“Yes, but they were wrong, weren’t they? John Snow discovered that cholera was water-borne. You think there’s such a thing as bad air?”
“Well, we know that electromagnetic disruption can actually make people ill, and the jury’s still out on radio masts, isn’t it? There’s still no proper air-conditioning in the London Underground system. Back when the trains were pulled by steam engines, the engineers tried everything to clear the air. They built ventilation shafts that came up behind fake house-fronts in Bayswater. Later, when the Victoria Line was built, a structure called the Tower of the Winds was constructed in a garden square up in Islington. It was meant to introduce cool breezes into the tunnels, but wasn’t much more successful.”
“I was just reading about plans to chill the subway system during heat waves by using water from the lost rivers,” Bryant interjected.
“Nothing ever works,” Mrs Yu said, tittering. “The air beneath King’s Cross remains old and stagnant. It’s polluted with all kinds of toxins, and its composition changes all the time.”
“Well, here’s my problem.” Bryant seated himself wearily and helped himself to a ginger biscuit. “My problem is – dear Lord, it sounds so absurd. How can I explain this? Some of our most successful prosecutions have been built around a tiny shred of evidence, a piece of broken glass, a boot print, an overheard phrase. This investigation hangs on a sticker, a travel card, a few odds and sods and a bad feeling. Nothing more. They’ll hang me out to dry if I get it wrong this time.”
“Then let me see if I can help,” said Mrs Yu.
Bryant set out his case. “A student died of tobacco poisoning in the underground. But even though – as you say – the air in the tube is bad, there’s been no smoking down there for years. My coroner says someone sprayed the lad with the stuff. According to his medical records, he suffered from asthmatic attacks. We didn’t find an inhaler on him, so I’m thinking that the killer substituted his inhaler for one containing poison, then took it away. But I also have to look into the possibility of accidental death. You don’t suppose certain toxins – heavier-than-air ones – could have sunk to the bottom of the system and poisoned him, do you? Through these whirlpool things? We tested the air and found nothing.”
“That’s hardly surprising,” said Mrs Yu. “Every time a train rushes past it displaces the air and transfers it to another magnetic collection point.”
“Surely it would be easier to accept your coroner’s theory about the spray?” asked Maggie. “I don’t know why you’re making life difficult for yourself.”
“It’s what I do,” said Bryant glumly. “If his death was an accident, then Gloria Taylor was also an accident, and suddenly there’s no case. Which would be wonderful, because it would mean no-one else is in danger. The alternative is to look for a clever, calculating killer who murders randomly, without remorse, and who leaves absolutely no trace.”
“Well, it seems to me that you’re caught between two worlds, Arthur – the one that lies beneath London, and the hidden world in which this person you seek moves and connects. For once, you must try to think like a civilian and not like a policeman. I think the investigation is testing your powers in new ways. The tube network isn’t the only ghost system in operation – there’s an entire world of invisible connections we never normally get to see. It’s just a matter of finding the key. Let’s consult the cards.”
She pulled a key from her crimson coiffure, unlocked a drawer in her kitchen table and brought out a packet of tarot cards. “These are my special ‘Black Ace’ Russian Tarots. I keep them locked up because they’re dangerous in the wrong hands.” Maggie shuffled and Mrs Yu snickered.
“I hope they’re more accurate than your attempt to read tea bags,” said Bryant.
“Take a card.” She offered him the pack.
Bryant withdrew one and looked at it. “Oh, for God’s sake, that’s the nine of clubs,” he exclaimed in annoyance. “I can never find it in a normal deck.”
“Oh, that shouldn’t be there.” Maggie snatched back the card. “Deirdre and I were playing poker last night. Choose five more and turn them over.”
He set down the five lurid pictures: a man being struck by lightning, a baby being bitten on the face by a cobra, a pair of Siamese twins being sawn in half, some lepers burying a screaming man alive and a skeleton on a drip. “Oh, charming,” said Bryant. “I take it my future well-being is under question.”
“You mustn’t take them literally,” said Maggie. “They’re filled with codes and symbols. I’ll tell you what I see. Six suspects, three deaths, and a desperate flight through tunnels of darkness. Do you want a piece of cake?”
“No,” snapped Bryant, “give me a brandy. Listen, there’s something I wanted to show you, but I can’t get it to work.” He emptied the contents of his overcoat pocket onto the kitchen table, pulled a Liquorice Allsort off his phone and passed the handset to Mrs Yu. “Can you get it to the section with photos?”
Mrs Yu flicked open the photo file with practised ease and examined the contents. Maggie peered over her shoulder. The screen showed a series of brightly coloured patterns, mostly diamonds and zigzags, like the backs of playing cards. Mrs Yu shrugged and snickered. “You want to know what these are?”
“Yes, one of our detective constables forwarded them to me from the dead man’s laptop. What are they?”
“You should know; you see them all the time.”
“Well?” It irritated Bryant when others took pleasure in knowing more than he did.
“They’re tube train seats,” said Mrs Yu, chortling away. “Different livery patterns in different colour combinations. Different pictures for the different London lines.”
Bryant grimaced in annoyance. “Why would anyone want to take pictures of seat patterns?”
“You’re the detective,” said Mrs Yu, as her giggles erupted into bubbling laughter.
∨ Off the Rails ∧
38
On the Line
It was now 11:15 on Friday night, and the surveillance teams were still working across London, hoping to break the case.
To keep things fresh, they had swapped their subjects. Longbright had followed Nikos Nicolau to the Prince Charles cinema, where the young student sat through a double bill of lesbian vampire movies before returning home. Banbury kept tabs on Rajan Sangeeta, but lost him in between two nightclubs in Greenwich. Bimsley was close by Toby Brooke, who was now drinking alone in a crowded bar on Brick Lane. Mangeshkar took Theo Fontvieille because she could pace him on her motorcycle, and he had now pulled up in Mecklenburgh Square. Renfield was covering Ruby Cates, first at the college, then at the Karma Bar, and finally back to the house. For the most part, the PCU staff had managed to stick to their targets like shadows.
But there was a flaw in the plan. Nobody was running surveillance on Cassie Field. And Cassie was alone, on a deserted, rainswept railway station in South London.
♦
“I just don’t bloody believe it,” Theo shouted, hammering up the stairs of the house. “Look out the window!”
“What’s the matter?” Ruby swung her grey cast to one side and rose from the table, where she was making notes on the rubbishy laptop that had been supplied by Dan Banbury.
“Take a look, damnit. Down there in the street.”
Ruby thumped her way to the front window and opened the curtains. “What? I don’t see anything.”
“Exactly. Someone’s stolen my bloody car! I only left it a minute ago.”
“All right, calm down. Could it have been towed away?”
“What, at eleven o’clock at night? I’m outside of the restriction hours, and anyway, I have a parking permit.”
“You know how Camden traffic wardens are.”
“No, it’s been stolen. I knew it. You can’t keep anything nice in this city without some dickhead resenting you. I’m going to kill someone.” He stormed up and down in a rage.
“Okay, the first thing to do is to ring the J
amestown Road car pound, just to make sure it hasn’t been towed.”
Theo was pulled up short. “How do you know where the car pound is?”
“I can drive, I just can’t afford a car at the moment. Then call the police, or better still, get over to the station and fill in the necessary forms. If it has been stolen, you won’t be able to claim on your insurance without a case number. You didn’t leave the keys in the ignition again, did you?”
“No, of course not, I only – ” He patted his pockets. “Oh, no. I don’t understand. Someone must have been watching the house and waiting for me to return, standing there in the bloody rain – I only just got out of the bloody thing.”
“And you did it again. You should never have had the car customised. Come on, then,” she stuck her hands on her hips defiantly, “do something about it instead of just standing there feeling sorry for yourself.”
♦
Bimsley had lost him. Only minutes ago, he had watched Toby Brooke heading back to the packed Brick Lane bar, where he had ordered himself a Kingfisher, but then the student had simply vanished. Bimsley tried the toilet but it was empty. The bar had been constructed on the ground floor of an old carpet warehouse, and, he now discovered, had a rear exit along a corridor on the far side of the building. Brooke had given him the slip. Furious with himself for having made such a fundamental error, he called Longbright and explained what had happened.
“I’ll tell the others,” said Longbright. “We need to know that the rest are all accounted for.”
“I’m sorry, Janice. It was my own stupid fault.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. You could try the tube station.”
“No good. We’re halfway between Aldgate East and Liverpool Street.”
“Then you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of finding him. Put in a call to the house and see if he’s gone back there.”
♦
Banbury was having similar trouble keeping tabs on Rajan Sangeeta.
Minutes ago the Indian student had received a call on his phone, and had immediately conducted a search of the bar where he was drinking. Someone had clearly tipped him off that the housemates were being followed. If a warning had gone out, it meant that the others were attempting to slip off the radar, too. Sangeeta waited until the bar had become severely congested, then pushed away through the crowd, leaving Banbury trailing far behind. Only two members of the PCU – Longbright and the late Liberty DuCaine – had received surveillance training, so when the student made his move, Banbury found himself in trouble. Longbright had told him to fix the height of his target in his mind, but the room was being strafed with rotating rainbow lights, and Sangeeta had already slipped out through the throng.
Banbury was furious at being tricked. He called Longbright. “Has anyone else made a run for it?”
“Toby Brooke’s done a bunk; the others all seem to be accounted for,” the DS replied. “There aren’t enough of us to go around the clock. Go home, Dan. Get some sleep. Nothing’s going to change tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Banbury took one last walk around the pulsating bar, then wearily abandoned his search.
♦
Cassie Field was waiting for her train on Westcombe Park station. She shivered and stared at the truculent downpour as it sluiced and slopped from the roof, and told herself once more that she had thrown away the evening. She had sought advice from an old schoolfriend, but had arrived at Sophie’s Greenwich apartment to find her drunk and weepy. Sophie had been dumped by her creepy real-estate agent boyfriend and was consoling herself with her second bottle of bad Burgundy. Cassie had been hoping for some prudent advice about her own love life, but instead had spent the evening listening to Sophie’s increasingly slurred complaints about men, before having to hold her head over the sink. Feeling alone and friendless, she headed back through the downpour to the station and just missed a Charing Cross–bound train.
Cassie retied her acid pink jacket and watched the yellow carriage lights recede into the distance, as the train swayed and sparked toward the city. There was nothing to hear now but the sound of falling rain.
She wanted to talk to someone, but most of her friends regularly visited the Karma Bar, and there was a good chance that her confessions would reach the residents of Mecklenburgh Square. Her best bet was to try Sophie again, once she had sobered up and cleared her hangover. What a mess. Cassie’s jacket was stained with rain and red wine, and the high heels she had chosen to wear had blistered her feet. The station platform was deserted; the overland line was used less frequently now that the underground reached down into South London.
There was a grey shadow behind the steamed-up, graffitied glass of the waiting room. Cassie couldn’t see who it was, but the figure’s body language was vaguely familiar. She wondered if she should go and look, but the pinging of the rails told her that there was a train approaching.
She walked to the edge of the rain-pocked platform and wondered how long it would take to get back indoors, where it was warm and dry. There was a sound behind her as the waiting room door opened. She glanced back, but there was nobody there now.
She looked for the train, and saw that it was coming in fast. Typically, she had chosen to wait at the wrong end of the platform. Beyond the tracks, the ice-blue lights of the city glimmered in melancholy relief. She had never felt so alone and in need of a friend.
Cassie was still wondering if there was anyone else in whom she could confide when a pair of boots slammed onto her shoulder blades, barrelling her forward onto the tracks, right in front of the arriving train.
∨ Off the Rails ∧
39
Flying
By the time Dan Banbury and Giles Kershaw arrived, Greenwich police had cordoned off the platform and covered the body with a yellow plastic tent. “Ghastly mess,” said Kershaw, checking under the tent flap. “Her name’s Cassie Field. She had John May’s card in her wallet, so I take it she’s involved with the case. Massive head injuries, so at least it was quick. What did the driver see?”
“He just caught a glimpse of her flying through the air, doesn’t really know what happened,” said Banbury. “He’s in the waiting room. He’s pretty shaken up.”
“The officer over there told me she jumped.”
“He only got here a few minutes ago; he’s going by what the guard told him.”
“Where was the guard?”
“On the opposite platform, texting his girlfriend, useless plonker. I’ll try and get some more lights rigged up. They need some decent overheads on this platform. What a miserable bloody place to die.”
“She reeks of wine, and there are red wine stains on her shirt. Very high heels. I know it’s the fashion, but they can’t be easy to wear. She could have been drunk and wandered too close to the edge. The platform’s somewhat on the narrow side.”
“The driver said she was ‘flying’. Ask him yourself. Like a trapeze artiste, he reckons, as in she either jumped or was pushed. He certainly doesn’t think she slipped.”
“A couple of fresh bruises on her back,” said Kershaw, carefully turning the body over and raising her jacket. “Are you getting this?” Banbury was operating the Unit’s camcorder, from which he would later pull stills. “Neat little crescents. They look like heelmarks, but they can’t be. Too high up her back, as if she was kicked onto the line. Mind you, if they were, we might get a boot match from them.”
“Flying,” repeated Banbury. He climbed back up onto the platform and looked around, thinking.
“Sorry, Dan, what did you say?”
“I said flying. As in propelled. Like Gloria Taylor.” Banbury headed for the waiting room, where he stopped to examine the doorway. “Giles, come and take a look at this.”
Kershaw left the police team and clambered back up, joining the CSM. Banbury was standing on tiptoe, running a penlight along the top edge of the waiting room doorway. The room was a freestanding box constructed of steel struts and scratched Plexiglas. The CSM
pointed upward. “Eight little channels in the dirt up there, four and four, a couple of feet apart. Any ideas?”
“I might have,” said Kershaw cagily. “Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Go on, then, you first.”
“Fingers. The killer climbed up onto that row of seats, stood on their backs, swung on the metal lintel to get momentum, then just let go. She wouldn’t have seen or heard a thing, with the train approaching. The boots smacked hard into her back, the killer dropped down and ran off. How insane is that?”
“It’d take some nerve.” Giles flicked wet blond hair out of his eyes. “Can you get prints from them?”
“I’ll try but it looks like the dust got pulled off in the process, leaving unmarked bare metal underneath. The whole thing probably only took three or four seconds. No cameras to pick up her final moments. No-one else on the platform. They’re going to hold a couple of the passengers for witness statements, but my guess is that the windows of the train would have obscured their vision – it’s been chucking it down for the last couple of hours, and the platform’s shockingly underlit. If the killer was wearing something dark to blend in, no-one would have even seen them.”
“Two deaths in the same group of friends. Your old man’s going to go crazy.”
“He’s not ‘my old man’,” said Banbury with a grim laugh. “You’re still attached to the Unit, matey. Don’t worry, though, from what I hear we’ve got the whole of tomorrow to work out what happened before we’re kicked back out on the streets. At least you’ve got somewhere to go. I’ll be down the Job Centre again.”
♦
For the next half hour they worked quietly beside each other in the falling rain, while the local police had loud arguments with each other about infringement of jurisdiction.
“Always the same with the Met,” Banbury muttered, searching the wet ground for evidence. “They’re more worried about who gets the case than that poor girl on the tracks. Hang on a minute.” He took his Maglite to the waiting room, crouched down and carefully picked up something he had glimpsed on the floor, bagging it. “What does that look like to you?” he asked Kershaw. Raising the bag into the light, he displayed an inch-long sliver of curved grey plastic.
Bryant & May 08; Off the Rails b&m-8 Page 23
