when you’re in a madhouse.’

  ‘What was the other key for, the tiny one hidden in the clock?’ Meera asked.

  ‘It unlocks my family photo album,’ said Bryant. ‘I’m sparing you from the sight of me as a pie-faced ten-year-old in a sailor suit.’ He turned to Land. ‘It’s delightful to see you, Raymondo, you’re a brick, in the sense that you’re dense and blocking progress, so you can potter back to your water feature and let us take over now.’ He dumped the electric kettle and its cord in Land’s arms. ‘When they put you on gardening leave you didn’t actually have to do any gardening.’

  ‘How do you know I did?’ Land asked.

  ‘I got one of the lads in your local nick to keep an eye on your house. Your herbaceous borders are a let-down. I spoke to Margot Brandy and Ms Takahashi and have drawn some clear conclusions from their witness statements. Can we get a whiteboard up by the far wall?’

  ‘We thought of that,’ said the extravagantly moustachioed Dave One, who had painted a sheet of hardboard with white gloss and leaned it against the wall. ‘Only it’s not dry yet.’

  Bryant dug into his carpet-bag to produce his folder of statements and a pencil box. He drew directly on to the wall with a purple child’s crayon, setting out a rough plan of Claremont’s flat, the street beyond and the site of St Clement Danes church.

  ‘I’ll keep this brief. Both witnesses saw Claremont for a couple of seconds before he stepped between the two high vehicles. Miss Takahashi didn’t see what happened next – she was at the wrong angle. Margot Brandy had to find her glasses. The box of fruit upstairs seems like the equivalent of Robert Louis Stevenson’s black spot, a warning that Claremont acted upon, rushing out into the street. But perhaps it has nothing to do with it; sometimes a black cat is just a black cat. Of course there’s a simpler way to account for it; when Claremont went downstairs to remonstrate with the van driver he was given it as a placatory gift, which he took upstairs. That makes the whole thing look more like an accident, which makes me more suspicious.’

  ‘While you were off looking for nirvana did you read a lot of murder mysteries?’ asked Land. ‘Because that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Death by fruit? It’s impossible. You might just as well invite your victim to Hyde Park in a thunderstorm and wait for lightning to strike him.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Bryant. ‘If you think it’s impossible then there’s a chance that it really happened this way. Raymondo, go and shoe the goose while we find Mr Claremont’s attacker.’

  He might have explained that ‘shoeing the goose’ was a sixteenth-century English expression meaning to undertake absurd or futile work, but Land wasn’t listening. ‘You cannot just decide that a misfortune is suddenly a murder attempt,’ he said almost pleadingly. ‘You have no proof.’

  ‘Truth first, proof later.’ Bryant tapped the side of his head. ‘We’ll turn the impossible into a possible.’

  Without the rationalizing influence of his partner in the office, Bryant was free to untether his more fantastical theories. Land stormed out of the operations room. He should have foreseen that this would happen. Unfortunately he did not foresee the approaching hole in the corridor floorboards and nearly broke his ankle.

  Land found he was being watched by a clearly bemused Tim Floris. As he tried to free himself from splinters of plank he tore open the left leg of his trousers. ‘There are bound to be a few teething problems,’ he said, trying to make light of it. ‘Things have been much worse than this before.’

  ‘Well.’ Floris cast about for something positive to say. He had dressed down into a very expensive pair of jeans and an immaculate black sweater. ‘Mr Faraday doesn’t have to know everything.’

  Land felt like falling to his knees and thanking the government interloper, but he was also ashamed of having to beg favours from someone who looked like a character from a Netflix science fiction series.

  ‘Am I in the wrong place?’

  Both Floris and Land turned around. A girl stood before them in a bright orange jacket, purple leggings and black ankle boots. Her auburn hair was tied back, her eyes strikingly alert. There was an air of expectancy about her, as if she was waiting for someone just out of sight to fetch her a chair. Land wondered if she was real or if he was imagining an Instagram story being played out by teenaged fashion influencers. Fashionable people did not belong in a police unit.

  Even so, he was tempted to check his comb-over. ‘Miss Hargreaves?’

  ‘Technically. I’m Sidney. Are you Raymond?’

  ‘I’m Mr Land, yes.’ Land felt his hand rising to his hair. Floris seemed to have glitched and frozen.

  ‘I believe we’re going to be working together?’

  ‘Well, you’ll be working for me.’

  ‘It’s just a figure of speech.’ The girl put her chin forward and looked about. ‘I suppose I’d better get started. Will somebody show me where to go?’ She removed her jacket and studied Land expectantly.

  ‘Let me get – um – you’d better – step this way.’

  ‘That’s probably not a good idea.’ She pointed down at his torn trouser leg. ‘Why don’t I lead?’

  He remembered now. The college had warned him that she was a handful. Well, he would quickly put his foot down – carefully – and let her know who was boss.

  ‘So you came from Hendon,’ he said, trying to squeeze beside her as they passed through the minefield of floorboards.

  ‘Henley.’

  ‘I think you’ll find the college is in Hendon.’

  ‘I live in Henley.’

  ‘So you commute?’

  ‘It’s not really important how I get here, is it?’

  ‘I’ll take you to Mr Bryant,’ said Land.

  He found Bryant in the operations room balanced on a chair with a Dualit four-slice toaster held out in front of him. On the floor was an enormous green watermelon. ‘Stand back,’ he warned. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ cried Land.

  ‘This weighs only slightly less than a small crate of oranges.’

  He dropped the toaster and smashed the watermelon. Clambering down, he examined the mess on the floor.

  ‘Overripe. I shan’t be using the Moroccan corner shop again.’ He looked up at the girl and held out his melon-sticky hand. ‘Did it get you? Sorry, I really need a skull. Hello, you’re very’ – he looked her up and down – ‘bright. Is that made of plastic?’ He pointed to the orange PVC jacket over her arm.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘May I?’ He took it from her, gripped the hem and tried as hard as he could to tear it in half. She watched him without comment.

  ‘Just as I thought. Sorry, testing a theory. Thanks.’ He returned it to her, somewh
at stretched.

  ‘Miss Hargreaves is young enough not to understand any of your references,’ Land pointed out, ‘so perhaps you could refrain from quoting old episodes of Round the Horne at her.’

  ‘Sidney, why do I feel as if I know you?’ Bryant asked, examining her closely.

  She picked pieces of melon from her leggings. ‘Was his skull fractured?’

  Bryant continued to study her with interest. ‘No.’

  ‘A glancing blow.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Bryant. ‘The skin was broken but the wood splinter didn’t penetrate. A tear but nothing more.’

  ‘So that part of it was chance.’

  ‘You know what he’s talking about?’ Land asked her.

  ‘I believe so.’ She looked at Bryant, who was sucking his fingers. ‘The intended fatal injury was to Mr Claremont’s stomach. The blow to the skull was secondary and unplanned.’

  ‘How did you know about this?’ asked Land. ‘It’s not public knowledge.’

  ‘I’m not a member of the public.’ She looked about. ‘We should talk. May I have a seat?’

  Great, thought Land, storming out, it’s not enough that we have a robotic over-moisturized Home Office spy on the premises, we now have an over-entitled androgynous post-millennial waif-child to deal with.

  Nevertheless, he returned with a nice chair for her.

  11

  Two Women

  On the ground floor of the PCU, in two makeshift front rooms, two women told very different stories.

  The first was the Speaker’s wife, Fenella Claremont. Dressed in natural colours that augmented her calm demeanour, she sat cradling a PCU mug of builders’ tea as no one had been able to find the visitors’ cups. Fenella liked to get on with things and find workable solutions, although nothing could rescue the beverage.

  ‘Michael is not the kind of man to ever put himself at risk,’ she told Janice Longbright. ‘He is in a position of enormous responsibility. He’s respected for his fair-mindedness. Last week we had dinner at Number Ten. One only gets invited there for a purpose, and the food is desperate. On Friday night we had dinner with the Sheriffs of London and Michael was in fine spirits. I had an Age UK fundraiser in Winchester on Saturday so he remained up in town.’