Bryant & May - The Burning Man

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Give me something to take back to the unit,’ Banbury pleaded.

  ‘It’s going to sound kind of crazy.’

  ‘You don’t know the chaps I work for,’ said Banbury.

  ‘All right.’ Carter folded her arms, regarding the blackened hall. ‘My job is to figure out fires, not understand human nature. But when incidents like these are clearly connected, you get a sense of the person behind them. This guy can’t bear to look at his victims. He didn’t see Freddie Weeks, he covered Hall’s face with tar and he masked De Vere. He blew up Frank Leach with a pressure device, and sprayed petrol under the door in here.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that despite what you may think, your killer’s got a conscience. He’s after some kind of skewed justice. In his hands, fire is justice.’

  ‘That’s not just you talking, is it?’ said Banbury. Fire officers were practical people who dealt with physical problems. Psychology wasn’t their strong point.

  ‘No,’ Carter admitted. ‘I had a discussion with your Mr Bryant. He called me a little while ago.’

  He’s like the Wizard of Oz, thought Banbury. Even when he’s not around, he’s always behind the curtain working the levers.

  42

  RABBLE-ROUSERS

  ‘I came to you because I thought you might know all about sedition,’ said Bryant.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Raymond Kirkpatrick, the ursine, heavy-metal-loving English-language professor who worked at the British Library. ‘The only time you ever come and see me is when you want something you could just as easily google.’

  ‘First of all, I don’t use the Google,’ retorted Bryant indignantly. ‘And point B, your brain is filled with the sort of libellous rubbish that never makes it into history books. Either you’re happy knowing that the repository of arcana that exists inside that hairy and somewhat unwashed-looking bonce of yours will go to the worms unused, or you’d like to help the police in their inquiries, the police in this case being my good self.’ Bryant flashed his pearly false teeth in a rictus of a grin that he wrongly considered endearing.

  ‘It doesn’t say much for the science of investigation in the twenty-first century, does it? Come on then, you can buy me a cake and a coffee in the café, if it’s not completely clogged up with cadaverous students poncing off the free Wi-Fi.’ Kirkpatrick slipcased a pair of rare pornographic incunabula and took off his white cotton gloves. Together they pottered off to find refreshment, two more scruffy eccentrics in a neighbourhood where you could attract a dozen of them just by waving your arms about.

  ‘I can no sooner give you a simple answer about the riots than I could milk a pigeon,’ he warned, easing his ample rump on to a frail and spindly café chair. ‘I don’t understand people. We once had rebellion ingrained within our souls. Until the nineteenth century the only way we had of addressing our grievances was by holding violent protests. Unlike our American cousins, we have no enshrined constitution. Why else would we have set up safe areas in the capital especially for dissenters? We’ve always considered those in power to be intrinsically corrupt, but were we any better?’

  He took a chunk out of a piece of fruit cake, scooped the crumbs out of his beard and flicked them at a passing student. ‘You only have to look at the disrespectful language we used for bad behaviour. When a thief married a prostitute it was known as a Westminster wedding, and if you were vice admiral of the Narrow Seas, it meant you were drunk and had slipped under the table to piss in your neighbour’s shoes. Hell, we even kept special stones for chucking at the rich called Beggar’s Bullets. And the way we treated each other in the streets! We armed ourselves to the teeth and donned home-made body armour before venturing out. And when we did, there was always a chance that someone would present us with a Tower Hill play – that’s a kick up the arse and a slap in the face. And in revenge we would ‘make a lion of them’ by sticking two fingers up their nose and pulling hard.’

  ‘It’s funny,’ said Bryant, warming his hands around his mug. ‘Foreigners think we’re so polite. My father said you could tell a working-class Londoner because he smoked by holding his cigarette the wrong way around, with the tip facing in towards the palm so that he didn’t get smoke in anyone’s eyes. He always doffed his cap to anyone he considered to be a class above him, but thought nothing of giving his wife a clout.’

  ‘Well, we’ve always been hypocrites,’ said Kirkpatrick. ‘But that’s what being human is all about, isn’t it? Holding opposing views in one’s head and learning to calibrate them? We happily allowed certain parts of London to become havens of lawlessness. Did you know there were so many whores and thieves in Southwark that in 1181 we allowed it to become an official sanctuary for fugitives? If you stayed put there for a year and a day you got your “thrall”, which meant you were safe from prosecution.’

  A neatly dressed Japanese student approached them with a laptop cable in his hand, and politely pointed to the wall socket beside their table. ‘No, bugger off,’ said Kirkpatrick. He leaned forward once more, dangling his pastry fork before Bryant. ‘And you know what? While we protected our felons, we accused bankers of devilry. The Devil public house at number 1 Fleet Street, where Ben Jonson used to preside over the Apollo Club, was a moneylender’s and is now a bank. That area is technically St Dunstan’s, and the sign above its door showed St Dunstan pulling the Devil’s nose. During the Gordon riots our forebears stormed the Bank of England with pistols and burned the rich in effigy. We have a centuries-long suspicion of people who make too much money. Why? The French don’t; the Yanks don’t. They call it the American dream.’

  ‘I’ve always found something appealing about the underdog,’ remarked Bryant.

  ‘Look, Arthur, you know me.’ Kirkpatrick sat a little closer. ‘I keep my head down in the library stacks, jack my headphones and listen to Megadeth, Judas Priest and Black Sabbath. I play songs like “Breaking the Law” and “Living After Midnight” and agree with their sympathies. We once bred students with fire in their bellies. Now look at them, a bunch of downtrodden sheep chasing their careers. But this new spirit of street rebellion gives me hope. You only have to look back at the twentieth century to see how often ordinary people marched. The suffragettes, the anti-fascists, the Notting Hill, Brixton, Tottenham and Poll Tax riots, the Countryside Alliance march in 2002 – a middle-class movement, for God’s sake – and the Stop the War march in 2003, part of the largest demonstration in the planet’s history. These were all causes people felt so strongly about that they had to take to the streets.’

  ‘But this one is different,’ Bryant pointed out vehemently. ‘Cornell isn’t being vilified because he got found out, but because he didn’t try hard enough to hide what he was doing. We hate dishonesty, but we really hate being taken for fools. And as long as the government continues to ignore that fact, the unrest will grow. Why haven’t they made an example of him? They can’t because they’re in his debt. Waving the flag for British business and all that.’

  ‘I suppose when you put it like that …’ Kirkpatrick agreed.

  ‘I need to let you in on a secret.’ Bryant pulled a package from his pocket. He carefully removed two red rubber bands and unwrapped a layer of greaseproof paper.

  Kirkpatrick leaned forward with interest. ‘What is it?’

  Bryant’s hazy blue eyes swam up at him. ‘This? It’s a corned beef and mustard pickle sandwich. Alma makes them for me every morning.’ He checked that his dentures were in place and took a great bite. ‘I meant about the case. Suppose I told you that I have another theory about Dexter Cornell? Can I trust you not to tell anyone?’

  ‘Who am I going to tell, Arthur? My wife? She’s gone mad and only listens to her astrologer. My colleagues? Most of them aren’t aware of anything that’s happened since the nineteenth century. And I haven’t got any friends because I relax by going to Slipknot concerts. It’s not exactly Glyndebourne. You’re not supposed to eat your own sandwiches in here.’

&n
bsp; ‘I can do whatever I like. I’m a policeman. The accepted theory is that the rioters discovered what Cornell was doing. But how?’

  The professor gave a shrug. ‘I don’t know. Through a leak at the bank? Someone must have seen or heard something.’

  ‘Cornell went to great lengths to ensure that nobody else in London knew what he was up to. The directors weren’t in contact with his investors or their lawyers, all of whom signed NDAs. Cornell sent a covert message to his pals and covered his own tracks. He made damned sure there wasn’t going to be a leak. Nevertheless, the news got out. So, I ask you again: how?’ He stuck a finger around his plate and unbunged corned beef from his teeth.

  ‘For God’s sake, just tell me! You obviously think you know the answer.’

  ‘The news could only have come from Cornell himself. Dog in the night-time, yes? And if that’s the case, either he leaked it accidentally, which would be virtually impossible to prove, or he did it deliberately because he wanted to cover up something bigger. What could be bigger than anarchy in the streets? How about a series of murders?’

  ‘So you really think it’s Cornell—’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Bryant warned. This was a bit rich, seeing that he was speaking above the whistle of his hearing aid in a tone that was almost loud enough to blow the froth off Kirkpatrick’s cappuccino, not to mention gesturing like someone trying to guide a 747 into its stand. ‘A diversionary tactic, albeit the grandest one I’ve ever come across. If you want to hide a death, start a war. But the plan is backfiring on him because he can’t control the public element, and each day it’s getting more and more out of hand.’

  ‘Then why don’t you just issue a warrant for his arrest?’

  ‘It’s one thing to prove he’s an inside-trader, and another to pin four murders on him.’

  ‘Then what are you going to do?’ Kirkpatrick demanded. ‘You can’t just wait for him to slip up while he gets rid of anyone who takes his fancy. Presumably you’re watching him around the clock.’

  ‘I didn’t say he was carrying out these acts himself,’ said Bryant smugly. ‘He could be paying someone else.’

  ‘It can’t be difficult to keep tabs on a suspect in this day and age. Phone records, hard drives, all that stuff.’

  ‘We can’t access them.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because a City of London special investigation team has already made the seizures. It’s not our job to arrest Cornell for fraud. We can only look at the entirely separate charge of murder. And we can’t do that because their superintendent is Darren Link, the man who appointed us on the case to begin with.’

  ‘Then you’ve been played for a fool, old chap,’ said Kirkpatrick. ‘Cornell’s made sure that the City of London has subpoenaed all of his data for a different reason, which means you can’t touch him. Very clever.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Bryant. ‘I’ll get him if it turns out to be the last thing I do. I’ll do it for someone who, in another age, could have been me. I’ll do it for Freddie Weeks.’

  43

  LOST

  When he emerged from the British Library, Bryant found that a light mist had settled across the red brick forecourt.

  In front of him was Eduardo Paolozzi’s statue of Blake’s Newton, the great bronze figure folded over as he mapped the world with compasses, but now it seemed to soften and dissolve in the nimbus of the nearest street lamp. Gingerly plotting his way across the yard and through the library gates, he heard the familiar sounds of Euston Road returning, but a terrible feeling settled over him once more as he failed to recognize where he was.

  He could see the softly focused side of a double-decker bus advertising the latest Hollywood film, some kind of action nonsense that managed to look simultaneously violent and childlike, but as it passed and he read the number and the destination board, he could not understand where it was going. What was High-Bury?

  The awful sense of panic grew. The rush hour was just starting, and if he turned to the right he faced hordes of strange faces looming out of the mist, Chinese tourists with cameras, Indian accountants with neat briefcases, African ladies with shopping bags, Italian students with backpacks, all hurrying past on their way to – where? What was in that direction? He really had no idea.

  Turning 180 degrees in the middle of the pavement and steadying himself with his stick, he watched their backs retreating and found others closing swiftly about him. They were annoyed because he was in the way, but were too polite to say anything.

  He was somewhere near the unit, he was sure of that, but none of the shops or any of the street furniture looked familiar. He might have been standing beside a road in Estonia or Lithuania for all he recognized.

  Think, you old idiot, he told himself, you just came out of the British Library, you were with Kirkpatrick, whom you’ve known since the Mayfair Black Pudding Scandal of 1967. If you don’t work this out you’ll lose the unit and they’ll put you away. You don’t want that to happen, do you? What is the name of this street? Where are you?

  He took a step to the left, then another, and found himself on an alien corner, quite unable to cross the road. Frozen to the spot, he realized to his horror that there were tears rolling down his cheeks. A teenaged boy on a bicycle shot past him, bumping him and sending him into the road and on to his knees, directly in front of the oncoming traffic.

  ‘Mr Bryant, you’ll get run over if you’re not careful!’ Alma Sorrowbridge grabbed at his arm and yanked him back on to the pavement. He had never been more grateful to see his landlady. She was buoyed with half a dozen plastic bags full of vegetables, but still managed to hold on to him in the pedestrian tide. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. These roads are terrible. You have to watch out.’ She picked up his fallen walking stick and handed it back.

  ‘I got lost,’ he told her simply.

  She stopped and held his face. He had the vacant eyes of a trout seen through muddy water. She tenderly wiped his cheek. ‘You silly old sausage, you’re just around the corner from your office. Euston Road, see, St Pancras and King’s Cross over there.’ She waved a courgette in the general direction of the station. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I went to the library, but I got all turned around.’

  ‘Do you have to go back to the unit tonight? I think not. You’d better come with me. We’re just over the road from here, remember? Number seventeen Albion House, Harrison Street, Bloomsbury. It’s your home, Mr Bryant. It’s where you live.’

  And then the world began to turn once more and he started to remember, so that everything he saw had meaning and memory attached to it, and he knew that the lapse had ended, and he prayed that it would never come back because whatever else happened, losing his place in the world was the thing that terrified him most.

  ‘I can’t get hold of him,’ said John May. ‘He’s got his phone switched off, which usually means he’s in a museum, a church or a library. No, I take that back. He always seems to leave it on during funerals.’

  Longbright laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Then we’ll handle this without him,’ she said. ‘He’ll turn up when you least expect it. He always does. Raymond wants to sit in with us anyway.’

  Darren Link was demanding a meeting with the unit’s senior staff and had just buzzed the street-level intercom, giving Longbright no time to warn the rest of them. The plan was to keep him out of the detectives’ office, where he might spot Bryant’s marijuana plant, and steer him away from anyone behaving too oddly.

  When the superintendent arrived at the top of the stairs, his features, severe at the best of times, had toughened to Welsh slate. ‘The lights are out downstairs and there are two men tearing up the floorboards in your entrance hallway,’ he said coldly. ‘I’m amazed there hasn’t been an accident.’

  ‘That’s just the Daves,’ said Longbright. ‘They’re trying to open up the basement. We’re planning to move the evidence room down there.’

  ‘And there are mangy c
ats everywhere.’

  ‘I thought we’d taken care of them. There should only be Crippen. Can I get you something to drink?’

  Link took off his coat and hung it carefully. ‘I’m here on a disciplinary matter. Let’s get on with it.’ He looked around for somewhere to sit, and shifted Longbright’s stack of 1950s Photoplay magazines from a chair. His strangely fractured left eye, with its pale blue semicircle of pupil, turned his most casual glance into a stare.

  He had met John May before and liked him enough to feel sorry for him, a talented detective who had ended up in a Jurassic-era unit like the PCU, a hangover from the days when coppers wore belted tunics and carried wooden truncheons.

  Raymond Land arrived and attempted to shake Link’s hand with an air of fake bonhomie, but was rebuffed. ‘You didn’t give us time to prepare anything,’ he said mousefully.

  ‘That was the general idea.’ Link took in his surroundings. ‘Where’s your operations centre?’

  ‘Right here,’ said Longbright, all too aware that PCU HQ looked more like a badly run dry cleaner’s than a specialist police division. She hoped he wouldn’t wonder why there was a black sequined basque hanging from the coat stand, part of the Halloween outfit she had planned before the case had forced her to skip the party.

  ‘Do you understand the term “core competence”?’ Link asked them collectively.

  ‘I think we had a conversation about that with your former public liaison officer, Orion Banks,’ replied Land. Link’s appearance was as welcome as having an unshackled bear roaming loose in the office.

  ‘Well, you’ve exceeded it,’ said the superintendent. ‘We set you one simple task, to run the ID and follow-up on Monday’s DBM.’