“Are you sure?” said Bryant. “Couldn’t we get one of the upper panels off?”
“This amounts to vandalism, Arthur.”
“It’s a murder investigation.”
“All right.” Beaufort hoisted his bulk up on the low window ledge and wedged his crowbar under the shop’s nameplate. It came away in an explosion of brickdust and plastic. “The same cement finish,” he tutted. “Hopeless rendering, very disappointing. Still, the original structure of the building is intact. If you could get all this off, I suppose you’d be able to build a false front over the top of it, but you’d need several strong lads and plenty of specialist equipment. Help me down before I fall.”
“That’s no good,” said Bryant, holding out a hand. “I’m looking for a lone murderer, thin, slight build, late twenties or early thirties, not someone travelling around with a team of builders. Besides, even assuming that the killer arranged to meet his victim here, with all the real pubs in London to choose from, why would he feel the need to re-create one from the past? Damn, there’s someone coming. We’d better get out of here.”
“I thought you’d be officially sanctioned to commit wanton acts of destruction,” said Beaufort.
“Er, no, not exactly,” Bryant admitted, looking around. “Time to scram.”
Feeling like a pair of teenaged vandals, they shoved the broken plastic back in place and scooted across the pavement with Bryant using the crowbar as an impromptu walking stick. Dropping into the Mini Cooper, they struggled to regain their breath.
“Well, I’m stumped,” said Bryant, thumping his wheezing chest. “I most definitely saw the victim in that street. The St Pancras clock tower was directly behind her like a full moon. Can I give you a lift anywhere? I’m driving back to the PCU.”
“You’re not going to carry on working tonight, surely?”
“Just a few notes. I’ve asked everyone to come back. We need to create a more accurate profile for this gentleman.”
“And how are you intending to catch him?”
“That’s the tricky part. He appears to have come up with one of the simplest killing methods ever devised, which makes him either very smart or incredibly stupid.”
“And which do you think he is?” asked Beaufort.
“Both,” said Bryant.
∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧
24
Hangovers
“You’ve all been drinking,” said May, shocked. “Look at the state of you, you’re half smashed.”
He glanced around the briefing room. Raymond Land was nodding off, Renfield looked sloshed, Banbury was poking about in a packet of Cheese ‘N’ Onion crisps and Meera was wearing a suede fringed jacket with the king lives written across it in red, white and blue sequins.
“Only in the cause of research, sir,” said Banbury, crunching crisps.
“Has anyone seen Bimsley?” asked May.
“Outside, sir. On the street.”
“What’s he doing out there, for heaven’s sake?”
“Snogging a girl, sir. Tongues and everything. Pretty hot stuff.” Banbury wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and looked about the room. Meera attempted to kill him with a well-aimed stare.
“He gave me his notes,” said April, unfurling a ball of paper and smoothing it out.
“Well, at least you’ve all been able to turn some in. I think the evening has given us a chance to reflect on the events of the past few days. I know how these women came to meet their deaths. I want the why.”
“With all due respect, old chap, we’re not going to be able to crack that nut overnight,” said Kershaw. “We don’t have any clear suspects.”
“We now have witness descriptions,” said April, looking up from the collated notes she had laid neatly across the desk. “Naomi Curtis and Jazmina Sherwin were both approached by a man in his early thirties, attractive despite the fact that he has a large wine-coloured birthmark covering the left side of his face. We think he might be a former North London barman who was fired from his job. It shouldn’t be so hard to get a name.”
“That depends on whether he was using his own,” said Bryant. “Bar staff sometimes pay substitutes cash in hand to take their shifts.”
“Then we have to hope this one was legally employed,” said May, glaring at his partner.
“There’s something else,” said April. “Three of the victims knew each other.” She held up a photograph that clearly showed Naomi Curtis, Jocelyn Roquesby and Joanne Kellerman standing together in a bar holding glasses of red wine.
“Where on earth did you get that?” asked Bryant, amazed.
April pointed across the room to Renfield. “Jack found it among the photographs of drinkers pinned behind the bar in the Old Bell, although it doesn’t look like it was taken there. The décor is different,” she told the group. “Dan, perhaps you could examine the shot and get some clue to the location.”
“The barmaid thinks it’s a recent addition, because she doesn’t remember it being there when she started working behind the bar last month,” said Renfield.
“Then it’s conceivable that the killer was drinking or working in a pub on the night they met there, and singled them out.” Kershaw tapped the photograph with a manicured nail. “When it came to meeting up with them separately, he clearly had a way of posing as one of the other two, using Kellerman’s cell phone. I’m guessing via text messages. Could they have all been members of the same pub club?”
“They met in a public house because it was secure,” said Bryant.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s what Masters said, a pub is neutral territory. Why, the very word public suggests openness. They wanted somewhere safe and busy to meet, so that they could discuss something where they wouldn’t be bugged, watched or monitored, something common to all of them.”
“Or someone,” said Longbright. “Jazmina was stalked.”
“The fundamental problem remains,” said Bryant. “He’s changed his MO and didn’t take Sherwin’s phone this time, so how do we predict whether he will strike again?”
“Start narrowing the search,” said Renfield. “We put out a description to every pub in North and Central London. He’s not going to leave his hunting ground. You said yourself that he feels comfortable there, Bryant. He’s local to the area. We could have him locked away by this time tomorrow.”
“That would require extra manpower, which means involving the Met,” Bryant pointed out.
“What, you have a problem with that?” Renfield wanted to know.
“We don’t but they do. They won’t help us, or you, despite the fact that your mates are still there.”
“Bryant’s right.” Land seemed suddenly alert. “We’ll have to do it ourselves. Let’s start making the calls and getting people out of bed. Nobody goes home tonight.” A collective groan rose in the room. The staff clambered from their perches and started to disperse.
“It still doesn’t feel right,” said Bryant, shaking his head as the office emptied. “We’re looking at the victims instead of the victimiser.”
“You’re trying too hard, Arthur,” said May. “You always do.”
“No, this time my gut instinct is valid. I think – ” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, as if searching for ideas in the dusty cornicing. “I think I need to be alone with my books for an hour.” He rose with a grimace and stumped off to his own room.
May knew it was pointless trying to control his partner. He could only follow and wait for revelations, no matter how wrongheaded they might be.
♦
Dan Banbury had scanned in the photograph of Naomi Curtis, Jocelyn Roquesby and Joanne Kellerman drinking together, and section by section, expanded the background illuminated in the flash of the digital camera, a 3.5 megapixel by the look of it. There were plenty of cell phones offering that level of quality. The top left of the photograph showed the edge of a window. From its placement, he could tell that the pub was on a corner. The light suggested ear
ly evening. Through the window he could make out a swathe of green plastic, a canopy made of metal rods, rows of what appeared to be oranges and bananas: market stalls. Two small gold letters had been painted in reverse on the glass, E and X.
After that, it was simply a matter of running a search on all street markets in the central London area, and finding a corner pub with the letters E and X in its title. Only one fit the bill: the Exmouth Arms, in Clerkenwell’s Exmouth Market.
Banbury checked his watch and punched the air. The entire process had taken him less than fifteen minutes. He had a feeling they were finally getting somewhere.
♦
“All right, come on, you’ve had your hour. What is it you’re looking for?” May shut the door behind him as he returned to the office.
“I’m no good at understanding psychology,” said Bryant. “I’ve always left that to you. But it seems to me that the taking of human life involves shame and regret as well as arrogance and cruelty.”
“I wouldn’t say that was always true. Serial killers usually fail to produce normal emotional responses. What are you thinking?”
“That part of him wants to be caught. My problem is Jazmina Sherwin, the odd girl out. She’s younger, more overtly attractive, different in every way from the others. She doesn’t fit the pattern, and yet she’s linked to the others by a description of the man who followed her. It doesn’t add up, John. Then there are the locations, all grouped together in a tight circle. He’s anxious to be stopped, and is trying to expose himself.”
“Then why wouldn’t he just turn himself in?”
“Something is driving him on to these acts of violence. No, violence is the wrong word, because I don’t think he hates women. The attacks are almost gentle, as if he just wants them to fall asleep in his arms.”
“All right.” May seated himself on the corner of the desk, thinking. “If he was very lonely – if he felt that the birthmark on his face kept him from being attractive to the opposite sex – this might be his way of preserving a moment forever, of keeping women by his side in a place where he feels happy and comfortable.”
“Then why aren’t all his victims like Jazmina? Look, do you remember when we were much younger, you tracked down a man who was attacking girls on Number Seventy-five buses – 1968, I think it was. The first thing he said when you took him into custody was ‘Why did you take so long to stop me?’ I think this is something similar, and it makes me wonder if he’s leaving me any more explicit clues.”
“You say leaving you clues. You don’t think it’s someone who knows you?”
“It has crossed what’s left of my mind,” sighed Bryant. “If only my memory was sharper. I’ve another appointment with Mrs Mandeville first thing tomorrow morning. She hypnotised me the other day, you know.”
“Did it help to improve your memory?”
“I think so. When I woke up, I suddenly remembered who I’d lent my electric drill to in the summer of ‘86. It seems I accused the wrong person of stealing it. I should never have filled his garage with bees.” His mind changed track. “You know there’s one thing about all these pubs, don’t you? We’ve been to them before, every single one of them.”
“Yes, but so have thousands of other Londoners. If you like public houses, you’re bound to have tried a few on the list at some time in your life.”
“I daresay. But I’ve told you, I don’t think this is just about the victims. It’s about the locations. Give me a hand, would you?” Bryant wobbled onto the top of his chair and reached for a collection of tatty albums on the uppermost shelf. He passed them down to May, who caught some of the titles: Signs of the Times: A Guide to London Names, English Symbols, The Secret Language of Codes, Urban Semiotics.
“You don’t honestly think these are going to help?” asked May.
“The others will be searching through employment records and contacting witnesses, tackling the prosaic tasks of criminal investigation,” Bryant reminded him, holding out a hand to descend. “Leave me to potter in the past by myself; it’s what I’m best at. I might surprise you yet.”
∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧
25
Rite of Passage
The atmosphere at the PCU had changed from a state of indecision to one of purpose. Like it or not, Longbright knew that this was partly down to Jack Renfield. There was a general feeling that the newcomer’s pragmatic approach to policing was just what the PCU might need to survive.
The detective sergeant was forced to consider the idea that her bosses’ old-school methods were reaching the end of their natural life span. Renfield came from a world that dealt in quantifiable results. Under Bryant and May, the PCU was like an old-time publishing house that nurtured talent and won out on aggregate, but its new accountability required it to operate on case-by-case wins. Longbright wondered if she was the only one to feel that something unique and precious was about to be lost.
She needed to be useful. There was no point in thinking about her passing life, her unpaid bills, her empty fridge and even emptier bed. Whipping out a mother-of-pearl compact made for Alma Cogan in 1958, she applied a fresh layer of makeup, then repainted her eyes. Within seconds she began to feel calmer. Right, she thought, cracking her knuckles, witness statements, let’s close the net on this son of a bitch.
“You missed the debrief.” Meera Mangeshkar was not good at hiding her feelings. Right now she had a face like a half-sucked lemon. “Everybody else managed to get here.”
“I got a lift,” Bimsley explained. “Someone kindly dropped me off.”
“From what I heard, you had trouble getting out of the car.”
“What do you care? I thought I didn’t exist in your world. The only time you stop ignoring me is when you’ve got something horrible to say. Stop the press, a woman found me appealing.” He glared at her.
“Are you going to see her again?”
“What am I, stupid? No, don’t answer that, I think I know where you stand on that question.”
“You were supposed to be working, not picking up girls.” The room temperature dropped another eleven degrees.
If Bimsley was even dimly aware of the reason for Meera’s annoyance, he might have displayed a glimmer of understanding about female nature, but he was not, and so could not. Instead he blinked and stared and frowned and fidgeted, before his confusion was replaced with the warm memory of Izabella’s perfumed embrace, at which point he smiled with a scrunch of his freckled nose, only to recoil in surprise when Meera stormed past him and slammed out of the room, making the same kind of noise that the Concorde managed when it passed through the sound barrier.
♦
On Friday morning it was decided to split-shift the unit so that a team would be working around the clock, and Renfield seemed happy to be put in charge of the organisation.
After grabbing a nap on his couch, Bryant headed off for the second of his hypnosis sessions with Mrs Mandeville. Everyone was searching for a lead on their common suspect. In the meantime, April and Janice Longbright ducked out for a working breakfast on the terrace of Camden Town’s Roundhouse, the site of the giant railway turntable that had been renovated as a concert venue.
Longbright patted the pockets of her blazer. “You haven’t any gaspers on you, I suppose?”
“Why would anyone smoke these days?” asked April, studying the menu.
“Actually, I don’t. It’s affectation. Gesturing has more of a point with a snout in your hand. You’re right though, I shouldn’t. I’ve been a little wound up lately.”
“You have your own style,” said April approvingly. “Your shoes, your Ruth Ellis haircut, the weird colours of lipstick you find, the way you grind out a fag-end in an ashtray when you’re angry. You always manage to be so noticeable. I feel quite invisible beside you.”
“Listen, darling, I grew up in a household where the rent money was always spent by mid-week. After the war, my auntie Dot was employed as a theatrical costumer at the Duke of York’s.
When she died she left me her entire wardrobe, so I adopted it. I found her old ration book inside one jacket pocket. The smell of mothballs never bothered me. I tried the look and it stuck. I can’t be doing with modern clothes. I’m too fleshy for most of them.” She looked out across the stables, early morning sunshine striping the roofs. “You wouldn’t have been able to sit out here a few weeks ago. Too much open space.”
“My agoraphobia seems to have subsided,” April agreed, “but I can’t help feeling it will resurface in some other form the next time I get stressed. It always does. I have a compulsive personality. My mother had me checked for autism.”
“Everyone has some damage. You learn to work around it. And at least it’s put to practical use at the unit.”
April barely heard her. She pushed her newspaper across the table. “My God, check this out. They’re running a frontpage article about the dangers of women drinking alone in pubs.”
“This is going to be a godsend for the tabloids,” said Longbright. “They’ll be able to attack any number of targets from promiscuity to the collapse of the family unit before pleading for higher security and more police on the streets.”
April scanned the subheads. “The breach of the last male stronghold: Why no woman can now feel safe. How they’d love to explain the dangers of independence to us. I hope we can expect plenty of rebuttals from women journalists.”
Sensing a juicy public debate, the talk shows had already begun to line up their guests. It was all as Bryant had predicted; the tense issue of safety in public areas was set to return to a level last seen in London during the IRA pub bombings of the 1970s, but this time around, no-one knew what they were looking for. Everyone was suddenly a suspect. In the rush to apportion blame, it seemed that only the victims were ignored.
“These were the kind of crimes our unit was created to prevent,” said Longbright. “How difficult can it be to put a name to this guy?”
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