‘So you’ve done this before?’
‘Many times. It can get quite disorienting out there, so stay close. We’ll avoid the main parade path and go to the Cliffe bonfire field.’
Bryant knew that the bonfires would take place whether the rain stopped or not. Already, camera crews would be assembling in the fields around the town, getting ready to cover the biggest pyrotechnic display in the country. This year, more crowds than ever were expected. The full list of public figures to be burned in effigy had a distinctly financial tone; it included caricatures of the prime minister, the head of the World Bank and the chairman of the Bank of England.
As they passed the tail end of the parade, May looked back and saw that the torchlit procession extended the full length of the high street, a fiery scarlet ribbon of road that dipped through a valley between low hills. The buildings were awash with crimson firelight. The view that presented itself was apocalyptic; families in scarlet fox masks hammered drums while Zulu warriors marched beneath sputtering flambeaux, their burning carts releasing clouds of glowing firefly cinders, an anti-papal procession that seemed more like a pagan vision of hell on earth.
Banbury downloaded the map of the procession route on to his mobile and led the way through the back gardens of the town, out into the darkened fields. Here the security marshals had yet to admit the crowds, so they were able to gain clear access to the firework site.
‘Nobody warned me it was going to be muddy,’ Longbright complained, picking her way over the sludgy furrows.
‘You’re not much of a country girl, are you?’ said Renfield. ‘You shouldn’t have worn heels.’
‘I always wear heels. And I’ve been to the country,’ Longbright insisted. ‘I went to that crime-prevention conference last year.’
‘That conference was in Finchley,’ said Meera, stamping through the mud in her non-issue army boots.
‘It’s Zone Four on the tube. Practically the North.’
May returned from talking to one of the yellow-jacketed site marshals. ‘He says the effigies are being brought out right now. There’s no chance that anyone can get at them or doctor them in any way. They’ve been locked in a barn since they were towed out here. Are you sure you’ve got this right?’
‘We have to check every one of them.’ Bryant panted with the exertion of crossing the field. ‘I can’t go any further. Colin, can you and Jack get a look inside the Dexter Cornell statue?’
‘Sure thing, boss.’ Colin led the way towards the distant tarpaulins covering the statue group.
‘Are you OK?’ May asked.
‘I’ll be fine once I get my breath back,’ gasped Bryant, coughing. ‘I wouldn’t mind a sit-down, though.’
‘Come on, let’s get you over to those hay bales.’ May took his friend’s arm. ‘It’s drier under the trees. Colin and Jack can handle this. You really don’t need to be here.’
‘I want to see him caught,’ said Bryant doggedly.
‘And you will do, tonight.’
‘Well … I hope so.’
‘What’s the matter?’ May had seen this sudden change of mood before.
Bryant wiped the raindrops from his head. ‘I’ve missed something. If only I was thinking more clearly. My memory comes back after each attack, but there always seems to be a little less of it. I thought of something in the night, but now it’s gone.’
‘Then we’ll just have to do the best we can.’
May tried to see Renfield and Bimsley in the dark, but they had vanished. A fresh squall of drizzle rippled across the field, rattling the overhead branches and prickling the back of his neck.
Bimsley reached the covered statues first. Another of the marshals, a boy no older than sixteen, tried to stop him from passing through the perimeter fence, but backed away on sight of the police badge. Across the great field a train raced along the line of the embankment, its yellow windows passing like the pages of a flick book.
The smallest of the tarpaulin-covered effigies was at least fifteen feet high. ‘You’re sure no one’s been near these?’ Bimsley asked.
‘Yes, sir, someone’s been with them ever since we used the tractors to get them out here.’
‘Hang on.’ Renfield handed Bimsley a torch. The beam exposed the grotesquely distorted face of Vladimir Putin dressed like Mars, the god of war, wielding a flaming sword.
‘Are these things hollow?’
‘They’re chicken wire and papier-mâché over a wooden frame,’ said the marshal.
‘Where’s Dexter Cornell?’
‘Who?’
‘The city banker, the inside-trader.’
‘Oh, him. At the back. The really big one. He’s been made up to look like the Devil.’
They found their way to Cornell. ‘Jack, can you give me a leg-up?’ Colin called. Renfield lent a broad shoulder as Bimsley first knelt, then stood on the laughing figure’s folded arms, wedging himself between them as if he was climbing a rock face. ‘Do these things have any openings?’ he shouted down.
‘There’s a door in the back,’ said the marshal. ‘In case they don’t catch fire properly we load them with special starter packs of fireworks. They don’t go in until the last minute.’
Bimsley clambered around, looking for the hatch, and found a four-foot square held shut with loops of wire. Untangling the ties, he wrenched at them until the door came open. The torch beam revealed nothing inside but wooden prop-beams. ‘It’s empty,’ he yelled.
‘He must be waiting until it’s on the pyre,’ said Renfield. ‘Hey, kid, how big are these starter packs?’
‘They’re pretty big.’
‘Big enough to hold someone inside them?’
‘Yeah, they’re the size of coffins.’
‘That has to be it,’ Renfield said. ‘Colin, get down here. We’re going to stay with this thing until it burns.’
While he was waiting for the DC to descend, Renfield walked back towards the darkened storage barn. As he reached it, he realized that the vehicle parked in the mud ahead of him was the gas board van that had been seen leaving Moon Street, Islington – the one with Cornell inside.
Back in King’s Cross, Fraternity DuCaine found himself sharing an office with a disconsolate Raymond Land.
‘What do they honestly think they’re going to find in Brighton?’ asked Land.
‘It’s Lewes, a town outside of Brighton,’ DuCaine explained. ‘That’s where they’re burning the effigy of Cornell.’
It had been a long time since Land had seriously followed the working details of an investigation, but he made an effort to do so now. He looked back at the images of the four victims, their dates of birth, their CVs and family histories neatly printed on to cards, their connections woven together with lengths of red and blue wool. Surrounding them were the components of their fates, each murder site a grim memento mori of a life cut short. Handwritten on loose pages were other details: the jobs they held; the pubs and clubs they visited; the restaurants they frequented; the families they lost. To these, Bryant had added a still from The Wicker Man in which the star was being burned alive.
Land tipped back in his chair, studying the blackboard. ‘The Wicker Man,’ he said aloud.
‘What about it?’ Fraternity did not raise his eyes from his screen.
‘It was a tiny British B-movie. Why do people always go on about it?’
‘I guess they like it for what it represents,’ said DuCaine distantly. ‘Pagan fire. It appeals to the rebel in everyone.’
‘What, a copper goes to an island to investigate a murder and gets his fingers burned? The mob out on the streets, you reckon they like stuff like that?’
DuCaine finally set down his pen and looked up. ‘You mean specifically The Wicker Man?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s a key film in the counterculture movement. It’s about taking back power from right-wing authority. I suppose it makes a collective, pagan way of life preferable to a fascist Christian police state.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I can tell. You could hardly call the need to investigate a murder fascist.’
‘The ending comes as a surprise if you haven’t seen it before.’
‘Yes, but that’s sort of the point. Everyone knows what happens at the end.’
‘I don’t see what you’re getting at.’
‘Forget it, I’m going mad.’
‘No – go on.’
‘It’s just … they’ve all gone haring off to Sussex, expecting to find this bloke stuffing Cornell inside his own effigy, yes? Because Bryant’s thinking of The Wicker Man. Fire, riot, all that stuff. Wouldn’t it be truer to this pagan element of surprise to do something else? Surely that’s the point. It’s all a trick. He makes sure that the police arrive in anticipation of finding a bloke about to be burned alive, and then fools them by doing the opposite. Like the film, but in reverse.’
‘So – what?’
‘Well, maybe the killer thinks if he sends them off on a wild-goose chase, it leaves him free to do whatever he likes. He’s never operated outside of London before. Why would he start now?’
‘Tonight’s protest march on the Bank of England,’ said DuCaine, tapping in a request for details. ‘It starts at Cannon Street and ends with a police-sanctioned bonfire right outside the bank at nine tonight. Two hours from now.’
‘We’ll have to cover it,’ said Land. ‘See if you can get a couple of them back here in time.’
But there was no mobile reception in the field in Sussex, and nobody answered the call.
50
CAGE OF FIRE
‘Sir, we’ve found the van.’ Renfield punched his chest, out of breath. ‘It’s parked over by the shed where they store the statues. It’s unlocked and empty. The engine hasn’t been run for several hours. Something’s not right.’
May looked about for the others. ‘Take Dan back with you to give it the once-over. Janice and Meera just checked out the other bonfire pyres; they’re clean.’
‘We’ve been had,’ said Bryant. ‘He wants us to think that the sacrifice will take place here but it’s somewhere else. Can you call out?’
May held his mobile high. ‘No connection. Everyone’s on their phones. Let’s get back to the town centre.’
Bryant had a go. ‘Wait, I’ve got a signal.’
‘You? That’s impossible. Your phone never works.’
Just then, it rang. Raymond Land was calling in. ‘Hello! Arthur Bryant here!’ Bryant bellowed above the sound of exploding rockets.
‘Yes, I know who it is,’ said Land. ‘You’re in the wrong place. They’re building a bonfire on the pavement in front of the Bank of England.’
Bryant took this in his stride. ‘Can you get it stopped?’
‘The City of London police have sanctioned it as a legitimate right of protest. Part of a deal to get the protestors off the streets at midnight.’
‘This bonfire, is it already built?’ asked Bryant.
‘Looks like it. There’s live coverage on Sky News. The chief officer of the City of London Special Constabulary is on TV right now praising his negotiators for reaching an agreement.’
‘When is it due to be lit?’
‘In about an hour and three-quarters,’ said Land.
Bryant put a finger in one ear. ‘We’ll never make it in time. You’ll have to get over there by yourselves.’
‘Tell him there’s no point in rushing,’ DuCaine told Land, concerned about Bryant’s health. ‘Even if they make it to Victoria, they won’t be able to get much further. There are no District and Circle or Central lines running into the Square Mile, and the traffic barriers are all up.’
‘We’re on our way,’ said Land. ‘Just get back here as quickly as possible.’
May looked up and saw thousands of people coming towards them in a solid wall. ‘Damn, they’ve opened the gates to let the public in. We’ll be stuck here for hours if we get caught up in that.’
‘The others will have to fend for themselves. You and I have to find a fast train back.’ The field was hemmed by a deep water-filled ditch that kept everyone penned. The detectives skirted the edge of the crowd but found their route cut off by the trough.
Bryant was starting to slow down. ‘You go ahead, John,’ he wheezed, clearly in difficulty. ‘I’ll catch you up later.’
‘No, I’ll wait for you. We do this together. We’ve half an hour until the next train.’ He held out his hand.
As they reached the smoke-filled high street once more, May waited for Bryant to catch his breath and they set off towards the station.
Back in London, Raymond Land ended his call to Bryant and turned to DuCaine. ‘You and I will have to face Darren Link,’ he said. ‘He’s probably over at the bank right now, getting ready for his final push.’
‘No,’ said Link, eyeing them from the doorway. ‘I’m here. And neither of you are going anywhere.’
Banbury and Renfield climbed inside, under and on top of the gas board van, but found nothing. The rear section was full of empty cardboard boxes and tools. There was no sign that anyone had used it to transport a body.
‘If this is the vehicle, it’s been cleaned out,’ said Banbury. ‘I could have sworn it was the same van. What do we do now?’
‘Give Colin a hand,’ Renfield said. ‘He looks like he’s stuck.’
Together they helped the spatially challenged DC down from his perch on the statue, just as Meera joined them. ‘John and Mr Bryant have gone to try to catch the fast train back,’ she said. ‘Where’s Janice?’
They looked about, but Longbright was nowhere to be found. ‘I thought she was with you,’ said Banbury. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘About twenty minutes ago,’ Meera replied. They heard the crowds before they saw them, an ants’ nest of bodies swarming into the field as the marshals opened the gates. ‘We’ll never be able to find her in amongst this lot. Anybody got a signal?’
They all checked their phones. ‘The network’s overloaded,’ said Dan. ‘There must be fifty thousand people trying to call each other around here.’
‘Right, two teams,’ decided Renfield. ‘Colin and I will take the bonfires, you two get over to the pyrotechnic station and find out if anyone there has seen her.’ If anything happens to her, Renfield thought, I’ll never forgive myself.
As he and Colin pushed their way across the treacherously dark field, a blast of warmth pulsed through the air.
The first of the great bonfires had been lit.
Longbright felt something sharp digging into her shoulder blades. She tried to pull herself upright, but was caught on a branch. The noise of the crowd was punctuated by jolting blasts, the shrieks of rockets, the pockety-pop of crackers, the crackle of Roman candles. At first she could see nothing. As her eyes adjusted, she saw her night terrors coalesce.
A cage of branches and sticks, planks, chair legs, floorboards and bric-a-brac, tied in place with rolls of baling wire. In the vertical gaps between the wooden slats that surrounded her she glimpsed distant figures, a treeline, a passing train, fires.
Her wrists were tied with rusty wire around the wooden stave at her back. She tried to understand what had happened. Her head was pounding. She could taste something metallic and medicinal at the back of her throat, and knew at once that she had been drugged with a liquid poured into a rag and closed over her nostrils and mouth. She had felt him pressing against her and thought of Dexter Cornell, someone with powerful upper body strength. She had knocked plenty of big men flat in her time, but this one had surprised her, catching her off-balance in the mud.
I’m inside my nightmare, she thought. How? One realization followed another. He saw us arrive. We played right into his hands. She pulled at the stave but it was central to the pyre and would not move a centimetre. The wire was cutting into her wrists. Her feet were unbound, so she kicked out as hard as she could. That was when she disc
overed that he had removed her shoes. The wood at her feet was splintered and sharp. She shouted, but the great cone of wood deadened her cries.
She tried to fight her fear and think logically. She was between fifteen and twenty feet off the ground. When the pyre was lit, the interior space would create an updraught that would allow it to burn fast, but the flames would have to start at the outer edge. She needed it to catch the central pole that held her, so that she could break it at the base. It would mean holding her breath and saving her strength until the very last moment. She was strong. She could see the weakest parts of the bonfire’s construction. If she kept her wits about her, she might just be able to tear herself free and escape.
But then she heard a roar go up from the crowd, and glimpsed several men moving in around the pyre with lit torches, and smelled petrol, and heard the soft explosion of flame underneath her, and felt its warmth increasing by the second, and realized they were lighting it from every side at once.
For God’s sake, she thought, somebody find me fast.
‘We don’t even know if she’s inside one of the bonfires,’ said Banbury. ‘She could have nipped off for a pee.’
‘She was right with us; she would never have gone without saying something,’ Meera disagreed. ‘She told me she’d been having dreams about being stuck inside one of those things.’
‘What, we’re going to start basing searches on people’s dreams now, are we?’
Meera glared at him. ‘Have you got any better ideas about where she might be?’
They caught one of the senior marshals as he was heading towards a bonfire with his team. ‘We need you to stop the fires from being lit,’ Dan told him. ‘Are you in contact with each other?’
‘Why, what’s the problem? Have you seen how many people we’ve got out there waiting to see some papists go up in smoke?’ The marshal thought they were joking.
‘They’re going to get more than they bargained for if you don’t call the fires off,’ Meera snarled. ‘One of our officers may be inside one of your statues.’
Bryant & May - The Burning Man Page 31
