SECURITY
A
rthur Bryant had once shepherded bemused travelers on guided tours around King's Cross, and had perversely grown to love the area.
It had always been in a state of turbulence, of sickness and health, pleasure and vice, cruelty and grace. In its way, it was the most quintessential and paradoxical part of the entire city. The railway station was constructed on the site of the London Smallpox Hospital, and yet there had once been in its vicinity a pair of iron-rich spa springs and public pump rooms, near to which Eleanor Gwynne, the favourite of Charles II, had passed her summers in an idle procession of concerts and breakfasts.
In 1779, the Bagnigge Wells, as it was then called, had been described as a place where 'unfledged Templars first as fops parade, and new-made ensigns sport their first cockade' Its banqueting hall boasted a distorting mirror and an organ, tea arbours draped with honeysuckle, swan fountains and fish ponds, bowling greens and skittle alleys, gardens and grottos. But this most fashionable of resorts could not remain so for long. In 1827 it was written 'The cits to Bagnigge Wells repair, to swallow dust and call it air,' Highwaymen and whores moved in for the rich pickings; the upper classes sneered at their new low companions and quickly moved on.
Just along the rain-polished road from where Bryant now found himself, the Fleet River broadened into a ford at Battle Bridge, a spot still filled with barges. The brickwork ashes that accumulated on the grounds had been sold to Russia, to help rebuild Moscow after Napoleon's invasion, but who now could separate fact from fiction? Certainly, the immense octagonal monument to George IV that once sprawled across the road junctions had provided King's Cross with its name. Here sprang up some of London's roughest pubs, The Fox at Bay and The Pindar of Wakefield, the smoky homes of gamblers, drunkards and resurrectionists. Here too was the hellish Coldbath Fields prison, infamous for the severity of its punishments.
After the Second World War, the elegant terraced houses were carved into bed-and-breakfast lodgings for the dispossessed. And just as the railway terminus had once brought about the desecration of King's Cross, the wheel had turned and it was now the area's saviour, for the rail link to Europe arrived, a new town growing in its wake. The whores and dealers, modern versions of the night flyers and pleasure-mongers who had always flitted around the crossroads, had been scooped from their pitches and dumped elsewhere as chain stores moved in to attract new money.
At the moment, though, the area was still a battlefield of water-filled ditches and workmen's barriers, tourists clamber-ing past one another with suitcases. Bryant loved towns in transition, and King's Cross was a core-sample of London at its most tumultuous. The Victorian buildings that had housed laundries, pawnbrokers and watchmakers had been rehabilitated into stripped-back modern offices.
It was here that he found the headquarters of Theseus Research.
Black-painted iron gates sealed a courtyard, beyond which a glass wall separated a security guard from the cold. The desk behind which he sat was so large that Bryant could only see the top of his head. He pressed the entry buzzer and awaited admittance. Instead of the gate swinging open, the guard emerged from the building into the rain and approached him.
'This building is not open to the public, sir,' he informed Bryant through the bars, keeping his distance.
'Hullo there, I run the King's Cross Rambling Club.' Bryant pressed his official London Tour Guide licence against the railings. 'There's a public right-of-way that runs through the middle of your building, and we want to include it on our tour.'
The guard's cold dead eyes reminded Bryant of a mackerel he had seen on a Sainsbury's slab. 'There's no access here. You can't come through here.'
'Then I'd like to speak with your public relations officer.'
'We don't have one.'
'Well, whoever deals with your general enquiries, then,' Bryant said, smiling and waiting with more patience than he could usually manage.
'We don't have general enquiries. It's Saturday.'
'I thought you did. My grandson works here, you see.'
'Then maybe you should call your grandson and get him to let you in.'
Bryant knew of a few certainties in life. One was that you should never rub your eyes after chopping chilli peppers, another was that you should be wary of using red telephone kiosks after drunks had been in them, and now to this list he could add the fact that the guard on this door was never, ever going to admit him to the building.
'I'm an old-age pensioner,' he said forlornly, looking up at the guard with pathetic, watery blue eyes. 'I've come from miles away to organise this walk. I thought my grandson would be here, but he's not. Please, is there at least someone I can call?'
'You could try the general switchboard.' The guard sounded more sympathetic, but none too hopeful. Bryant dug out his cell phone, flicked several liquorice allsorts from its casing and began to punch out a number.
'Hey, you can't do that from here,' warned the guard.
'Why not?'
'This is a secure area. You won't get a signal anyway. This is official Ministry of Defence property.' 'Really?'
'Yeah. Everyone who works here? They all have to sign the Official Secrets Act. Even the cleaners.'
'But it's not as if they're making bombs or chemical weapons inside, is it? This is a built-up area. There are railway stations.'
'No, but they make plans here. For terrorist attacks and stuff like that.'
'Well, in that case, I shall tell our ramblers that they can't have access. We mustn't interfere with the government's plans to protect us. Thank you—' Bryant squinted at the guard's nametag,'—Mandume—you've been very helpful.'
It was obvious now that he thought about it. There could never have been any other explanation. They were provided with cover stories because they were working for the Ministry of Defence, thought Bryant as he raised his umbrella and walked back into the rain.
40
RECOLLECTION
I
say, how do we get access to Ministry of Defence files?' Bryant asked the question casually as he caught up with a distraught Dan Banbury in the corridor of the PCU. The unit's computers had been removed and packed up in boxes that all but blocked the main passage. Most of the rooms had already been emptied of files and personal belongings.
Banbury released a snort of incredulous laughter. 'We don't,' he said. 'When it comes to the MOD, the same restrictions apply to us as to everyone else. By the way, there's a strange man in the evidence room putting everything in black plastic bags. There's another one in the kitchen measuring things. He's taken our kettle. I can't find anything.'
'Yes, but what if it involves possible breaches in the law of the land? Surely we have the power to act in the public interest if ordinary citizens are at risk? I'm afraid I'm a bit of a neophyte when it comes to the workings of the government. How do we stand on that sort of thing legally?'
Banbury turned to look at him. 'Who do you think has a bigger say in the running of this country, Mr Bryant? The police or the Ministry of Defence?'
Ah, I take your point. Then I'm not sure what to do. We've never had a situation like this before. Where we started at the beginning of the week isn't where we seem to be heading now.'
'With all due respect, where we're heading now is outside onto the pavement,' said Banbury. 'In case you haven't noticed, they're kicking us out of the building. How are we supposed to work?'
'I don't know. I haven't had time to think about it. Have a word with the others about accessing secure information, would you? I suppose we'll have to get everyone to regroup at my place for a while. Alma won't be pleased, but John's poky little flat isn't large enough to hold us all. Nobody's told us to actually stop work; it's just a matter of relocation as far as I'm concerned.'
'Are we going to be working through the weekend, then? It wasn't on the roster.'
Bryant gave a theatrical sigh. 'Yes, Dan, we are going to carry on until we get to the truth. Is there a problem?'
/>
'Only that I'm looking after my nipper for a couple of days. He's at the age where he's a right handful, but I'll have to bring him with me.'
'Where's your wife?'
'With her new fella, a boiler fitter from Stevenage she met at one of her sister's wine-tasting nights. She's leaving me. I suppose she didn't want me to feel left out.'
'About what?'
'Being the only person at the PCU in a satisfying relationship, sir. Thought I'd fit in better as an embittered workaholic loner.'
'Sarcasm will be the ruin of you, lad. Go and fetch the others.'
'Mr Bryant wants everyone to meet him at his house in Chalk Farm,' said Longbright, leaning her formidable chest against the door jamb. Are you coming, Raymond?'
'How would it look if I did that?' said Land. Whenever he was faced with conflicting emotions, he became static with indecision.! can't be seen to take sides, Janice.'
'If we can get a conclusion on this over the weekend—'
'The case has already been closed, and I cannot reopen it without official approval. How are you going to continue investigating something that doesn't officially exist?'
'You're technically in charge of the unit. Surely you can do it.'
He didn't like the way she said technically, or how she used his first name while according Bryant the dignity of a surname. 'I can't without producing quantifiable evidence for doing so.'
'So you're just going to walk away from us?'
'Haven't you noticed? They're impounding our files, sealing everything for later examination. I can't go along with you, Janice. Take whatever you need and leave, get out of here be-fore they try to stop you. If anyone asks me, I didn't see any-thing.'
'Well, thanks a lot, Raymond, you really know how to put yourself on the line for us.' Longbright slammed the door be-hind her, only to reopen it. And don't forget to collect Crippen's bowl and litter tray before you go. You'll have to take him home with you. I'm not allowed pets in my flat.'
Alma Sorrowbridge was not thrilled with the idea of nine members of the PCU putting their boots all over her freshly vacuumed rugs. She made them tea and left warm yellow cornbread on the sideboard where they could help themselves, then beat a hasty retreat to the Evangelical church on the corner of Prince of Wales Road.
As everyone arrived and settled in, John May laid down the files that the group deemed relevant to the proceedings by mutual consensus. Soon they had covered the floor of the lounge. May rocked back on his heels and glanced across the labelled autopsy photographs, the resumes, the personal-data files, the murder location photographs and the toxicology reports.
'Well, we know that Pellew never worked with his victims,' he announced, 'because he was in the secure wing of the Twelve Elms Cross Hospital during the period that our ladies worked at Theseus.'
'The company has a Web site of sorts,' said April, turning her laptop around to show them, 'but as you'd expect it's not very forthcoming about their activities.' The screen revealed the anodyne silver logo of Theseus Research, together with a mission statement padded out with words like safety, protection and excellence, but not much else. 'They're clearly an outside resource for the MOD, with no familiar names on their masthead. There are several authors of articles mentioned by name, though.'
'I don't recognise any of those.' Kershaw read down the screen.
'Wait, I know that one,' said Banbury. 'Katherine Cairns-Underhill—she was formerly attached to Porton Down as a virologist. She was one of the leading UK consultants during the sarin gas attacks in Japan. Keep going.'
April continued to scroll through the site. 'I know that one,' said Kershaw. 'Iain Worthington, he's a senior epidemiologist at the Royal Free Hospital.'
'Skin diseases?' asked Bimsley.
'Epidemics, pathogenic spread. It sounds to me like Theseus Research is involved in the prevention of chemical warfare.'
Arthur, where did they get their name? You must know all about the myths surrounding Theseus.'
'I can remember bits and pieces,' said Bryant. 'He was a founding hero of Greece, a great reformer. There was something about him recovering his father's sword and sandals from beneath a gigantic rock. He slew the Minotaur with the help of Ariadne's thread. He even survived a trip to Hades. I think the key part here is his trip through the labyrinth to locate the Minotaur. It's analogous to the process of scientific discovery. But I don't think we can piece much more together from a few incomplete scraps of information.'
'We need to figure out where to look for Jackie Quinten,' said Meera.'Do you think she could be inside their building?'
'Is there still nothing on the police reports about her?'
'Her description has been issued,' said May, 'but I don't know how we'll find out what's going on from—forgive me, Arthur—a converted toothbrush factory in Chalk Farm. I do wish you'd kept your old Battersea flat with Alma.'
'There are still a few people who owe me favours in the Met,' said Renfield. 'I can call around.'
At a little before seven P.M. the clouds above the house split and rain thundered down the banks of the garden, beneath the back door. The hall quickly became flooded, and rivulets trick-led as far as the lounge. By this time, the unit's staff were sprawled out on armchairs and sofas throughout the building, like fractious members of a house party trapped indoors by the weather.
All those times Jackie spoke to you,' said May in some exasperation.'You've even been to her house. Don't you remember her telling you anything about herself?'
'I wasn't really listening,' Bryant admitted. 'You know what I'm like.'
'I suppose you were multitasking.'
'No, I was just thinking of something else.'
'Now's the time to use the memory-training techniques Mrs Mandeville taught you.'
Bryant thought long and hard. 'It's no good,' he said finally. 'I need to smoke a pipe.'
All the windows are closed,' said Meera. 'Do you have to?'
'It always helped Sherlock Holmes.'
'He was a fictional character.'
Bryant decided to light up anyway, and produced some matches. He squinted at the yellow label on the box, then donned his reading glasses. 'I say, has anyone noticed this?' He held up the matchbox, studying the logo in amazement. 'That's us. "Bryant and May—England's Glory." I don't know why I never thought of that before.'
After three pipes the room was filled with fragrant smoke. 'Can we open a window now?' asked Meera. 'It smells like burning tulips.' She didn't explain to anyone how she knew.
'Can you really remember nothing you discussed with her?' asked May.
'All I'm sure of is that Jackie didn't know about the deaths when I bumped into her at the Yorkshire Grey,' said Bryant, thinking the matter through. 'And the time I saw her before that, we talked mainly about the first law of behavioural genetics; I have no idea why. We discussed map-making, too. She runs the local history society. Told me a lot about London's geography.'
'She might not have been meeting anyone,' said Longbright. 'She might simply have become frightened and gone away until everything has blown over.'
'No, she was definitely seeing a friend; she told me so her-self.'
Everyone looked dumbfounded. 'What do you mean?' asked May.
'When I saw her in the pub she said something about going out on Saturday to meet one of her gentleman academics.' It was typical of Bryant to leave out a piece of information anyone else would have felt compelled to pass on, but in this case he had only just remembered.
'You might have told us earlier,' said Longbright. 'You don't suppose she killed them, do you? And somehow blamed Pellew?'
'That makes no sense at all,' May told her.
'The DNA matches were perfect on both blood and sweat,' Kershaw reminded them, 'and the thumbprint matched Pellew's. We know it was him. Quod erat demonstrandum.'
'But he was the symptom, not the cause,' Bryant insisted. 'The most dangerous element in this case was not Pellew at all, but the person who impell
ed his actions. I don't think we have a way of dealing with the matter now. We're simply not equipped.'
He needed to give the others some air. Clambering up and heading for the back door, he stepped outside, breathing deeply, standing beneath the eaves as rain fell in sheets before him.
Pellew and Quinten, he thought. There's really no connection between them. How could there be? Did Pellew really go to the Exmouth Arms, just to leave behind the clue in the photograph? He had never come across a case remotely like this. Nothing hung together, none of it was linked. Anthony Pellew. A research laboratory. A clinic for mental disorders. Five—no, seven—lonely, maternal women. The Ministry of Defence. If only my memory—
And then he remembered, something small, no more than a single sentence. Thank God for Mrs Mandeville, he thought. I take it all back, your system works!
He shot back to the lounge much lighter in his step.
Arthur, we've been talking this round in circles,' said Longbright, 'and we're convinced that you must be able to remember something more about Jackie Quinten. Do you have any idea who it was she went to see?'
'Oh, I think I know now, I just don't understand why, or what her connection is with him.'
'Oh, for God's sake, Arthur, spit it out!' cried May finally.
Bryant widened his eyes. 'She went to find Dr Harold Masters.'
'Wait a minute, your old friend Masters, the lecturer, the one I met in that odd little tavern?'
'I'm afraid so. Anyone will tell you that academics have a tendency toward sociopathic behaviour, and I think my old friend has finally overstepped the line.'
'I don't understand,' May admitted. 'What has Masters got to do with Jackie Quinten?'
'That I'm not sure of yet. But I think he's got a lot to do with this,' Bryant told the others, dragging on his overcoat. 'And I can guess where to find Mrs Quinten. There's no time to waste. I've known Harold for years, if only in a sort of distant way, but I'm familiar with his habits. He's likely to be in one of three places. Colin and Meera, I need you to go to his house in Spitalfields. John and I will try the pub he told us he frequents. Janice, I'd like you and Sergeant Renfield to head for his office at the British Museum. And be careful. By now he may well be ready to kill in order to protect his secret.'
The Victoria Vanishes Page 22
