Bryant & May

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Think it was an insurance job?’ Sandy looked back at the billowing black smoke.

  ‘Books? I doubt it. Dry paper is always a disaster. Ever hear of Paternoster Row?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No reason why you should, I suppose. It was a three-hundred-year-old street of stationers and bookshops just behind St Paul’s. It went up with a roar they heard streets away. Burning paper everywhere. Wiped clean by a stray bomb during the Blitz. The firefighters couldn’t get near it. This isn’t clean. I can smell linseed oil.’ She sniffed the acrid atmosphere. ‘Something else, too. Citrus. Aftershave?’ She crinkled her nose. ‘Nope, it’s gone.’

  As water flooded back out of the ground floor she broke protocol by setting aside her breath pack and climbing through the shop’s smashed window in her yellow headgear and gloves. The breathing apparatus was essential for deep exploration—it gave a whistle when it was running out of air—but this little place only went back a few dozen yards. Once, far inside a warehouse, an acetylene tank had exploded in a storage room and melted one side of her helmet. It had taken two months for her hair to grow back. The bookshop’s scorching air stank of blistered varnish, but underneath it was another unmistakeable smell, much stronger now.

  Oranges.

  The fall of rubble from the roof had bowed the exposed ceiling of the ground floor. She stepped forward, tapping her steel-capped boot on the boards as she went, making sure they were solid enough to take her weight. The fire had not reached the basement, so it had presumably started here on the ground and flared upwards via the wooden staircases.

  She glanced back. They were supposed to have two crews, one to extinguish, the other to search, but staffing problems had left them short. Lately, too many of her friends had quit.

  There was an ominous yawn of stretching timber from above. The first floor now had the weight of the second plus the roof on it, so it was time to get out. As she crunched back over broken glass and soaked paper she saw the line of primary ignition clearly etched on the floor, running like a meandering black river from the bookcases at the back of the shop to the front. Oil had been poured straight from a can, its flow mimicking the walk of the carrier. Arson wasn’t uncommon, but in a place like this it didn’t make sense.

  ‘We haven’t been able to get hold of the landlord yet,’ said Sandy. ‘Someone at the Met’s asking for a report.’

  ‘I’ll deal with them,’ she told him. ‘Keep trying the owners.’

  Her phone dinged. ‘Thought you should know John May is going in for surgery tomorrow morning.’ It was from the operations director of the Peculiar Crimes Unit, Janice Longbright.

  Blaize eased off her gloves and walked back to the fire truck thinking about the message. Even though she had broken up with John, she felt bad for him. He had no family who would come visiting, only his coworkers, and his partner had apparently disappeared without telling anyone where he was going.

  She walked beyond the fire truck to breathe some fresh air and clear her lungs. That was when she spotted the trainers. Blue and white Adidas, sticking out of the archway that led to the narrow courtyard behind Galen Place, with its terrace of elegant Edwardian apartments. As she approached, she saw that the trainers were attached to a man in his early thirties. He was sprawled on his back in the centre of the arched alley, smartly dressed in a navy sweater and jeans, but soot-blackened and barely conscious. When Carter leaned over to check his breath she was hit with a sour blast of whisky. His sweater reeked of oil.

  ‘Come on,’ she coaxed, ‘get up, you can’t stay here.’ She pushed a hand under his back as he tried to lift himself.

  ‘What— Where we going?’ he asked, slurring his words. He had startling green eyes.

  ‘I’ll decide in a minute, after you tell me where you got that.’ She pointed to the uncapped can of linseed oil that lay beside him.

  * * *

  |||

  ‘You understand why you’ve been arrested, don’t you?’

  Sergeant George Flowers took a bite out of his apple and set the core aside, balancing it on its end. When no answer was forthcoming he tapped the suspect to stop him from falling asleep again and sliding off his chair. ‘You did a Fahrenheit 451 on your gaff.’

  Flowers read a lot of classic science fiction on night duty. Holborn Police Station was deadly quiet this evening and the sergeant had been halfway through an Arthur C. Clarke when they brought in the suspect, reeking of flammables, booze and burned paper.

  ‘I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t set fire to my own shop,’ said his detainee, coughing so hard into his blackened fist that the sergeant’s apple core fell over.

  Flowers gave himself a scratch and looked about for a Biro. ‘Don’t jump the gun, mate. Let’s do it properly and get a witness statement. Do you need a doctor? I’d go without one if you can, ’cause it’s a minimum four-hour wait for a nonemergency.’

  ‘I already told the fire officers I don’t.’ He had an Eastern European accent—Baltic perhaps. ‘How long do I have to stay here?’

  ‘Until we’ve got your statement, your lawyer’s been and you’ve sobered up,’ said Flowers. ‘You should be able to get some kip after that.’

  ‘You mean I’ll be able to go home? My wife—’

  ‘—is on her way here. You won’t be going home tonight. What part of “arrested on suspicion of arson” is confusing you? What’s your name, mate?’

  ‘Cristian Albu.’

  ‘Spell that for me, pal.’

  ‘I’m the owner of the Typeface bookshop and I didn’t—’

  ‘Ah-ah-ah.’ Flowers wagged an index finger at him. ‘No point in telling me what you’ve done before I know who you are. Are you Russian?’

  ‘Romanian. I’ve lived here for eight years. My wife is English.’

  ‘So what does this shop of yours sell, then?’

  Albu was mystified by the question. ‘It’s a bookshop. It sells books.’

  ‘Yeah? What else?’

  ‘Nothing else. Books. I know who did this—’

  ‘Ah-ah-ah.’ Flowers warned him with another finger wag. ‘What did I tell you? Let’s take this one step at a time. Spell your name.’

  * * *

  |||

  Elise Albu cast one last look around the basement flat, then checked her bag. Toothbrush, soap, pyjamas—nobody had told her what he would need, so she packed as if she was taking him things in hospital. Cristian had once been arrested on a demonstration but had not been kept in overnight. She was married to the tidiest man in the world, and therefore couldn’t find anything. Having met the other members of his family, she had decided that personal neatness must be a Romanian national trait.

  She set off with her bag from Dalston Junction and sat with her husband in Holborn Police Station while he made his statement. He looked smudged and frayed, all done in. He had been appointed a lawyer who ignored him throughout the process, answering briefly and under sufferance before leaving at the first opportunity. Cristian seemed confused about the order of events, but she gleaned this much…

  He had closed the shop at seven P.M. and stayed for an hour finishing the accounts. As he was leaving, a customer had tapped at the door and asked him about a book. For reasons that Cristian was unable or unwilling to explain at the moment, he had gone for a drink with this customer to the Museum Tavern. The next thing he remembered was being woken up by a female fire officer and shown the remains of the burned-out shop. He had drunk a single pint of lager and had no idea why he smelled of whisky. Similarly, he had not been aware of the oil can before the fire officer had pointed it out to him. He recognized it; it belonged to him. He was devastated about the destruction of the shop, which was, as he explained to the patient but clearly bored Sergeant Flowers, his life’s work.

  ‘What have I done?’ he asked his wife as she wiped his sweat-slick forehead. He had the
face of a desperate child. She hated having to talk here on a bench in front of the sergeant, pinned under the shadowless light. ‘You know what that shop meant to me, Elise. I’ve failed you.’

  ‘You mustn’t think like that.’ She rubbed his hands, trying to calm him. ‘Please, Cristian.’

  ‘It wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been me, you know that.’

  ‘Tell me more about the man who called at the shop.’

  ‘I’ve met him before. We’ve had a few dealings.’

  ‘What was his name? What did he look like?’

  He held her arm. ‘I don’t want to get him involved. He’s very private. I told him I respect that.’

  She had seen this before in her husband, an anxiety to please that weakened him in the eyes of others. ‘But did you argue? Did you do something to make him angry?’

  ‘No, we just had a little business. He pays well and in cash.’

  ‘It was off the accounts?’ She tried to think. ‘What were you selling him?’

  He ran a hand through his hair and studied the floor, clearly embarrassed. ‘There were things he wanted which are hard to find. I have to finance my imprint, you know that.’

  She glanced back at the sergeant but Flowers was paying them no attention. ‘Cristian, you must help me find him. I don’t trust the lawyer. We can’t rely on anyone else. We have to do this ourselves.’

  Albu stayed silent for so long that he began to frighten her. ‘It’s all gone.’

  She held his face and forced him to look at her eyes. ‘Tell me everything and I’ll get you out of here. I won’t judge you. I just want to get to the truth. Who was he?’

  He could not bring himself to answer.

  ‘Have I met him? What does he look like?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with him, Elise, it couldn’t be. I got hold of a couple of books he wanted, very rare.’ Shame was clearly silencing him.

  ‘Cristian, where did you get them?’

  ‘Some libraries—they have reference books that haven’t been taken out in years. Nobody wants them. They don’t even know what they have.’

  ‘You mean they were stolen to order.’

  ‘This time he wanted a book from the shop. We reached an agreement on the price and he said we should have a drink to celebrate.’

  ‘You never drink with clients. Why did you go?’

  ‘I wanted to. I had something of his. It’s a pleasure to discuss books. I can’t remember what happened after we had the first drink.’

  ‘There must be something else. Please. What does he look like?’

  ‘I don’t know—ordinary, smartly dressed. He has trouble walking, a problem with one leg, I think. He was wearing a wedding ring.’ He gripped her sleeve. ‘They think it was me, Elise. They’ll find out about the money we owe.’

  ‘Even if they do, what does it matter now? They can’t call in a loan on a shop that’s gone.’

  She didn’t like the look in his eyes, as if he had surrendered his last hope. ‘Elise, take me home. I don’t feel safe.’

  ‘I’ll find this man. There are ways.’ She smoothed down her husband’s sooty hair and gave him a good-night kiss. The dirt on his face made his eyes seem even greener.

  As he was gently led downstairs, she waited, knowing that he would glance at her one more time before turning the corner. He did so every morning as he left for work. When he looked back this time, the sight of him tore out her heart.

  * * *

  |||

  Sergeant Flowers was on duty at Holborn Police Station until seven A.M. He didn’t need to take the night shifts, but during the week his wife worked in different surveillance centres around the country and could only get back to their home at the weekends, so he took the hours others didn’t want.

  The night was uneventful, but at least it allowed Sergeant Flowers to finish his novel and start a Brian Aldiss. A little before seven he made fresh coffee for the incoming sergeant and took down a mug to the prisoner.

  Cristian Albu looked terrible. He asked to use the toilet and Flowers accompanied him, waiting outside. As there was only one holding cell, the bathroom was in general use by station staff. The main door had no lock, but the window situated above the sinks was bolted shut.

  Flowers figured it was safe to leave Albu in there for a few minutes while he collected his bag from his locker. When he returned, he found that the prisoner had still not emerged, so he checked inside.

  He discovered Albu on his knees, hanging from the washbasin. He had choked himself to death by looping the elasticated belt from his jeans around his neck and tying the other end to the sink’s cold tap. Albu had allowed his body weight to pull the makeshift noose tight and cut off his air supply.

  Sergeant Flowers was mortified.

  Holborn nick had not had a death in custody for years. If anybody saw that he had failed to take away the prisoner’s belt he would be done for negligence. He had meant to do it but his mind had been elsewhere.

  He looked down at Albu’s trainers and remembered that he had removed the laces, but the belt was the same colour as the jeans and had simply escaped his attention. It had been an honest mistake on his part, but unfortunately Sergeant Flowers had a bit of a history when it came to mistakes. He could not afford to let this go on his record.

  The Romanian was still hanging there, his face grey, a disgusting puddle of drool on the floor. The cleaner wasn’t due in until tomorrow, but at least Flowers’s shift was ending so it would be someone else’s problem.

  His shift.

  The day sergeant would be arriving in a few minutes. Flowers took a shot of the scene on his phone, then carefully removed the belt from Albu’s neck and lowered him to the ground. Stuffing it into his pocket, he ran back up to his desk and searched for the Swiss Army knife he always kept in the drawer.

  He returned to the cell and cut into the bed’s tough blue plastic cover with the knife, tearing off a long strip. He knotted it into a makeshift noose, fitting it around the prisoner’s neck in exactly the same manner as the belt had been tied, then returned Albu to the position in which he had found him. He arranged his mouth above the pool of spittle and made sure that his head hung in the exact same pose.

  By the time he had finished, Sergeant Flowers was positive that no one would ever know the difference. There were cameras in the station entrance and the cell. He would have to figure out a way to deal with those. He deleted the shot on his phone and headed upstairs to his duty desk, where he added the belt to the laces he had taken.

  Then he sat down with his book to await the arrival of his replacement.

  ‘Arthur, is that you?’

  The change of light told John May that the door to his private room had opened. He tried to twist his head, but his chest felt as if it had a burning rock inside it. He could make out a dumpy figure in a cheap grey leisure jacket and an open-necked shirt.

  ‘No, I’m afraid it’s me.’ Raymond Land gingerly seated himself in the visitor’s chair beside May’s bed and set down a bag of obligatory grapes.

  May usually had a light tan but now he was the colour of Elastoplast, the veins in his hands prominent and sore from his saline drip.

  ‘I see they got you a room.’ Land patted his hands on his knees, looking about. ‘The old lady must have died.’ He raised a thumb. ‘Result.’

  May closed his eyes.

  ‘It’s nice and clean. I like University College Hospital. People reckon it’s a good place to come when your time’s up.’ He pantomimed remembering something amusing. ‘Oh! The revolver she fired at you? We’re having it made into a cigarette lighter.’

  ‘I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Well, it’s the thought. The nurse says I can only have five minutes.’ Land pushed back a wayward strand of his comb-over. ‘We sent you a card.’ He plucked a condolence card from th
e bedside table, the front of which read ‘Sorry for Your Tragic Loss’ above a painting of dying lilies in an urn. Inside was a handwritten note, which he read aloud.

  Hey, John,

  Congratulations on being the second person in our unit ever to get shot in his own office. We came to see you but you were out cold and it was boring just sitting around doing nothing so we went home. We ate your cake. Sorry. The main thing is that you’re not dead. They’ve assured us you’re going to make an almost full recovery, so you won’t be a burden on state services. Not yet, says Meera.

  Also sorry for the card but the Get Well Soon ones didn’t seem appropriate as we didn’t know if you were going to pull through.

  We had to forge Mr Bryant’s signature because he has gone missing. We couldn’t get you a private room. They’ve promised you can have one if the pensioner in 14A carks it. She’s not looking good, so try to hold on.

  We’ll be back when you’re awake. We hope you’re a bit more vivacious next time.

  Love,

  Janice, Meera, Colin, Raymond, Dan, Giles, Mr Bryant

  ‘They’re taking you down shortly,’ said Land. ‘You’d better not have the grapes yet; patients can choke to death under anaesthetic.’

  May said nothing. Land hummed a little, breathed out noisily, looked around. ‘Don’t they smell funny, hospitals? I’m surprised you’re having another operation. The nurse said the removal of the bullet wasn’t as clean as they’d hoped. There’s some kind of perforation—I didn’t get the full gist.’

  ‘They need to drain the fluid from my right lung.’ May attempted to pull himself upright but had to stop. ‘They’re cleaning out the tissue debris to reduce scarring.’

  ‘How long is the healing process? Has anyone given you a timeline?’ Land grimaced in an attempt at sympathy.