The tiny round tables in the rear of the room had been arranged to accommodate the couples who were about to tackle their abridged liaisons. Bimsley was assigned a number by the evening’s hostess, a pleasant-faced, overweight girl who reminded him of a character from a Pieter Brueghel painting. Her name tag proclaimed her to be Andrea from the Two of Hearts Club. She spoke with the singsong condescension of a suburban Kentish housewife, and probably had a heart of gold until it came to gays and immigrants. “First time? Lovely! You’re a nice big fellow, we shouldn’t have too much trouble pairing you up. Pop your badge on and we’ll get you settled in. What’s your name, lovey?”
“Bimsley,” said Bimsley.
“I think it would be nicer to be on first-name terms with the ladies, don’t you?”
“Colin.”
“Oh, we haven’t had one of those for a while. There.” She patted a sticky yellow square onto his lapel. Bimsley looked around the saloon. There were several presentable, even sexy, women but the quality of the males was abysmal: a couple of boney-faced accountant types with VDU pallor, a leaker with lank hair stuck to his forehead and sweat rolling down his cheeks, a middle-aged man dressed as a giant toddler in a sleeveless T-shirt and three-quarter-length trousers, an ageing media type in club gear who was probably not as interesting as his haircut, a very old gentleman cruising for an heir or possibly an enjoyable way of having a heart attack. In Russia there were ten million more women than men, so at least the males had an excuse for not bothering to look their best.
His speed dates were allocated just three minutes each, at the end of which time he was required to give his women a rating of between one and three points. Bimsley’s decision to ask questions about a murder victim instead of enquiring about hobbies, favourite films or dining out brought him looks of incomprehension, confusion and outright hostility until Andrea took him to one side and gave him some advice.
“I think you need to lighten up, darling,” she informed him. “Whatever you’re asking these lovely ladies seems to be having a negative effect on their opinion of you.”
After achieving a rating score two points lower than the leaker, Bimsley decided to sit out the next batch of rounds and talk to the barmaid instead. This time he found himself onto a winner.
“I worked the same shift as Jazmina most nights,” said the pixie-faced Polish girl with earnest blue eyes, whose name was Izabella, and whose jet hair framed her face like Louise Brooks’s in Pandora’s Box. “She was very nice, but I did not like her boyfriend.”
“Why not?” asked Bimsley, succumbing to a pint of lager.
“He was not interested in her. He had other girlfriends.”
“Did she ever come in here and drink on her nights off? Maybe with someone other than her boyfriend?”
“Oh, no. She hated this place.”
“Why?”
“Because she had a what-you-call-it, a stalker. You get men in every pub who try and talk to you on quiet nights, but this one came in all the time.”
“Did you ever see him? What was he like?”
“Too old for her, probably in his early thirties. Brown hair, tall, with a red mark on his face. I was here one night when he started on her.”
“Can you remember anything he said?”
Izabella thought carefully. “I think he’d been fired from his job, he was a bar manager. North London somewhere. We laughed about him after he left.”
“This is really important,” said Bimsley. “I need you to make a note of everything you remember about this man.”
“Wait until I finish work tonight,” said Izabella with an impish smile. “I will tell you anything you want.”
♦
Meera Mangeshkar was at The Apple Tree in Mount Pleasant, which Carol Wynley had sometimes visited with her work colleagues, but asking questions of the staff and customers proved difficult because there was a country-and-western line dancing night in progress.
This had been a postman’s pub for many years due to its proximity to the sorting office, but had now been refurbished for the benefit of tourists visiting from nearby hotels. As Dolly Parton warbled through ‘Heartbreaker’ on the speakers and couples in checked shirts and fringed cowboy jackets stamped their stitched boots on the ancient Axminster carpet, Mangeshkar was forced into stupefied silence on a nearby counter bar stool. The combination of beery British boozer and traditional Texas toe-tap made her uncomfortable, partly because she was the only Indian girl in the room, and felt as if she might get shot. The well-drilled lines of dancers did not whoop and yell like their more liberated U.S. cousins, but concentrated on their footwork, determined to master exercises more culturally alien to the London mind-set than Morris dancing.
She became annoyed that, once again, she had been given an assignment that would yield nothing useful or practical, and was thinking about calling it a night when one of the men grabbed her hands and pulled her onto the dance floor for ‘My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys’.
For the next twenty minutes, Meera forgot her frustration and regret about moving to the Peculiar Crimes Unit as, much to her surprise, she discovered the joys of line dancing to the strains of Willie Nelson.
∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧
22
Questions & Answers
“In the film The Ladykillers, what was the screen name of the old lady Alec Guinness and his cronies were trying to murder? We’re talking about the original British version here, not the remake.”
May looked around at the hunched shoulders and lowered heads. The room in The Old Dr Butler’s Head, London Wall, where Joanne Kellerman had been found dead, was silent but for the scratching of 2H pencils. As he wrote ‘Mrs Wilberforce’ on the sheet before him, May accidentally caught the eye of the woman at the next table. She snatched her sheet aside, suspecting him of trying to cheat. They want to be back at school, he thought, each of them vying to be top of the class once more.
“Last question in our film round: Give me the name of the ancient kingdom discovered in Passport to Pimlico.”
May wrote ‘Burgundy’ and turned over his paper, ready for collection. He looked around the room at the assembled players, trying to see if any were alone. We always assume killers operate singly, he caught himself thinking. But what if there are two of them, perhaps even a man and a woman? Suddenly the conspiring, whispering pairs in the room appeared more sinister. None of the victims had told their partners, relatives or friends where they were going. Was that in itself significant? If the attacks were completely random and their killer moved to a fresh venue every time, catching him became a matter of luck. There are nearly six thousand pubs in London, he thought. What are we expected to do, close them all down? Suppose he switches to another crowded public place, inside the tube, on rush-hour buses or crowded city pavements?
The case had resonance with a number of other, more extraordinary killings that had occurred in London over recent years. A Bulgarian dissident, Georgi Markov, had been poisoned on Waterloo Bridge with the sharpened tip of an umbrella. Roberto Calvi, the Vatican banker, had been found hanged in a convincingly staged suicide underneath Blackfriars Bridge. And former KGB agent Alexander Litvinenko was fatally dosed with radioactive thallium in a busy sushi bar. In all three cases there had been no guns, no knives, just the careful and quiet determination to end a life.
It was difficult to shake off a sense of impending failure.
May was inclined to disagree with his partner, who felt that the attacks were based on opportunity and location as much as on the women themselves, but the fact remained that they had uncovered no common denominators other than the link between their cell phones. None of the calls had been under surveillance, so there was no way of tracing what had been said.
And there was another problem: Jazmina Sherwin’s cell phone had been found on her body, so the killer wasn’t using a consistent MO. If it can be proved that they all knew each other, May thought, it might be possible to discover the identities of ot
her women in danger. He handed in his quiz form and sipped at his pint, watching the quizmaster at work. That’s who I need to talk to, he decided. He’ll remember everyone who’s ever come here to play. The kind of men who compile quizzes always do….
♦
The Grand Order of London Immortals were, in their own words, primarily interested in London’s most infamous characters: political brigands, celebrity criminals, unapprehended murderers and anyone else who had been stencilled into the city’s collective memory by doing something notorious and getting away with it.
Dr Harold Masters knew that the order shared some members with his own Insomnia Squad, and had recommended it to Bryant as a group who might unwittingly shine a light on the path to uncovering a murderer. This month they were meeting in the Yorkshire Grey, Langham Place, a small greenpainted Victorian establishment with hanging baskets, exterior tables and memorabilia from the nearby BBC on its walls. Workers from the garment district frequented the bar, but tonight the Immortals, a grandiose term for what was essentially a band of disgruntled scholars, were holding loudly forth in the rear of the saloon.
Bryant recognised a number of old friends who had helped him in the past, including Stanhope Beaufort, a bombastic architectural expert who volunteered advice on London’s ancient monuments, and Raymond Kirkpatrick, a verbose English-language professor who had been banned from lecturing at Oxford because of his habit of playing deafening heavy-metal music while he researched. The Immortals attracted their own groupies, not as glamorous perhaps as those who lurked backstage at rock concerts, but every bit as tenacious. Among these was Jackie Quinten, the maternal widow who had tried to tempt Bryant back to her larder with the offer of a steaming kidney casserole when they had met in the course of the PCU’s investigation into the so-called ‘Water Room’. He had turned her down, not because he disliked her cuisine but because she seemed to view him as potential husband material, which could only lead to tears.
He had spotted her sitting in a corner reading, and was careful to skirt the edge of the room in order to avoid her. Unfortunately, as he was creeping past with his head drawn down into the folds of his scarf, he caught his foot in somebody’s handbag strap and lurched forward, precipitating half a pint of Samuel Smith’s Imperial Stout straight into her lap.
There was a detonation of yelping chaos followed by a commotion of mopping and sponging, during which time Bryant stood helplessly by, caught between profuse apologies and the desire to sprint for the exit.
“Really, Arthur,” Jackie Quinten cried in exasperation as she wrung out her skirt, which was woollen and perfectly designed for absorption, “there must be better ways of announcing yourself.”
“I’m most dreadfully sorry, Jackie, I didn’t see you sitting there. You’re rather invisible in that corner.”
“Thanks, you always know how to make a woman feel special.” When she saw the look of mortification on his face, she relented. “Come and sit down for a minute, at least.” Bryant squeezed in beside her, breathing in the yeasty scent of fermented hops.
“I suppose you’re here on business.”
“After a fashion. I’m trying to stop a most unusual murderer.”
“You always are, Arthur. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but this one is particularly slippery. He corners middle-aged women in public houses and puts them to sleep.”
“I know an awful lot of men like that.” Mrs Quinten did not appear in the least surprised. If anything, she looked as if her worst fears had been confirmed. Perhaps, thought Bryant, the widow had considered herself to be in London’s last safe place, only to find its status suddenly removed. “I presume they die in the process; otherwise, you wouldn’t be involved. Why would he want to do that?” she asked.
“Because he probably hears voices and is appeasing a desire, attempting to restore an equilibrium only he understands. Who knows? Ask why men kill and you open the door to one of life’s most paradoxical mysteries.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Trying to learn how you can make a pub disappear. What about you?”
“Oh, the usual, listening to a bunch of rambling old lecturers and writers talk utter rot. I have to get out occasionally, Arthur, otherwise I’d go insane. Besides, I’ve always had a soft spot for academics.”
“Their endless curiosity about the world does seem to keep them young,” Bryant admitted.
“And I can’t stay indoors making chutney every day, you know. I refuse to watch the toxic drivel that passes for television these days. I thought that by coming to these sorts of events I might get a clearer understanding of the world. I wonder what it is that drives the old to such questioning.”
“These days the young accept the status quo to an alarming degree, but I find I’m getting more rebellious as I age,” agreed Bryant.
“So many of life’s good intentions seem to go wrong, and I feel I’d like to know why. Have we merely been disappointed with our lives, do you suppose?”
“When I was young I fantasised about the future.” Bryant flicked a droplet of splashed beer from Jackie’s sleeve. “Now that I’m living in it, I find it all a bit tatty. I was expecting us to be on other planets by now. I wanted genetic transformations and orbiting cities instead of Internet porn and small improvements in personal stereos.”
“I know what you mean,” Jackie agreed. “Take this lot. They have plenty of ideas but no application. At least you might find them useful. Stanhope Beaufort sounds like your best bet, over there. He’s an architect.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bryant. “Do you mind if I go and talk with him?”
“No, but before you go, perhaps I can hold you to the promise of dinner. I’m not trying to lure you, Arthur. I’d make a rather unprepossessing siren. I just enjoy your company.” She seemed hesitant about continuing. “And I’d appreciate your opinion about a private matter. On a professional basis, you understand.”
“On that basis, I’ll do my best to oblige,” Bryant relented, rising. “I’m free on Saturday.”
Mrs Quinten looked disappointed. “That’s the one day I can’t do. I’m meeting one of my gentleman academics.”
“Oh, what an enormous pity. Another time then.”
“Perhaps after I finished – ”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude and spoil your evening.”
He was aware of Jackie Quinten’s eyes on his back as he moved across the room. I’ll admit she’s a not unattractive woman, he caught himself thinking. I rather admire a firm maternal bust, but I’m damned if I’m eating her kidney casserole.
∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧
23
Vandalism
Stanhope Beaufort drained his pint and wiped his white beard. He had put on an enormous amount of weight since Bryant last saw him. Squeezed into a shirt clearly purchased before this gain, he looked like a sheep in a corset. “What the hell are you doing here, Arthur?” he asked with characteristic brusqueness. “You only track me down when you want something, so what is it?”
“Actually I happen to be a semi-regular among this crowd,” Bryant pointed out. “But seeing as you’re here too, tell me, how long would it take a man to build a Victorian pub from scratch and then dismantle it again? Could he do it in a single night?”
Bryant explained his predicament.
Beaufort’s initial look of surprise transmuted into concentration as he applied himself to the puzzle. “It would be easier to go the other way around,” he said. “Hide the pub behind a shop, because the Victorians built things to last. They used stronger mortar, thicker tiles, denser metals. But you could get a shop front up in an hour just by whacking a few sheets of coloured Perspex over the brickwork and holding them in place with a handful of screws. Cover the windows with posters, strip the interior furniture, hide the bar behind racks of magazines, hire some old guy to sit at a counter and fob you off with some story about how he’d been there for years. Pubs usually have the capaci
ty to be brightly lit, because the lights are traditionally turned up after time has been called, so they wouldn’t have to replace the lighting. I can see how that might just work.”
“I don’t know,” Bryant admitted. “It sounds loopy even to me.”
“I didn’t say it was a sane idea, just that it’s possible. There’s one way to find out,” said Beaufort. “I’ve got a crowbar in my car.”
“Are you suggesting we try to take the front of the store off?” said Bryant.
“You’re a police officer, aren’t you? You can do whatever you like.”
“Sadly we can’t,” said Bryant, “I have a tendency to get caught.” But he was already rebuttoning his coat.
They found a parking space for Victor, Bryant’s decrepit Mini Cooper, in the next street over, and Beaufort slid the crowbar inside his coat as they walked to the corner of Whidbourne Street. The Pricecutter supermarket was in darkness. After checking that the coast was clear, Beaufort slid the steel stave from his coat and applied it to the oblong of orange plastic that covered the base of the store. He levered the crowbar back until there was a loud crack, and a two-foot-long triangle shattered, clattering to the pavement. Beaufort dropped to his knees and examined the brickwork underneath.
“The fascia is screwed directly into the stonework,” he pointed out. “With the right tools it could be removed in a few minutes, all of it, but the bad news is that the stonework underneath dates from the 1970s. Nothing is left of the pub that used to be on this site.”
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