‘Amazingly, I’m still following the case. What are the odds of his kidnapper being our killer? It sounds duff to me, turning up at his flat like that, as if one of the protestors has turned copycat.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ May replied, glad that the conversation had moved to safer ground. ‘It’s not his MO. But that doesn’t lessen the danger of the situation.’
‘You misunderstand. I said it sounds duff, but then I thought more carefully and realized that might be what he’d want us to think. Cornell’s a practising Catholic. He’s the coup de grâce. It also crossed my devious little mind that he might have staged his own abduction to shift the blame elsewhere. Which would explain why his minders were nowhere in sight.’
‘Whether he was abducted by the killer, a copycat or himself no longer makes any difference,’ said May. ‘We don’t have control of the investigation. Darren Link has ring-fenced it because there’s a legal problem with the CoL’s ongoing fraud inquiry.’
‘Rubbish,’ snapped Bryant. ‘He’s taking it away because he can’t allow us to continue. How would it look if two elderly men, a handful of unemployable obsessives and a team leader who’s as effective as a charity-shop tea towel ended up solving such a high-profile case?’
‘I’m not elderly,’ protested May, nettled. ‘I’m mature.’
‘Like old cheese. I assume we’re not going to look for Cornell?’
‘No, Link’s got his team on that and we don’t have the resources. We need to stay on track.’
‘He’ll strike again tonight,’ Bryant predicted. ‘With the smell of gunpowder and charcoal in the air, how could he not want to be a part of it?’
‘I was hoping you’d feel the same way,’ May said. ‘Perhaps you’d come with me to the unit.’
Bryant dragged a crumpled Hawaiian shirt from a drawer and assessed its wearability. ‘Where else would I be going at this time of the morning? Can I get away with this look?’
Despite himself, May laughed. Bryant flashed a wide white smile, and in its sole appearance before a long day of rain, sunlight finally flooded the room. ‘Alma!’ he called into the hall, ‘stay out of my things while I’m gone or I’ll have your church closed down!’
‘I guess we’re back in business,’ said May as he held open the door.
46
HIGH STAKES
‘Mr Bryant, you’re back.’ Colin Bimsley was unable to suppress a smile. The energy in the room palpably rose.
‘I haven’t been away, you idiot,’ said Bryant, rattling out his umbrella and spraying everyone with the run-off. He unwrapped his mummy-bandage scarf and looked about. ‘That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got. Did they have to pump your stomach?’
‘No, sir, antibiotic jab.’
‘A lucky escape. John and I once chased a burglar called Pearly Gates across Chelsea Bridge and he dived off the side to escape us. Died instantly. Not from the water, though. He went through the roof of a passing banana barge.’ He looked around. ‘There had better be some tea on, and make sure it’s not bags: we need the hard stuff today.’
It was frustrating to hear about the search for Dexter Cornell without being able to take part, but there was nothing they could do without access, so the PCU team concentrated on the more mundane business of checking call logs and CCTV footage. But at least now they moved with a spring in their step.
Renfield called a mate of his and was updated about the abduction. The van that was filmed leaving Moon Street, Islington, was lost after it hit a poorly covered patch on the north side of the Balls Pond Road, and turned out to be unregistered. Police were now covering routes all the way to the Midlands and the east coast.
‘I could tell them not to bother,’ said Bryant, bouncing about in his old armchair in anticipation of refreshment.
‘You know where he’s heading?’ asked May.
‘I have a good idea.’
‘Do you wish to share it with us?’
‘You’ll get annoyed if I do.’
‘I’ll be more annoyed if you don’t.’
Bryant blew out his cheeks, thinking. ‘All right,’ he decided. ‘It’s one of four places.’
May groaned inaudibly. Then audibly. ‘There are no straightforward answers from you, are there?’
‘That depends.’
‘All right, I’ll bite. Why four?’
‘He’s a pyromaniac.’ Bryant lost interest in the subject as Meera set down his tea mug. She goggled at the tropical shirt he had dragged over his long-sleeved vest.
‘That’s not an explanation.’
‘Dear Lord, how much do you need spelled out? It’s Guy Fawkes Night! There are a hundred and thirty-seven licensed firework displays in the Greater London area spread across the week but only three major events in Central London tonight: Paddington, Southwark and Russell Square. The rest are in places like Crystal Palace and the Royal Gunpowder Mills at Waltham Abbey. He won’t go to those because he wants international attention. The three central displays are the largest in London and will all be filmed.’
‘You said there were four places.’
‘So I did. The fourth is in Lewes, Sussex, and it’s the biggest in the country. There are seven separate bonfire societies there, each preparing to burn Catholics and political figures in effigy tonight. But one is larger than the rest: the Cliffe Society. They own their own fire site and fireworks company. Tonight they’ll sing their traditional song, “Remember, Remember the Fifth of November”. Ahem.’
Pressing one hand to his chest, Bryant sang out in a penetrating off-key baritone:
‘A penny loaf to feed the Pope,
A farthing of cheese to choke him!
A pint of beer to rinse it down,
A faggot of sticks to burn him!
Burn him in a tub of tar!
Burn him like a blazing star!
Burn his body from his head!
Then we’ll say old Pope is dead!’
His singing voice was appalling. Once May was sure the cacophony had ended, he ungrimaced his face. ‘Now that you’ve proven you couldn’t carry a tune in a bin bag, what do you propose we do?’
‘What does everybody want to do? Burn Dexter Cornell at the stake. We don’t need to worry about the Central London displays.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because, old fruit, the Guy Fawkes Night event in Lewes is the only one that burns giant statues of unpopular public figures. And tonight it’s burning the hated Catholic financial fraud Dexter Cornell in effigy, along with Vladimir Putin, Justin Bieber and the French. I already called them and got all the details. Cornell’s going to be the centrepiece of the Cliffe Society display.’
‘Then why don’t we just alert their constabulary?’
‘Because we can’t trust them to catch our man in the act. I have a much better idea of what we’re up against.’
May wasn’t so sure. ‘If we get it wrong, Cornell will die.’
‘I know,’ agreed Bryant cheerfully. ‘We always work better when the stakes are high.’
‘There’ll be thousands of people there. I don’t see how the two of us can begin to cover it.’
‘We won’t be alone. Meera, you can book train tickets for all of us. Charge it to the investigation. Raymondo can stay here and mind the store. We’d better leave Fraternity with him, in case we need data access.’
‘We have no travel budget, Arthur,’ May warned.
‘Put it on my credit card. We’ll be able to sign off whatever we like after this.’ Bryant sounded confident. May studied his partner, puzzled. He seemed calm and free of confusion, utterly sure of himself, like the Bryant of old. And then he realized why: I’ve seen that look before. The crafty old devil knows something he hasn’t told me.
‘What time do you want to go down?’ he said aloud.
‘We have to be there by seven. See if there’s a fast train. There’s something I have to do first.’
‘Can I come along?’ asked May, thinking it would be better if
Bryant remained partnered during the hours beforehand, just in case he had another bout of disorientation.
When Bryant looked back, May felt as if he could see into his soul. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ll be perfectly fine. There’s no risk attached, and it’s better if I’m unaccompanied.’
‘Can you at least give me an inkling of what you’re up to?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s to do with the case.’ Bryant smiled enigmatically. ‘It’s about the canonical five of 1888.’
‘Where’s he going?’ asked Raymond Land as he watched Bryant grab his battered scarecrow-hat and old overcoat from the stand.
‘He’s going to look for Jack the Ripper,’ said May, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
47
A TOUR OF THE EAST END
‘You,’ Bryant said, looking around the room, ‘get your coat on. A fine day like this, you should be outside.’
Augustine tore himself away from the plasma screen and lifted off a pair of £300 Sennheiser headphones. ‘It’s pissing down. Where’s my father?’
‘He’s been called away on business. I won’t have language.’
‘What the hell are you wearing?’
‘I don’t know. It was in a drawer.’
‘How did you get in, anyway?’
‘Are you sure you’re nine? You have the suspiciousness of a middle-aged man. Yolanda let me in. Go on, put that ridiculous game down. I’m sure your video-robot-thingies will still be here when you get back.’ He looked about and sniffed. ‘It would be nice to see a bookcase in here.’
‘Books suck, and I can’t go out,’ said the boy, still getting over the shock of having to abandon his biowarfare attack on an alien planet in order to attend to an ancient trespasser in his playspace.
‘You said you wanted to know something about crime in London, so I’m going to show you.’
‘No, you said. You can’t make me do anything; you’re not my father.’
‘I taught you that line; you can’t use it on me.’
‘Where is my father?’
‘He’ll be back later. And I can do anything I like because I’m a policeman. I’ve got a special pass that allows me to break the law.’ He flashed his bus pass before the child’s eyes and swiftly put it back in his pocket. ‘I’m going to be in charge of you for the next couple of hours, so watch your lip. We’re going to see something that will give you nightmares for weeks. Put a raincoat on, we’re walking to the tube.’
Augustine looked horrified. ‘I’m not allowed to go on the tube. Bratling says they’re full of germs.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you’d been born without an immune system. Bratling’s off duty. Germs are good for you; they keep you from getting sick.’
‘We’re not even supposed to be in London. Have you seen what’s going on? People are, like, getting killed and stuff.’
‘During the Blitz nearly fifty thousand bombs and millions of incendiaries fell on London. Over sixty thousand people were killed, and for every one who died, another thirty-five were left homeless. People didn’t leave then, so why should they leave now?’
‘I’m nine,’ the boy reminded him. ‘I want to see ten.’
‘Look, do you want me to show you where some really disgusting things happened or not?’
‘Wait, I haven’t taken my pill.’ Augustine struggled into his Puffa jacket as Bryant headed down the stairs. Yolanda saw him coming and hastily backed into the kitchen.
‘What’s the pill?’ asked Bryant.
‘Ritalin. It keeps me calm.’
Bryant was disgusted. ‘A boy of your age shouldn’t be calm; he should be bouncing off the walls with excitement. Come along.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Have you ever heard of Jack the Ripper?’
‘Of course. He murdered some people a long time ago. I saw a programme about him.’
‘This isn’t on television, it’s real,’ the detective called back behind him as they left. ‘I’m going to show you the truth about Jack the Ripper. Don’t dawdle. Keep up.’
Bryant and the boy strode off through the rain, dodging the stalled and steaming traffic, fighting through the umbrellas that blossomed at the entrance to Angel station, heading down into the sooty bowels of the tube network.
Augustine had never been permitted to do anything like this. He sensed that somehow the rules of his life had shifted today, that his father was unwilling or unable to stop this strange policeman, and his nudging curiosity now turned into a hunger. He knew he was right to be afraid of Bryant, who was unpredictable, dangerous and quite possibly mad, but there was also a chance that he would share something that had always been missing: an adventure.
Over half of the tube map was off-limits. All of the central stations were shut until further notice. Bryant and the boy transferred from the Northern line (City Branch) south to the Hammersmith & City line, and managed to reach Aldgate East. Then they rose to the puddled pavements and started walking again. Makeshift tents had been pitched on almost every corner. When Bryant had used the Blitz analogy, he hadn’t realized just how accurate it was. He paced ahead, dragging the boy through the chaotic throng, barely using his malacca stick, growing younger and more energetic by the minute.
Everywhere it seemed people were gathering in the streets, huddled together or handing out leaflets with singsong chants. Others were working in relays, sandbagging shops and building barricades. A siege mentality had taken hold. London had become a battleground.
He bought Augustine a collapsible umbrella from an Indian stall. ‘That thing will last for exactly’ – he checked his watch – ‘three-quarters of an hour before it falls to bits. Stay close and keep your wits about you. Don’t get separated. Let’s talk about Jack the Ripper.’
‘Have you ever been tested for mental illness?’ asked Augustine.
‘Funnily enough, yes, and quite recently. First of all, I have to explain something. There was no Jack the Ripper. He didn’t exist. Try not to look so surprised; it makes you appear simple. There were only the Whitechapel murders and a man they called Leather Apron, and we will never know who he really was because at the time there was no forensic evidence.’
‘What’s forensic?’
‘Do they teach you nothing at school?’ He pulled the boy clear of some running Indian teenagers. ‘Forensics is the scientific collection of criminal evidence, and in 1888 there was no such thing. What’s more, every bit of information that was gathered about the killer by the police has been examined in minute detail, and there are no more clues left to find, so we can only make guesses. Oh, they’ve studied the DNA on a shawl that miraculously survived for nearly a hundred and thirty years without once being washed, and have come up with yet another supposed culprit, but nobody will ever really know the truth. Over four years there were eleven murders, but only between three and six of them were committed by the same person, and it’s generally agreed that there were five victims by the same hand. We call these the canonical five.’ He grabbed the boy’s shoulders and physically turned him. ‘Stop here. Turn around. Look at these buildings.’
They were now on Hanbury Street near a boarded-up Cash & Carry store, outside the only surviving properties from that time.
‘Across the road,’ said Bryant, pointing at rain-sodden brickwork, ‘in the back garden of number twenty-nine, a short, fat, ugly, forty-five-year-old woman with two missing teeth was found lying on her back with her throat slashed from left to right and her stomach slit open to the chill night air. Her name was Annie Chapman, and her guts had been pulled out of her abdomen and thrown over her shoulders like a bloody scarf. Parts of her insides were missing, and were never found. And all this happened just a few feet from where you’re standing. It was the day after the funeral of the first victim, and the public became terrified.’
Augustine’s eyes widened as Bryant talked, dragging him from one spot to the next, gesticulating wildly, painting pictures in the air, now
throwing his arms wide, now thrusting his hands at the startled child, bringing alive the awful history of the area.
‘The Ten Bells,’ said Bryant, pushing open the door of the pub on Commercial Street so that Augustine could see inside. ‘It used to be called the Eight Bells, but the nearby church added two more to its chimes, and they could be heard inside the pub. Annie had a drink in here on the night she was brutally slaughtered. How old did you say you were?’
‘Nine.’
Bryant thought for a minute. ‘Hm. Old enough. Hang on here for a minute. Whatever you do, don’t move.’ He returned with two glasses of bitter, a pint for himself and a half for the boy. ‘When I was nine my father took me for my first beer. I think it’s time you had yours.’
Augustine looked uncertainly at the frothy dark glass. Bryant made a sipping motion. ‘Go on, try it.’
Augustine tipped the glass to his lips and recoiled sharply, thrusting out his tongue as if it had just been dipped in vinegar. ‘That’s totally disgusting.’
‘Everyone says that at first. You have to keep going, at least until you’ve drunk half of what’s in your glass. Think of it as an initiation test. But hurry up, there’s a lot more to see and do. We have to get to the notorious “double event” – two murders on the same dark night. You must imagine these streets without electricity, and only flickering gas lamps, damp and mist and very bad smells.’ Bryant’s fingers rippled before the boy’s face, conjuring up the scene. ‘No trees anywhere, just factories and slums, pubs and doss-houses. After that we’ll look at the final victim and how she was found without her heart.’
Augustine belched as he downed his beer and followed Bryant’s indicating hand like a hypnotized hen. Then they were off again, lolloping through the downpour, over the roads and between the market stalls, the boy intoxicated less by his half of cloudy warm ale than by Bryant’s ability to conjure terrible blood-soaked images from the wet grey air. The shouting, mutinous mobs around them only served to return the area to its dark past.
Bryant & May - The Burning Man Page 29
