‘I wrote letters all the time,’ said Gail slowly.
Longbright read part of it aloud. ‘ “I’m sorry we argued. I know you were just being honest and that you don’t mean what you say. You said I was jealous of you, but I’m not. I’m the only one who knows what you go through, fighting to keep your job, looking great, pretending to be happy. I bet a lot of your followers want to be you, because they don’t know what it’s really like. Your life looks cool to everyone else, but you and I know it’s fake because best friends know everything.” Do you remember writing that?’
‘Yes. It was about a year ago.’ Gail raised her head for the first time, lifting her hair from her eyes. She had been crying again.
‘You didn’t post it.’
‘I never post them. We’d had a row. I didn’t want to make things worse for her. There are lots more letters.’
‘You didn’t want to be her, did you? But you knew that others would.’
‘I read the comments people left for her. Some of them were really scary. Lily never looked at them. She was too busy putting every detail of her life online. She wanted to show everyone how great her life was. I knew it was dangerous.’
‘Well, there’s an old expression,’ said Longbright. ‘When your life exceeds your dreams, keep your mouth shut. You know what I think? You fell for a scam. Lily Marshall didn’t go off to a private clinic for surgery. She didn’t have any work done. I think the imposter killed Lily and took her place. Then, in the guise of Lily, she lied to you about everything. That’s why there’s no evidence. It was the ultimate theft of identity, not just online but in reality. Lily was lucky to have you as a best friend. You looked out for her. Do you have any idea who the other person might have been?’
‘Not really,’ said Gail sadly. ‘But there was a name that kept cropping up on her blog.’
Longbright took her hand. ‘Listen to me, Gail. You’re going to be charged, but hopefully not with the murder of your friend. The letter makes me believe you, but the court will need something stronger. Help us to find out who she was, and we’ll find a way to bring you closure.’
* * *
—
The charge was deferred and changed. When Longbright and Banbury tracked the author of the comments on Lily Marshall’s blog they were led to a German computer programmer seven years younger than Marshall. Irina Hartmann had made an intensive study of her target’s online presence. Further examination of the CCTV footage from London Bridge Station showed that Hartmann had slipped as she backed away from Gail Barker.
Hartmann had a history of online stalking and threatening behaviour. Detailed notes about her planned transformation into Lily were found in her apartment, along with arrangements for a meeting. All she had needed for the impersonation was makeup, hair dye and a little weight loss.
Lily Marshall’s remains were found in a pond near Hartmann’s house in Bremen. She had been drugged and drowned. The exact circumstances of her murder were never fully uncovered, but it was clear that Lily had been lured there around the time that Hartmann said she went to the clinic.
Lily’s death had been caused by her quest for a more youthful life. But the dream she’d chased had been a mirage, an optimistic construction of photos and captions. Only the handwritten, heartfelt words of her best friend had proved real.
Gail Barker initially received a suspended sentence, which was dropped on appeal.
Every year, on the anniversary of her best friend’s death, Gail sends Janice Longbright a card of Monet’s Water Lilies.
Bryant & May up the Tower
Arthur Bryant remembered that it was in the autumn of 1967, during the thunderstorm that came after the first Summer of Love. That woozy celebration of spiritual freedom had crossed from Haight-Ashbury, San Francisco, to reach London’s tallest building, the Post Office Tower, in Fitzrovia.
The silver spindle was like nothing ever seen in the capital before. A shining needle segmented with gravity-defying discs, it had quickly come to represent the future. The tower had been opened two years earlier by the Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, and was now hosting parties in its revolving high-rise restaurant.
Tonight the famous guests peeped out from beneath their umbrellas to have their photographs taken, illuminated by camera flashes and lightning. The storm breaking overhead suggested to some that it would be unwise to venture up a giant conduction rod.
‘Tall, isn’t it?’ commented John May, standing on the steps with his head tipped back.
‘It’s not the height that bothers me, it’s the extreme slenderness of the thing,’ said Arthur Bryant. ‘Apparently you have to switch lifts halfway up because the structure flexes in the wind. And what do you find when you get up there? A restaurant run by Butlin’s.’
‘And the whole of London spread at your feet.’
‘Perhaps not tonight. The cloud base looks awfully low. Come on, let’s go up.’
‘Wait.’ May grabbed his partner’s shoulders and examined him. ‘Is that a clip-on bow tie?’
‘Look, matey, if Alma hadn’t found this shirt in a charity shop I might have tipped up in a string vest. What’s the bash, anyway?’
‘The Independent Television Hallowe’en Ball,’ said May. ‘The Met thought it would be a good idea to have someone working undercover and we drew the short straw.’
‘Are we to expect trouble, then?’ asked Bryant.
‘There’s a lot of money here.’
Prior to the murder of John Lennon, security at celebrity events—and, in fact, at the door of any public building—was notoriously lax. London was still free of security guards, bag searches, knife arches and ID checks. The anarchists’ bomb that detonated in the restaurant four years later would bring an end to the city’s open-door policy, closing the tower for good. Tonight, though, the most famous faces in London had fought for a ticket.
‘I thought you’d like a night out,’ said May. ‘Free nosh, lots of stars—look, Tom Jones, Cilla Black, Mick Jagger, Twiggy and, over there, Michael Caine.’
‘And an awful lot of Draculas, mummies and werewolves,’ said Bryant. ‘I notice the bigger stars aren’t in fancy dress.’
‘They were allowed to remain as themselves, because of the press value,’ said May. ‘There’s no point in Twiggy turning up as the Creature of the Black Lagoon.’
‘There are a few of those, too,’ Bryant pointed out. ‘I’m getting wet. Let’s go in.’
Ah, the heady, hedonistic sixties. A time when John May took to hideous kipper ties and unfeasible sideburns, and Arthur Bryant remained exactly as he always was, a short, portly chap in a gabardine raincoat and Oxford toe caps.
‘Over there in the pink abaya and veil, that’s Qamar ud-Din, the Arabic singer,’ said May. ‘She’s wearing a yellow diamond ring called the Monarch of the Sands, valued at two million pounds.’
The chanteuse was as tall and graceful as a candlestick, draped in pink and blue, veiled for modesty and accompanied by a large bald man who might have been holding a scimitar, so obviously did he wear his profession. Bryant noted the pair and gave a grunt.
Cliff Richard passed them in an orange kaftan, waving and smiling to the photographer from the Daily Mirror. ‘He never gets any older, does he?’ said Bryant. ‘He’ll still be going strong in the year 2000.’
‘You know what they say about him, don’t you?’ said May confidentially.
‘Of course I don’t. What do they say?’
‘That he’s a Christian.’
‘Good heavens. Well, some of my best friends are Christians. Perhaps I should try it. Being an atheist isn’t keeping me any younger.’
Now they encountered the main problem with the Post Office Tower: the lifts were tiny. A line quickly formed that went across the foyer and down the stairs. They used their police credentials to queue-jump, but it was o
bvious to Bryant that the building was completely unsuitable for public opening.
The restaurant itself was surprisingly small and unremarkable. It had been blandly decorated and furnished in pale wood, allowing attention to fall on its one sensational feature: the circular view it offered of the city at night.
The restaurant completed a full rotation every twenty-two minutes; only the central disc housing the waiters’ station and kitchen access remained still. While footballers’ girlfriends danced with bishops and a band resplendent in paisley shirts and beads played psychedelic nonsense, the detectives circled the floor.
In the time-honoured tradition, class and position decided who had a table reservation and who was left to balance canapés with a wineglass. The standing guests gathered at the windows to watch the storm descend upon the capital. Qamar ud-Din remained seated at a table, watchfully sipping an orange juice. Simon Dee, the highest-paid personality on the BBC, was being photographed with fashion legend Mary Quant, he in a purple roll-neck, elephant-cord hipster jeans and a woven leather belt, she in a black minidress laced with silver chains. Their exchange of warm smiles almost made them look as if they liked each other.
Suddenly the lights went out and the twinkling cityscape appeared. There were a few small screams as people thought lightning had hit the tower’s antennae.
‘It’s all right, ladies and gentlemen,’ an authoritative voice told them, ‘the storm seems to have taken out our power. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.’ The waiters began to set candles out on the tables. Without the band playing, voices could be heard.
‘Well, really, the most frightfully poor show.’
‘Typical British engineering. Probably the fault of the unions.’
‘—delicious little dolly bird over in the corner.’
‘Humphrey, darling, there are no corners.’
Only two or three minutes had passed before the lights came back on. One would think the Blitz had just taken place by the way everyone was laughing and joking with each other. It only takes a power failure for the barriers to come down, Bryant thought, standing at the inside edge of the room, studying the guests. He started when he noticed the songstress, Qamar ud-Din. She seemed to be drunk. Except, of course, she couldn’t be.
He headed over to the table where she sat with her head lolling forward. ‘Miss Qamar, are you all right?’
It took both him and John May to rouse her. Holding an arm each, they walked her around the room. ‘Where is the bodyguard?’ asked May. ‘He’s meant to stay with her at all times.’
Of course, when he glanced down at the hand that bore the fabled Monarch of the Sands, the ring was gone.
They searched the room, but the bodyguard had vanished into thin air and the singer remembered nothing of what had occurred. ‘I sat here with my drink,’ she explained. ‘I talked to a dull little television producer with bad breath; I sent him away to bring me some food and just then the lights went out. I think I had a little nap. The power came back on and you arrived. There’s nothing else to tell.’
‘You didn’t feel the ring being taken off?’ asked Bryant.
‘No, and that doesn’t make sense because I have worn it since I was sixteen, and it cannot easily be removed. I would have most definitely felt the loss of it.’ She searched their faces with imploring kohl-dark eyes. ‘Please, you must find the ring. My life will be in danger if it is gone.’
‘Why?’ asked Bryant. ‘Is there a legend attached to it?’
‘No, Mr Bryant, just an insurance policy. But it was entrusted to me by the crown prince as a representative of his nation. To lose such a valuable item would bring down the most terrible dishonour.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll get it back for you,’ said Bryant with confidence. ‘My partner here will take statements from the guests while I search for the ring.’
‘The prince has had innocent men and women put to death in his country,’ one of the partygoers told May. ‘His repressive regime is coming to an end. Perhaps a greater power is making him pay for his crimes.’
‘Wow, man, bad karma,’ said a young man in granny glasses and a psychedelic tunic. ‘It’s like a supernatural force is working, possibly with, er, the government.’
‘What are you smoking?’ asked Bryant.
‘I think we can eliminate Bruce Forsyth,’ said May.
The short version was nobody saw anything.
Bryant stood against the glass and looked back at the crowd, their reflections superimposed over the night landscape. They were bright glowing ghosts, drifting from table to table like bees drawn to pollen.
I’m an idiot, he thought, turning and pushing back through the guests in the direction of the restaurant’s central base. Here, between two absurdly narrow waiters’ stations, stood the steel dumbwaiter to the kitchen on the floor below.
Bryant beckoned to his partner, pointing at the emergency staircase. Together they descended a floor. The chefs froze in surprise as they entered. ‘Has a heavyset bald man with a face like a constipated mastiff come in here?’ asked Bryant.
‘He jumped out of the dumbwaiter and ran off,’ said the head chef. ‘He was about to get my soup ladle around the back of his head, but he’d gone before I could stop him.’
‘So we’ve lost him,’ said May.
‘Not at all, old bean. I knew if there was trouble it would be caused by the person closest to Miss Qamar ud-Din, so I pointed him out to the Daily Mirror photographer and said if he leaves early, detain him. It was in his interests to do so as there’s a story in it for him.’
They took the stairs because it was faster than commandeering the lift. In the foyer they found the photographer taking shots of a police constable sitting on the bodyguard, who was swearing colourfully and blasphemously in several languages.
‘Have you searched him?’ asked May.
‘Thought we’d leave that for you,’ said the photographer. ‘When I got near him he bit me.’
‘I asked him to behave until you got here, Mr Bryant,’ said the PC, ‘but he called me a—well, he suggested that my mother was no stranger to the embrace of a camel.’
‘I’m sure you’ve been called worse,’ said Bryant. ‘Let’s see what’s in his pockets.’
The Monarch of the Sands was a sunlit desert encased in crystal. The flaw that made the diamond glow saffron made it a magical symbol of the prince’s country.
‘I don’t understand,’ said May. ‘I saw you standing there just after the lights came back on. You already knew she’d had the diamond stolen without even seeing that it was missing from her finger.’
‘Well, I did have an idea it was about to happen,’ Bryant admitted. ‘When I listened to the party chatter I overheard Miss Qamar tell someone she’d been given a new bodyguard. And I couldn’t help noticing he looked remarkably like “Nosher” Stibbs from Canning Town.’
‘But that’s not why you reacted like that.’
‘No, it was for a much simpler reason. When the lights went out—not the storm’s fault, I suspect, but someone the bodyguard bribed—Miss Qamar was sitting at one of the VIP tables. When the power returned, she was in a different seat.’
‘So what had happened?’
‘I think we’ll find that the bodyguard slipped something into her orange juice a few minutes earlier. As soon as it was dark and the outside view provided the only lighting in the room, “Nosher” removed her from the room and took her to the central waiters’ station, where he managed to get the ring off, possibly with the help of an accomplice. Then he returned her to her chair. But he slipped up in the dark. The restaurant revolves 360 degrees every twenty-two minutes, which means that in the time he had been removing the ring from her finger, her chair had shifted about forty-five degrees. He returned with her from the waiters’ station and sat her down in the wrong place, outside of the V
IP section. The moment I saw her there, I knew what had happened.’
‘Let’s go and return the ring,’ said May. ‘We could have a bit of fun and tell her the culprit was Michael Caine.’
Bryant & May and the Breadcrumb Trail
‘Arthur—don’t do that.’
‘What?’ Bryant looked up at his partner in surprised innocence.
‘Take your knife out of the toaster. Or at least unplug it first.’
Bryant waggled the table knife between his thumb and forefinger. ‘You know, when I was a lad we used to get a two-prong plug into a three-prong socket by wedging the third hole open with a pencil stub. Everyone’s so safety-conscious now.’
‘So you’re prepared to risk electrocution for a slice of toast. Amazing.’ May rattled his copy of The Guardian and vanished behind it once more.
The detectives were seated opposite each other in their private room (private insofar as it had a lockable door) on the first floor of the Peculiar Crimes Unit, King’s Cross. Outside, the steady rainfall made the sound of a bonfire. Bareheaded office workers in soaked summer shirts darted between vans and taxis; the rain has to be heavy to make a real Londoner raise an umbrella.
Bryant had the toaster balanced on a pile of encyclopaedias, alongside a 1960s Pifco Teasmade that invariably shot boiling water over their paperwork.
‘We should get a modern coffee machine with those little capsules,’ said May. ‘You can choose the strength of your coffee.’
‘I don’t want to choose the strength of my coffee, I want a cup of tea. Leaves, not bags. Whole milk. No sugar.’
‘You’re stuck in the past,’ sighed May, returning to his paper.
‘I’m not, I’m just too busy catching up to deal with the present. I’ll get to the present eventually.’ Bryant dug his knife back into the toaster.
‘You mean you’ll get to it at some time in the future.’
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