Bryant & May_Hall of Mirrors

by Christopher Fowler

  Kasavian unfolded an onion-skin page and handed it across. Bryant read: ‘“England is a country of peasant stock. Although it has a tiny intellectual elite, most of its people are credulous, witless, socially inept sheep so obsessed with feeding themselves that they fail to notice when a wolf moves among them.’

  Bryant looked up. ‘Classic illusory superiority complex,’ he said. ‘What did the judge make of it?’

  ‘Powles was declared medically unfit to continue the trial and was packed off to Broadmoor. I suppose the only strange part is that you should have thought you saw him on a carnival barge in Camden Lock. Especially since you say you’ve never seen his face.’

  ‘I recognized him from behind. He was badly scarred, sir. I understand that the antique dealer fought back.’

  ‘Yes. Powles suffered brain damage in the fight, which paradoxically helped his case. So you clearly identified his scar.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘From the bridge. A distance of what, sixty feet?’

  ‘I am long-sighted, sir,’ Bryant explained.

  ‘So it appears. Where was he exactly?’

  ‘Standing on the prow of the barge, on the flat part, facing away from us.’

  ‘And what was he doing on it?’

  ‘The barges were heading towards Regent’s Park in a procession but they were stationary, waiting for the lock gates to open. Anyone could step on board from the towpath.’

  Kasavian was thinking ahead. ‘I mean, what was he actually doing on it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bryant admitted. ‘Neither of us knows.’

  ‘So, having positively identified this man as a psychopath from his unusual – let’s say unique – scars, you decided not to inform a Metropolitan Police officer but to act outside of your jurisdiction.’

  ‘It would have been impossible to locate an officer. We thought if we waited he would get away.’

  ‘Of which, I imagine, there was a strong likelihood. How did the flare gun come to be fired?’

  ‘There’s a pin that prevents it from being activated by simply pulling the trigger,’ May explained. ‘When I raised the gun I discovered that it was missing.’

  ‘So the detonation was an accident.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you were aiming it.’

  ‘Yes, because I was about to call out to him. He still had his back to me.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Another barge ran into the back of us and I slipped. The gun went off and the flare passed into the engine housing.’

  ‘I see. You were lucky that the hull was metal and contained most of the explosion. I hope you’re not going to make a habit out of blowing things up.’ He looked almost amused.

  Bryant studied Kasavian’s translucent features but could not read his thoughts. He shot his partner a look. What is happening here?

  ‘What did you see after that?’

  ‘Someone on the towpath had let off firecrackers and there was a lot of smoke drifting about,’ said May. ‘The barge’s engine caught fire and exploded. Some people fell into the water. When the air cleared we couldn’t find him.’

  Kasavian grunted. The room fell silent and grew cold.

  ‘I have a seven-year-old son,’ he said suddenly. ‘For a child of his age Oskar holds surprisingly conservative views. He thinks we should round up all the bad people, lock them in cells and throw away the keys. Where did he get that from? Not from his parents. I fear that his views may become more extreme, that he may have inherited the worst of me. A vocational peril, I suppose. He doesn’t care for London. I need people who do.’ He sighed. ‘Roger Trapp has a letter from Broadmoor.’

  ‘He told us about it, sir,’ said May.

  ‘I take it he didn’t let you study the contents.’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘He got it from Cedric Powles’s file. It’s over a year old, written in answer to a government request. Burlington Bertie went before a medical board and was released nine months ago. He is originally from Camden Town. So you see, there’s a very good chance that you really did see him.’

  ‘Could this make any difference to our current position, sir?’ asked May.

  Kasavian tapped out another Piccadilly and lit it. He turned back to study the map once more. ‘What you did was unforgivable, Mr May. It went directly against the grain of your unit’s remit. You endangered the public; you put women and children at risk. The press reported that you fired a gun. What if the public lost faith in the police because of this? England sets the world an example by not allowing its police to carry firearms.’

  ‘We acted in the public interest,’ said Bryant.

  ‘After the smoke cleared you stayed to pull people from the water. Why didn’t you go after him?’

  ‘Instinct, sir,’ said May. ‘It was more important to make sure that there were no civilian casualties.’

  ‘You chose innocent people over a guilty man. Well, that’s acceptable.’ Kasavian searched the wall map as if looking for answers. ‘It would sit badly with me if we simply threw you out on the street, and it wouldn’t be healthy for the department if the newspapers picked up the story. But you can’t go back to the Peculiar Crimes Unit. Mr Trapp is quite adamant on that point. He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I suppose you both know that.’

  ‘Then what’s going to happen to us?’ asked Bryant.

  Kasavian released a slow, smoky breath through his nose. ‘There’s a chap at the CPS with a problem, name of Farthingshaw. He’s a bit of a jobsworth but if you agree to help him out, I can push Trapp to put you on the assignment. It’ll give me time to think of something more permanent for you both.’

  ‘Why would Roger Trapp allow us to take a freelance job?’ asked May.

  ‘Because there’s no one else to do it, and he thinks I’ll be in his debt.’

  ‘Will you be?’

  ‘Good Lord, no.’

  ‘Who would we report to?’

  ‘Do you have a fellow officer you trust?’

  ‘Yes,’ said May, ‘at the unit, Gladys Forthright.’

  ‘Then liaise with her. It’s better that I deal with Trapp. You two seem to rub him up the wrong way.’

  Kasavian opened the door, indicating that the interview was over. ‘It’s not what you’re used to but it’s better than nothing, and I have a feeling it may call for a bit of smart thinking. There’ll be a lot of tiresome paperwork to fill in, I’m afraid. Go home and wait for a call.’

  The detectives thanked him and walked to the tube station together. There was no point in heading back to Bow Street. Their belongings had already been transferred: Bryant’s to Whitechapel, May’s to Soho.

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked May. ‘Funny, talking about his son. As if he trusts us somehow. Why should he give us a break?’

  ‘I think it’s some kind of test,’ Bryant replied. ‘I’ve heard that they’re going to start giving specialist officers psychological examinations.’

  ‘What a daft idea.’

  The evening rush hour had started. The station’s hanging globes threw yellow light on the office workers as they folded their wet umbrellas and began queuing at the ticket machines.

  ‘I don’t know what to do now,’ said May, beating the raindrops off his jacket. ‘Are we out of work or aren’t we?’

  Bryant looked at the golden-hued tube entrance, the dark sky, the orderly pulse of commuters, and hesitated. ‘I was just thinking about what Kasavian said. “The truth is always partial and never absolute.” You know how I hate inconclusiveness. Just once I’d love to head an investigation in which everything leads to a single unequivocal solution.’

  ‘I’m sorry you won’t get your dream, old chap.’ May clapped him on the shoulder. ‘It’s been a strange week. You should go home and get some rest.’

  ‘I’m not tired.’ Bryant shook his head. ‘I think I want to walk for a while.’

  May watched as his friend headed back out on to the
rain-glossed street and lost himself in the home-going crowds.

  Three agonizing weeks passed before they got the phone call.

  HELLO, GOODBYE

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Arthur Bryant.’

  ‘I meant your full name.’

  ‘Arthur St John Aloysius Montmorency Bryant.’

  ‘Bit of a mouthful.’

  ‘My mother liked to get value out of the vicar.’

  ‘Marital status?’

  ‘Spinster.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘I can remember ration books but I’m still unable to grow a full beard.’

  ‘Any serious conditions?’

  ‘Yes. Financial.’

  Mr Farthingshaw drummed impatiently on the desk. Thanks to the Pall Mall smouldering in his ashtray, his fingers were the same colour as the wood. ‘Perhaps it would be possible for you to treat this interview with a touch more gravitas, Mr Bryant?’

  Arthur Bryant looked around the court official’s office. The only wall that wasn’t beige was magnolia. In the centre of it was a calendar for an exhaust-pipe company featuring a girl in a red bikini sprawled across the bonnet of a Ford Cortina. There was one small window overlooking a tiled stairwell full of cigarette ends and old copies of the Daily Mirror. One headline read: ‘Guilty of Murder: The Krays will be sentenced today’.

  ‘It could do with a lick of paint in here.’ Bryant waved away the ashtray’s smoke. ‘It’s like a sorting office. I thought you legals always worked out of lovely old Victorian chambers.’

  Farthingshaw ignored him. ‘You do understand the gravity of your situation, don’t you? This is all that’s left on the table. The unit will never take you back. While you sit here making jokes your boss is filling your old position.’ He looked down at his notes. ‘I see from your report that you’ve suffered a few accidents. It says you blew up a barge.’

  ‘In the course of a pursuit. Not the first time it’s happened. Well, the barge part was new. Usually it’s buildings or cars.’

  ‘But you’re fully recovered? No mobility problems?’

  ‘I recently had trouble going through a turnstile with an accordion, but no.’

  ‘So you’re up to this.’

  ‘How hard could it be?’

  ‘You’ve not much experience in the field.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll manage.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My partner, John May. We always work together.’

  ‘Ah yes. There were two of you involved in the carnival – ah – incident.’ The court official ran a nicotine-stained digit down his notes. He sported a large-tooth combover and wore tiny rimless spectacles that must have been hard to see out of with such narrow-set eyes. ‘My information must be wrong. I have you down as being posted in the detective division of Bow Street Police Station, Covent Garden.’

  ‘That is correct. We ran a specialist unit housed within the station.’

  ‘I don’t have anything about that here.’ He flipped through his pages in puzzlement. Cigarette ash cascaded over the sheets. ‘There should be a pink form.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have one. John and I belonged to the Peculiar Crimes Unit. We weren’t technically part of the Met.’

  ‘Really? Science-wallahs?’

  ‘At first, yes. One of seven specialist agencies formed by the wartime government. We – that is, they – handle more general civic stuff now.’

  ‘Just the two of you?’

  ‘There have been others helping out,’ Bryant explained. ‘We were going through a bit of a lean time when this happened. You obviously know our current boss, Roger Trapp. There’s also a detective sergeant, Gladys Forthright.’

  Mr Farthingshaw gave up trying to see through his glasses and pocketed them. ‘Have you ever done anything like this before?’

  ‘We looked after Coatsleeve Charlie when the East India Dock mob were after him.’

  ‘The bookie? I thought they caught him and broke both his legs.’

  ‘I fed his whippet while he was in hospital. If you’re concerned about our suitability, perhaps you should talk to “Nipper” Read.’ Bryant dug out his pipe to combat the stench of cigarettes.

  ‘I don’t think we need to disturb Mr Read,’ the court official decided. ‘He’s become a bit of a celebrity since the Krays. I imagine your name came up because this prosecution is being brought out of Bow Street. I must say, given the circumstances, I thought you’d be keener.’

  ‘We’re very keen, Mr Farthingshaw, but our unit was not set up to act as a safety net for the cases the Met fail to catch. For the past three weeks I’ve been going mad with boredom.’

  ‘We’re not there to provide entertainment for you, Mr Bryant. This – little project won’t go through the PCU. I can’t allow you anywhere near your old unit, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Bryant glumly.

  ‘Does the name Sir Charles Chamberlain ring a bell?’

  Bryant searched the ceiling, performing a theatrical impersonation of somebody thinking. ‘The Berkshire-based Liberal peer, wife is Lady Henrietta Somerset, a philanthropist working in the Belgian Congo if memory serves.’

  ‘Clearly your memory doesn’t serve. He’s a millionaire property developer who lives in Belgravia.’ Farthingshaw gave his interviewee the kind of suspicious look one gives a plumber who tells you that a year-old boiler needs replacing. ‘He got himself into a bit of hot water recently and covered it up smartish, but not before one of his clubroom pals decided to turn whistle-blower on him. A chap called Monty Hatton-Jones is prepared to give evidence against him at the Law Courts in the Strand on Monday morning. He’s been fully briefed and is expected to push the prosecution through for us.’

  Bryant was intrigued. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said “one of his clubroom pals”. If Chamberlain was his pal, why would he turn state’s evidence?’

  The question irritated Mr Farthingshaw. He didn’t expect colleagues to parse his sentences. ‘Well, I don’t know, Mr Bryant, he just is. We’re more concerned about making sure that he stays in one piece until then. Think you can manage that?’ He transferred his upright cigarette from one hand to the other, mindful of the long ash that had formed.

  ‘So it’s babysitting?’ Bryant looked disappointed. ‘It’s not in our usual realm but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers. I hate being on leave, wandering around museums all day waiting for it to stop raining. It feels like you don’t exist any more.’

  ‘Just answer the question, Mr Bryant. Can you do it?’

  ‘What, keep him alive for a weekend? I imagine so. Are you expecting someone to have a bash at him?’

  ‘Chamberlain is far too high up the ladder to have any known criminal associations, but after the Krays’ trial we’re erring on the side of safety. Mistakes were made and lessons must be learned. All you have to do is make sure that the witness turns up for his court appearance on Monday.’

  ‘Sounds like a piece of cake. We’ll do it.’ He slapped the table cheerily, causing Farthingshaw’s ash to collapse.

  The court official irritably screwed out his cigarette and folded his paperwork away into his briefcase. ‘One other thing. We’d like you to sound him out about Sir Charles. It would be useful to know if Chamberlain spoke to anyone else.’

  ‘You want to know whether he bribed other officials.’

  ‘Let’s just say that it would be advantageous to see how far his network extends.’

  ‘Won’t that come out on the witness stand?’

  ‘Perhaps, but one doesn’t want any nasty surprises.’

  ‘In other words you want us to do your job for you.’

  Farthingshaw’s face hardened. ‘I read your full history, Mr Bryant. You had a cushy little number going at the PCU. They let you get away with murder. It’s a shame you had to go and muck it up.’

  ‘I never saw it as a “cushy little number”, Mr Farthingshaw, I felt I was dedicati
ng my life to the performance of an essential public duty.’

  A look of smugness crept across the court official’s unappealing features. ‘Did you now. Then you might make this more than just a babysitting job. As you’ll discover when you meet Hatton-Jones, there’s been a bit of a snag.’

  ‘Wait, what do you mean?’ Although he was still young enough to prove eager, Bryant knew that when a pen-pusher downplayed an easy-sounding assignment it was because there was something horribly wrong with it.

  Farthingshaw rose, ready to beat a hasty retreat. ‘I’m afraid he has us over a bit of a barrel.’

  ‘The witness?’ Bryant’s eyes narrowed. ‘In what way?’

  ‘If we don’t co-operate with him, he won’t play ball with us.’

  ‘You mean he won’t testify unless … What exactly does he want?’

  ‘I think you had better talk to him,’ said Farthingshaw. He handed over a manila envelope with the relieved look of a clairvoyant selling his berth on the Titanic. ‘And jolly good luck to both of you.’

  20TH CENTURY MAN

  The bowler-hatted man in the scarlet ringmaster’s jacket rode past a huge painting of Jean Harlow. He was balanced precariously atop a penny-farthing and wobbled against the kerb, his knees thrust out, only just managing not to fall off when a taxi nosed past. Nearby, somebody was singing an old vaudeville song through a megaphone. Bryant would rather have caught up with his partner on Waterloo Bridge, where they usually met, but May had wanted to buy a shirt on the King’s Road.

  ‘You understand I have no desire to stand around in a boutique while you try on tasteless clothes,’ Bryant said, bouncing along the pavement beside his partner. ‘Why you should wish to become some kind of ambulatory coat hanger is beyond me. I still remember those ghastly canary-coloured bell-bottoms you bought.’

  ‘My hipster loons, what about them?’

  ‘Don’t you remember wearing them to the Black Raven? The thread in the turn-ups got wound around the girl next to you. She wasn’t very impressed when you walked away and pulled her off her stool. I agreed to come here because I thought you had better be briefed. Ever hear of a chap called Sir Charles Chamberlain?’