“That’s all I ask.” She turned to go, then stopped. “There is one other thing you could do.”
“Name it, Mrs DuCaine.”
“His brother, Fraternity, wants to follow in Liberty’s footsteps. I said no, but he won’t be talked out of it. He did his officer training at Henley last year and got good grades, but they still failed him. We don’t know what happened. He won’t tell me, and nobody ever explained anything to us. I want you to find out what went on up there. If he wasn’t good enough, that’s fine – but my boy is convinced he should have passed, and was still turned down. I don’t want this to have been about the colour of his skin.”
Bryant scratched at his neck, thinking. “I’ll have a poke around in his files and see what I can find out, but I can’t guarantee it will make any difference.”
May cut across his partner. “Don’t worry, Mrs DuCaine, we’ll get to the root of the matter.”
They watched Liberty’s mother as she rejoined the family, leading them to the limousines. “A good woman,” Bryant said with a sigh. “No-one should lose a child.”
“If we’re going to honour her wishes, we need a plan of attack.”
“I don’t think anyone at the Met or the Home Office will be able to give us any help,” replied Bryant, tugging at his hat. “Come on, let’s get out of here before the brother comes over. Head down, don’t look back. He’s a big bugger.”
∨ Off the Rails ∧
7
Falling Angel
She was wearing a poppy red dress. You didn’t see too many women on the tube wearing bright red dresses. Even better, it had white polka dots on it. If the dots had been black she’d have looked like a flamenco dancer, but they matched her white patent leather heels and her jacket, which were also covered in polka dots. She was glossy-haired and pretty, and maybe she’d been ballroom dancing, except it was the middle of the afternoon and she was reading a copy of The Evening Standard, or at least trying to, for she was jammed between two arguing Italian teenagers with ridiculous amounts of luggage.
Time to bump into her lightly, nudging a spot between her shoulder blades.
Make sure you’re quick to apologise.
She did not bother to look up.
Check your watch. 15.40.
A flooding feeling of elation. Of rising triumph.
Is it possible to dare think that this could be the end of the problem? The best chance to get rid of the ever-present fear, the terrible nagging terror that keeps you awake all night, that’s been haunting your every waking hour?
Push it out of your mind, it’s making you sweaty and creepy. You know you can’t allow that. Concentrate on something. Study her carefully.
From the tips of her shiny white shoes to the white plastic barrette in her neatly combed hair, nothing was out of place. It took a minute or two to figure out her job, but suddenly it was obvious. The scent was the first clue; they always smelled like candy. The yellow plastic bag at her feet confirmed it.
If you lean forward on the tips of your sneakers, you can take a peek inside and see the free sample tubes.
She worked on a cosmetics counter at Selfridges department store.
It was all too perfect. Everything fit. Time to move a little closer without arousing suspicion. At Warren Street the Italians got off, dragging their huge suitcases with them, and suddenly there was space. But danger, too, because now she could get a clear view.
Move to one side, but be careful not to catch her eye.
She was skimming the pages, not really reading, just immersing herself in an activity that kept her from having to look at other passengers. As the train slowed on its way into Euston, she folded the paper shut and looked for somewhere to put it.
You can’t get off now, a voice screamed. If you leave now, everything will be ruined.
The platform appeared. The train came to a halt and the doors opened. She moved a little nearer and looked out. A silent plea rose:
No, don’t do it.
Was there such a thing as telepathy? Because moments later she changed her mind and reclaimed her spot in the middle of the carriage.
As the doors slid shut and the train lurched away, it was time for the next phase.
Remove the mobile phone from the pocket of your jeans and slip it into the palm of your hand, deftly operating the buttons without needing to look.
One shot, two, three. A manoeuvre practised in the bedroom mirror for hours. No need for a flash in the bright compartment. Together the pictures scanned her entire body. Perfect.
My hands are so sweaty I almost dropped the phone putting it away. For Christ’s sake, be more careful.
Her eyes flickered over, attracted by the suddenness of the movement, but there was no thought behind her glance. A very faint smile appeared and faded.
Jesus, is that really sweat dripping from my forehead? Stay calm, you’re nearly there. One more stop. She is so artificial, the makeup’s so perfect, and yet she’s beautiful. How long does it take to get her eyebrows like that? And her figure, every girl on this train in drab jeans and a shapeless sweatshirt should be trembling with envy. Does she understand how her perfection shines through? Does she have any idea of the power she holds? She radiates so brightly that she’s lighting the entire carriage, giving it purpose.
She is saving my life.
With each passing second, as we draw closer to King’s Cross St Pancras, she restores me more and more. Maybe I’ll talk to her afterwards, tell her how she came to be so important. She’d be like a sister, full of private confidences.
The announcement brought passengers to their feet. Bags were gathered, newspapers dumped. The casual orderliness had a strange grace; each movement seemed choreographed for efficiency without connection. No two strangers ever touched. Accidentally brushing someone’s sleeve required an immediate apology. The doors opened, the carriage disgorged itself. The crowd’s speed was paced by its slowest component.
It was important to follow tightly behind her, right along the platform to the tiled hall and its bank of escalators. And to stand immediately behind, because it was time to take another photograph.
She never looked back, never noticed anything, her head somewhere else. She stepped lightly onto the moving stairs and was borne aloft like an ascending angel. She stood to the right with the middle two fingers of her hand brushing the black rubber rail, just enough to stabilise herself. Everything about her had a lightness of touch.
The banks of illuminated ad panels showed a bouncing cartoon orange. It might have been advertising a fruit drink, insurance or phones. Who knew anymore? Who cared?
Fire off two more discreet shots and palm the thing back in your pocket. Remember to keep the flash off this time – you nearly wrecked everything the other day. One more mistake and it’s all over.
They reached the top of the escalator and she stepped off. It was a walk of less than twenty metres to the exit barriers. Her patent leather heels were surprisingly high, and gave her carriage an overemphatic sashay, as if she was seeking to impress the men behind her. Women in heels like those learned to glide with one foot carefully placed in front of the other, if they wanted to avoid walking like farmers.
Her purse was already in her right hand, flipped open to her Oyster card. She was ready to release herself through the barrier and climb the first bank of steps. Beyond was the semicircle of the station foyer, a great snaking queue of tourists buying exorbitantly priced tickets. She deftly avoided oncoming fleets of commuters as she got ready to swipe her card across the yellow panel. After that there would be twenty steps to the first sign of daylight, and the concourse of the main-line station. As she stepped into the light, she would unconsciously trigger the pathway to salvation. The urge to stop her and thank her for saving a pitiful human life was strong, but that would have spoiled everything.
But she didn’t step into the light. Suddenly, right in front of the ticket barrier, no more than a few metres from the outside world, she stopped
dead in her tracks.
Look out – you nearly crashed right into her, step around! Stop beside the electronic gate and look back.
Behind, commuters were stacking up, impatiently trying to get through the barrier. What the hell was she doing?
You can’t stop now, the voice silently screamed. Everything’s fine, keep going.
She seemed to be thinking about something. She pulled open her bag and stared into it, not seeing the contents. Then, with a smart turn, she headed back toward the escalators.
You stupid bitch, the voice yelled. You can’t do this, you’re destroying everything, you’re destroying me, there will never be another chance like this, you can’t take it away now! I almost had you!
Surely she wouldn’t go right back down into the station? The Oyster card had to be put away again; it was necessary to see what she would do.
Sure enough, she walked back across the concourse and headed for the Piccadilly Line, but one escalator was out of order and the other had a queue of passengers, so she headed for the central stairs, the static concrete ones that ran between the moving staircases, and in spite of her heels, began carefully walking down, descending and wrecking everything.
There were few people on the middle staircase. Nobody liked using them.
Get further forward, come in as close as you dare behind her.
She knew what she was doing, that was obvious now. She had done it deliberately, building up so many hopes just to smash them at the last minute. A torrent of furious filth rolled forth, silently.
I wish to God she was dead, the selfish bitch.
An anger rose up that could set fire to the world, reddening the tunnel, washing the walls in crimson flames.
She deserved to be punished, to have the life knocked from her body. It was odd to look down and see a disembodied right hand sharply rising to plant itself at the base of her spine. Suddenly she was propelled forward, just enough to throw the balance from those carefully planted high heels. She gave the smallest of gasps as she lurched forward at a startling angle, falling with surprising force and weight. She crashed into one, two other passengers on the staircase, but it wasn’t enough to break her fall.
The steps were steep and the drop was long. Several times it seemed as if her descent might be stopped by the human obstacles in her way, but on she fell. She hit the bottom step facedown and, by the time her body had settled to a stop, she was dead.
The yellow Selfridges bag landed beside her and burst open, rolling smashed cosmetic samples in an erratic rainbow of paint and powder around her, like a pair of iridescent wings.
∨ Off the Rails ∧
8
Born in Hell
“I like my tea strong but this stuff’s muscle-bound.”
Bryant sat beside his partner in the Paris Café, St Pancras International station, their elbows on the brushed steel counter, steaming mugs folded in their mitts, listening to the rain hammering at the great arched roof. Bryant refused to go to the Starbucks down the road because he was allergic to any place that attracted children, and was bothered by the little trays of glued-down coffee beans that surrounded their counter.
John May perched straight-backed in his smart navy blue suit and overcoat, his silver mane just touching the collar of his Gieves & Hawkes shirt. Bryant had receded so far into his moth-eaten raincoat that only his broad nose and bifocals showed above his equally threadbare green scarf. White seedlings of hair poked up around his ears like pond grass, and there was cake on his chin. Even after all this time, they still made an oddly incongruous pair.
“There has to be a way of drawing him out,” Bryant muttered. “He knows we have no way of finding him. But his pathological desire to stay hidden means he’s forced to keep covering his tracks. He’ll get rid of anyone who comes too close. His informants unwittingly provided him with knowledge of his victims, so he’ll have to surface if he wants to guarantee their silence. And that means he’ll reappear in King’s Cross.”
“You’re saying we should just sit back and wait for him to attack?”
“No, but we know where he operates. He’s tied to the area around the stations. We need to intensify surveillance. Never our strong point.”
May drained his mug. “Well, we don’t have the facilities to do it well, and we can’t get help from anyone else. Come on, let’s get back. I’ve a lot of work to get through, and I’d like to leave on time tonight.”
“That must mean you’re still seeing that Frenchwoman.” Bryant refused to be hurried. He dunked his cake, but half of it fell in his mug. “Your granddaughter told me she’s very nice. For a divorced bottle-blond alcoholic.”
“Brigitte has gone back to Paris to see her children,” May explained as he watched Bryant fishing around for soggy icing. “She loves red wine and tints the grey out of her hair.”
“But she is divorced.”
“Why is it de rigueur to take a shot at anyone who tries to have a life outside of the Unit?”
“I suppose you’ll be slipping more and more French phrases into your conversation from now on. Is that why you agreed to move the Unit to King’s Cross? So you’d be near the Eurostar?” Bryant enjoyed teasing his partner because May took so much at face value.
Bryant was wilier and meaner, but May knew how to deal with him. “I’ll bring Brigitte around to meet you next week,” he suggested. “She works for the Paris tourist office. I’m sure she’d love to tell you all about her wonderful city, and how much nicer it is than London.”
Bryant made a face and set the last of his tea aside. “I remember Paris, thank you, all garlic and accordions and waiters refusing to cook your meat properly. Parisians are the most argumentative people I’ve ever met.” He unglued errant crumbs from his dentures with a fingernail. “The last time I was in Paris some ghastly woman threw soup over me just because I accidentally sat on her dog. They carry them around fully loaded like hairy shotguns and feed them chocolates. I don’t hold with animals in restaurants unless they’re being eaten. Why can’t you date a London woman for a change?”
“They have a different mind-set. Frenchwomen argue, but Englishwomen complain. Frenchwomen are thin and think they’re fat, but Englishwomen are fat and pretend they’re thin. Frenchwomen – ”
“All right, you’ve made your point. Come on, Casanova, I’ve done with my tea, let’s get back.”
They were just rising to leave when a skinny boy began moving toward them through the café tables. He looked as if he was on a methadone programme. There were scarlet spots around his thin lips, and his skin was the colour of fishmeat. When he spotted the detectives at the window, he made his way through the tangle of chair legs.
“Is one of you Arthur Bryant?”
“That’s him.” May pointed.
The boy dug in the back pocket of his jeans, produced a crumpled white envelope and handed it across.
“Who gave you this?” Bryant asked.
“Some bloke outside.”
“What bloke?”
“Dunno. He’s gone now.”
The boy was already racing away. “Wait, come back here,” May called.
“No,” said Bryant. “Let him go. Look out of the window. There are about a thousand people out there.” He tore open the envelope and pulled out a slip of paper. Reading it, he looked up with a grunt of annoyance. “The boy won’t be able to tell us anything.”
“Let me see.” May took the slip and read.
Mr Fox was born below in Hell and now there will be Kaos.
Beneath this was a small hand-drawn symbol, long red ears, a white snout; a fox’s head.
“What is that supposed to mean?” asked May. “Chaos with a K? Born in Hell? It’s like something Jack the Ripper might have come out with. There was no sign that he was religious, was there?”
“None at all. This is all we need.” Bryant’s frown deepened. “I humiliated him, so now we have to play cat and mouse. This is about respect. He has to re-establish his power over me.
”
“You can’t be sure it’s from him, Arthur. The press know about this now. It might be anyone.”
“It’s his method. He uses other people, and always seems to know exactly where we are.”
May rose and went to the window. “That means he’s within sight of us. It gives us a chance of catching him.”
“No, it doesn’t, John, any more than you could run after a real fox and seize it. They say criminals who do this sort of thing want to be caught, but I’m not so sure. I think he’s arrogant enough to assume he’ll always be one step ahead of us. And coming right back here, into the station! The nerve of him.”
“The message is a bit vague.”
“Is it?” Bryant studied the letters, thinking. “I wonder. Hell in St Pancras station? Torment and brimstone, down below, underground – underground? You don’t think he’s talking about the tube, do you?”
“How can you tell? There’s not enough here to go on.”
Bryant tightened the moulting scarf around his neck. “I haven’t got any better ideas.” He pointed toward the underground entrance. “Perhaps that’s where we should start looking.”
∨ Off the Rails ∧
9
Push
“One bleeding, sodding week,” said Renfield, watching the Daves as they attempted to thread electric cable through a baseboard with a bent coat hanger. “They’re having a laugh over at the Home Office.”
“They won’t be if we pull it off,” Longbright replied.
“Oi, you’re doing that wrong,” Renfield told one of the Daves. “You’ll need to earth it.”
“You leave the wiring to us,” the Dave answered, “and you can get on with what you’re good at, framing innocent bystanders and knocking protestors unconscious.”
Renfield’s bull head sank between his shoulders as he strode over and snatched away the Daves’ nail gun.
“Blimey, look at this.” Longbright pulled a water-stained book from beneath Bryant’s desk. “Put him down, Jack.”
Renfield finished nailing the Dave to the wall and came over. “What have you got?”
Bryant & May 08; Off the Rails b&m-8 Page 5
