Christopher Fowler

by Bryant; May 08 - Off the Rails (v5)

‘Own it. So I needed fennel for the potion. And cheese-and-onion crisps.’

  ‘You put crisps in a love potion?’

  ‘No, I was just hungry. So I put some bacon into the eye-level grill and went to the shops.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Well, you layer crisps on either side of the bacon and it makes a wonderful sandwich.’

  ‘No, I mean why did you leave the grill unattended?’

  ‘You know how my concentration has been since I fell off my bike.’

  ‘No, how?’

  ‘It wasn’t a question. Anyway, when I came back, the kitchen was on fire. Luckily I’d left a plastic washing-up bowl full of water on the rack above the grill, and when it melted it put out the flames.’

  ‘That was a piece of luck,’ said Bryant with heavy sarcasm. ‘Just think, things could have turned out quite badly.’ He surveyed the dripping, blackened remains of the kitchen.

  ‘Well, they did,’ said Maggie. ‘The Polish bus driver went back to his wife. And some of his passengers tried to sue him.’

  ‘I don’t think you should make any more love potions.’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t a love potion. It was something to make him sleep so he’d go back on days. Unfortunately it worked too well. He fell asleep at the wheel and went through the window of a lap-dancing club in Liverpool Street. Which is why I’m painting the room pink. Because I can’t get the bacon smoke off.’ She raised the chain of her spectacles and squinted at him through polka-dot lenses.

  Talking to Maggie was like using some kind of malfunctioning space communicator. Bryant decided to get to the point and keep it simple. ‘I know you’ve got a memory like a sieve, but I did ask you on the phone whether you knew anything about odd happenings in underground stations. I can be more specific now. Magnetism.’

  Maggie peered over the top of her paint-spattered spectacles and frowned at him. ‘Oh, you know about that, do you?’

  ‘No. That’s why I’m asking you.’

  ‘No, I asked Yu.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘No, Mrs Yu. I asked her to pop round. She’s in the garden.’

  Maggie’s garden was a makeshift pet cemetery with a few desperate bluebells thrusting out of cracked paving stones. The goldfish had shuffled off its mortal coil in an earth-filled chimney pot, and even the budgie had embraced the light in a coal scuttle. Bryant looked out of the kitchen window and got a fright. For a moment he thought the moon had come out. Mrs Yu had a perfectly round white face and was peering in. She looked frozen.

  ‘Sorry, love, I didn’t realise I’d locked you out,’ said Maggie, opening the door.

  ‘It’s bloody perishing in your yard,’ said Mrs Yu. Although she was very Chinese in appearance, she had a strong cockney accent. ‘I was chatting to your dog.’

  ‘Her dog’s dead,’ said Bryant.

  ‘Yes, he’s buried under the fishpond. Bolivar says he’s very happy, but he’s not so happy about being so near Happy.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Bryant. Things were becoming confused again.

  ‘Happy was my cat,’ Maggie explained. ‘She’s buried near the dog, Bolivar. Mrs Yu knows a lot about atmospheric disturbances, so I invited her over. Plus, I wanted her to return my wok.’

  Mrs Yu laughed a lot. She tittered at the end of every utterance. When she wasn’t laughing she was at least chuckling, and even when the chuckles faded she was still smiling. She plumped her big round frame down in the widest, most comfortable chair and elucidated. ‘So you want to know about magnetism. There was a story going around a few years ago about the tube. The guards started saying that the addition of extra metal floodgates throughout the system created some kind of supercharged atmospheric whirlpool. It was only supposed to happen when trains passed through the tunnels with great frequency, during rush hours. See, before that, electrical particles ionised the atmosphere and escaped upwards on the air currents. But the iron flood doors slowly became magnetized, creating differences in pressure that made passengers feel sick and dizzy.’

  ‘I’m not sure I put much store in that,’ said Maggie. ‘I mean, electrical whirlpools—it sounds a bit like those adverts for shower gel with ginseng extract to wake you up. You know, pseudo-science.’

  ‘That’s good, coming from a woman who believes you can find water under the ground just by wandering about with a stick.’

  ‘Dowsing is scientifically proven,’ Maggie insisted. ‘I can always find water.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ said Bryant. ‘You’re a Londoner; it’s impossible to get away from the bloody stuff. So, no likelihood of someone becoming disoriented and passing out in the underground due to magnetic forces, then? Because I’ve heard there are powerful ley lines passing through King’s Cross.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Mrs Yu, ‘but ley lines are just pathways between ancient sacred sites. There are other hidden powers at work under London. Wherever all four elements interact, you create conflict. King’s Cross is one of the very worst sites—’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The electric trains and power cables—fire. The underground rivers and pipelines—water. London clay—earth. The winds in the subway system—air. There are storms down there that disrupt the psychic atmosphere.’

  ‘Meaning what exactly, you get headaches? You catch the wrong train? You start seeing dead people?’

  Mrs Yu happily wagged a finger at him. ‘Ill humours are not such a crazy concept. The Victorians believed germs were transported through miasma—the air itself. That’s why they built Victoria Park in Mile End, as a barrier to protect the city’s rich property owners from working-class diseases. They thought the germs would float across to them on the breeze.’

  ‘Yes, but they were wrong, weren’t they? John Snow discovered that cholera was water-borne. You think there’s such a thing as bad air?’

  ‘Well, we know that electromagnetic disruption can actually make people ill, and the jury’s still out on radio masts, isn’t it? There’s still no proper air-conditioning in the London Underground system. Back when the trains were pulled by steam engines, the engineers tried everything to clear the air. They built ventilation shafts that came up behind fake house-fronts in Bayswater. Later, when the Victoria Line was built, a structure called the Tower of the Winds was constructed in a garden square up in Islington. It was meant to introduce cool breezes into the tunnels, but wasn’t much more successful.’

  ‘I was just reading about plans to chill the subway system during heat waves by using water from the lost rivers,’ Bryant interjected.

  ‘Nothing ever works,’ Mrs Yu said, tittering. ‘The air beneath King’s Cross remains old and stagnant. It’s polluted with all kinds of toxins, and its composition changes all the time.’

  ‘Well, here’s my problem.’ Bryant seated himself wearily and helped himself to a ginger biscuit. ‘My problem is—dear Lord, it sounds so absurd. How can I explain this? Some of our most successful prosecutions have been built around a tiny shred of evidence, a piece of broken glass, a boot print, an overheard phrase. This investigation hangs on a sticker, a travel card, a few odds and sods and a bad feeling. Nothing more. They’ll hang me out to dry if I get it wrong this time.’

  ‘Then let me see if I can help,’ said Mrs Yu.

  Bryant set out his case. ‘A student died of tobacco poisoning in the underground. But even though—as you say—the air in the tube is bad, there’s been no smoking down there for years. My coroner says someone sprayed the lad with the stuff. According to his medical records, he suffered from asthmatic attacks. We didn’t find an inhaler on him, so I’m thinking that the killer substituted his inhaler for one containing poison, then took it away. But I also have to look into the possibility of accidental death. You don’t suppose certain toxins—heavier-than-air ones—could have sunk to the bottom of the system and poisoned him, do you? Through these whirlpool things? We tested the air and found nothing.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprisi
ng,’ said Mrs Yu. ‘Every time a train rushes past it displaces the air and transfers it to another magnetic collection point.’

  ‘Surely it would be easier to accept your coroner’s theory about the spray?’ asked Maggie. ‘I don’t know why you’re making life difficult for yourself.’

  ‘It’s what I do,’ said Bryant glumly. ‘If his death was an accident, then Gloria Taylor was also an accident, and suddenly there’s no case. Which would be wonderful, because it would mean no-one else is in danger. The alternative is to look for a clever, calculating killer who murders randomly, without remorse, and who leaves absolutely no trace.’

  ‘Well, it seems to me that you’re caught between two worlds, Arthur—the one that lies beneath London, and the hidden world in which this person you seek moves and connects. For once, you must try to think like a civilian and not like a policeman. I think the investigation is testing your powers in new ways. The tube network isn’t the only ghost system in operation—there’s an entire world of invisible connections we never normally get to see. It’s just a matter of finding the key. Let’s consult the cards.’

  She pulled a key from her crimson coiffure, unlocked a drawer in her kitchen table and brought out a packet of tarot cards. ‘These are my special “Black Ace” Russian Tarots. I keep them locked up because they’re dangerous in the wrong hands.’ Maggie shuffled and Mrs Yu snickered.

  ‘I hope they’re more accurate than your attempt to read tea bags,’ said Bryant.

  ‘Take a card.’ She offered him the pack.

  Bryant withdrew one and looked at it. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, that’s the nine of clubs,’ he exclaimed in annoyance. ‘I can never find it in a normal deck.’

  ‘Oh, that shouldn’t be there.’ Maggie snatched back the card. ‘Deirdre and I were playing poker last night. Choose five more and turn them over.’

  He set down the five lurid pictures: a man being struck by lightning, a baby being bitten on the face by a cobra, a pair of Siamese twins being sawn in half, some lepers burying a screaming man alive and a skeleton on a drip. ‘Oh, charming,’ said Bryant. ‘I take it my future well-being is under question.’

  ‘You mustn’t take them literally,’ said Maggie. ‘They’re filled with codes and symbols. I’ll tell you what I see. Six suspects, three deaths, and a desperate flight through tunnels of darkness. Do you want a piece of cake?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Bryant, ‘give me a brandy. Listen, there’s something I wanted to show you, but I can’t get it to work.’ He emptied the contents of his overcoat pocket onto the kitchen table, pulled a Liquorice Allsort off his phone and passed the handset to Mrs Yu. ‘Can you get it to the section with photos?’

  Mrs Yu flicked open the photo file with practised ease and examined the contents. Maggie peered over her shoulder. The screen showed a series of brightly coloured patterns, mostly diamonds and zigzags, like the backs of playing cards. Mrs Yu shrugged and snickered. ‘You want to know what these are?’

  ‘Yes, one of our detective constables forwarded them to me from the dead man’s laptop. What are they?’

  ‘You should know; you see them all the time.’

  ‘Well?’ It irritated Bryant when others took pleasure in knowing more than he did.

  ‘They’re tube train seats,’ said Mrs Yu, chortling away. ‘Different livery patterns in different colour combinations. Different pictures for the different London lines.’

  Bryant grimaced in annoyance. ‘Why would anyone want to take pictures of seat patterns?’

  ‘You’re the detective,’ said Mrs Yu, as her giggles erupted into bubbling laughter.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  On the Line

  It was now 11:15 on Friday night, and the surveillance teams were still working across London, hoping to break the case.

  To keep things fresh, they had swapped their subjects. Longbright had followed Nikos Nicolau to the Prince Charles cinema, where the young student sat through a double bill of lesbian vampire movies before returning home. Banbury kept tabs on Rajan Sangeeta, but lost him in between two nightclubs in Greenwich. Bimsley was close by Toby Brooke, who was now drinking alone in a crowded bar on Brick Lane. Mangeshkar took Theo Fontvieille because she could pace him on her motorcycle, and he had now pulled up in Mecklenburgh Square. Renfield was covering Ruby Cates, first at the college, then at the Karma Bar, and finally back to the house. For the most part, the PCU staff had managed to stick to their targets like shadows.

  But there was a flaw in the plan. Nobody was running surveillance on Cassie Field. And Cassie was alone, on a deserted, rainswept railway station in South London.

  ‘I just don’t bloody believe it,’ Theo shouted, hammering up the stairs of the house. ‘Look out the window!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Ruby swung her grey cast to one side and rose from the table, where she was making notes on the rubbishy laptop that had been supplied by Dan Banbury.

  ‘Take a look, damnit. Down there in the street.’

  Ruby thumped her way to the front window and opened the curtains. ‘What? I don’t see anything.’

  ‘Exactly. Someone’s stolen my bloody car! I only left it a minute ago.’

  ‘All right, calm down. Could it have been towed away?’

  ‘What, at eleven o’clock at night? I’m outside of the restriction hours, and anyway, I have a parking permit.’

  ‘You know how Camden traffic wardens are.’

  ‘No, it’s been stolen. I knew it. You can’t keep anything nice in this city without some dickhead resenting you. I’m going to kill someone.’ He stormed up and down in a rage.

  ‘Okay, the first thing to do is to ring the Jamestown Road car pound, just to make sure it hasn’t been towed.’

  Theo was pulled up short. ‘How do you know where the car pound is?’

  ‘I can drive, I just can’t afford a car at the moment. Then call the police, or better still, get over to the station and fill in the necessary forms. If it has been stolen, you won’t be able to claim on your insurance without a case number. You didn’t leave the keys in the ignition again, did you?’

  ‘No, of course not, I only—’ He patted his pockets. ‘Oh, no. I don’t understand. Someone must have been watching the house and waiting for me to return, standing there in the bloody rain—I only just got out of the bloody thing.’

  ‘And you did it again. You should never have had the car customised. Come on, then,’ she stuck her hands on her hips defiantly, ‘do something about it instead of just standing there feeling sorry for yourself.’

  Bimsley had lost him. Only minutes ago, he had watched Toby Brooke heading back to the packed Brick Lane bar, where he had ordered himself a Kingfisher, but then the student had simply vanished. Bimsley tried the toilet but it was empty. The bar had been constructed on the ground floor of an old carpet warehouse, and, he now discovered, had a rear exit along a corridor on the far side of the building. Brooke had given him the slip. Furious with himself for having made such a fundamental error, he called Longbright and explained what had happened.

  ‘I’ll tell the others,’ said Longbright. ‘We need to know that the rest are all accounted for.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Janice. It was my own stupid fault.’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up. You could try the tube station.’

  ‘No good. We’re halfway between Aldgate East and Liverpool Street.’

  ‘Then you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of finding him. Put in a call to the house and see if he’s gone back there.’

  Banbury was having similar trouble keeping tabs on Rajan Sangeeta.

  Minutes ago the Indian student had received a call on his phone, and had immediately conducted a search of the bar where he was drinking. Someone had clearly tipped him off that the housemates were being followed. If a warning had gone out, it meant that the others were attempting to slip off the radar, too. Sangeeta waited until the bar had become severely congested, then pushed away through the crowd, leaving Banbury trailing far be
hind. Only two members of the PCU—Longbright and the late Liberty DuCaine—had received surveillance training, so when the student made his move, Banbury found himself in trouble. Longbright had told him to fix the height of his target in his mind, but the room was being strafed with rotating rainbow lights, and Sangeeta had already slipped out through the throng.

  Banbury was furious at being tricked. He called Longbright. ‘Has anyone else made a run for it?’

  ‘Toby Brooke’s done a bunk; the others all seem to be accounted for,’ the DS replied. ‘There aren’t enough of us to go around the clock. Go home, Dan. Get some sleep. Nothing’s going to change tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Banbury took one last walk around the pulsating bar, then wearily abandoned his search.

  Cassie Field was waiting for her train on Westcombe Park station. She shivered and stared at the truculent downpour as it sluiced and slopped from the roof, and told herself once more that she had thrown away the evening. She had sought advice from an old schoolfriend, but had arrived at Sophie’s Greenwich apartment to find her drunk and weepy. Sophie had been dumped by her creepy real-estate agent boyfriend and was consoling herself with her second bottle of bad Burgundy. Cassie had been hoping for some prudent advice about her own love life, but instead had spent the evening listening to Sophie’s increasingly slurred complaints about men, before having to hold her head over the sink. Feeling alone and friendless, she headed back through the downpour to the station and just missed a Charing Cross–bound train.

  Cassie retied her acid pink jacket and watched the yellow carriage lights recede into the distance, as the train swayed and sparked toward the city. There was nothing to hear now but the sound of falling rain.

  She wanted to talk to someone, but most of her friends regularly visited the Karma Bar, and there was a good chance that her confessions would reach the residents of Mecklenburgh Square. Her best bet was to try Sophie again, once she had sobered up and cleared her hangover. What a mess. Cassie’s jacket was stained with rain and red wine, and the high heels she had chosen to wear had blistered her feet. The station platform was deserted; the overland line was used less frequently now that the underground reached down into South London.