Bryant & May and the Bleeding Heart

by Christopher Fowler - Bryant

  ‘I wish you had confided in me from the outset,’ he said, standing beside her and looking down at the grave-marker. ‘It would have prevented so much tragedy.’

  ‘Would it have changed anything?’ When she raised her eyes to his, he saw that she had been crying. She wore a drab beige raincoat, like an early presage of autumn. ‘You don’t understand, Mr Bryant. We’re a typical London family. We take care of problems without help from others. Oh, we’ll talk to the neighbours over a cup of tea, but we don’t share, not really. We’re not emotional people. We try to make things right. If we fail, we simply don’t discuss the problem again. We were all supposed to have become more open after Princess Diana’s death, but all that “sharing” – it never really took hold. It’s just not us.’

  Bryant stepped closer. He could see the tiredness in her features, how anxious she was to tell someone what had happened, but even now he knew she would not admit the truth without further encouragement.

  ‘It must have been very difficult for you,’ he said gently, pushing at the wet earth with his walking stick. ‘Seeing the grave repeatedly dug up. You can’t have had much sleep lately.’

  ‘You have no idea how awful it’s been,’ she said, still studying the freshly turned turf at her feet. ‘To know what I know and not be able to …’

  ‘Let me see if I can help. Krishna Jhadav bullied and compromised your husband. He told him about Defluotech’s working practices because he honestly thought your husband wouldn’t have a problem with them. But he was wrong, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Thomas hated having to know,’ she said. ‘Every filthy little trick, every backhander and bribe. “All part of the game” – that was what Mr Jhadav told him. Is money laundering just a part of the game? Is paying off safety officials? Thomas lay awake at night thinking about what the company was doing. He thought of going to the police. Finally he told Mr Jhadav that he couldn’t handle the account any more. It was he who gave it up, not the other way around. But you can’t take back knowledge, can you? Not once it’s been shared. It preyed on his mind. I think he thought back over his life and decided it hadn’t amounted to very much.’

  ‘You called Jhadav on the morning of your husband’s death.’

  ‘No, Mr Bryant, I called him back. He had already tried to call me.’

  ‘Do you think they were money laundering? Is that what your husband told you?’

  ‘As far as I can tell they were quite open about it. They made a lot of cash they couldn’t bank, and needed Thomas to hold it somewhere for them.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘No. Mr Jhadav kept asking about the rest of his files. Then on the morning of the funeral – I was already dressed in black, ready for the service, and to keep my mind occupied I started sorting through the last of the folders. I put them in a box and left it out for collection. In the bag containing the contract-termination papers there was a small envelope addressed to Thomas, so I thought nothing of opening it. I was within my rights as a widow, surely?

  ‘Inside was a little plastic memory stick. Nothing else. I tried it in Martin’s laptop but I couldn’t open it. But I knew it had to be important if Mr Jhadav had left it with Thomas for safekeeping. It was still in my hand when the car arrived. It was raining. It only rains at funerals in films, doesn’t it? But there we were, standing in St George’s Gardens, just me and Martin and an aunt we hadn’t seen for years in the falling drizzle.’

  She looked at the trampled grassy space between the burial plot and the trees, remembering. ‘Mr Orton and Mr Rummage were here from the funeral parlour. There was no vicar; we’re not a religious family. We were waiting for the coffin to be moved into place, but Mr Rummage said they’d take care of it immediately after the service. Apparently that’s what they do in these circumstances. So I said a few words, and threw a handful of earth into the grave. I don’t know what made me do it – but I threw the memory stick in as well. It seemed like the appropriate thing to do. I just wanted to be rid of it all. Martin went home, but I stayed to watch them lower the coffin. And whatever nasty little secret Mr Jhadav had left on his flash drive stayed with my husband in his grave, under the casket.’

  ‘Did you tell him what you’d done, taunt him with the knowledge?’

  ‘No. Not in so many words. I just said I’d buried the evidence.’

  ‘Did he ask what you meant by that?’

  ‘No, but when I heard about the plot being dug up, it was obvious he understood.’

  ‘You could have simply denounced him,’ said Bryant. Vanessa Wallace looked him in the eye. ‘I’d have had to explain why I knew. And that would have made Martin hate me even more. Instead I let Jhadav hound me, and I baited him. Then it all just got out of hand, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.’

  44

  THE ROSE GARDEN BOFFIN

  It took Orton and Rummage just over an hour to remove the coffin again. The wet earth had not been tamped down, and was easy to remove. ‘Third time lucky,’ Rummage chuckled. ‘I’m not being funny, Mr Bryant, but I’ve never had a client move about so much. In the grave, out of the grave, I think he’ll be glad of a lie-down after this. Where’s Mrs Wallace?’

  ‘I sent her home,’ said Bryant, relighting his pipe. ‘I need you to sift the earth immediately beneath the centre of the casket. We’re looking for a small piece of black plastic. One of those computer thingies. A dingle.’

  ‘A dongle,’ said Mr Rummage. ‘Right you are.’ He stopped for a moment. ‘Is that what all this has been about?’

  ‘You probably want to mind your own business at this point.’ Bryant puffed contentedly at his pipe and stood back. There was nothing he enjoyed more than watching others work.

  It was Orton who found it. Rising in the grave like Hamlet fishing for Yorick’s skull, he held the muddy black stick aloft. Bryant gingerly took it from his fingers but didn’t offer to give him a hand out.

  ‘I’ll leave you chaps to tidy up,’ he said. ‘I think it’s safe to say that Mr Wallace will be staying at home from now on.’

  Herbert Constable was not Bryant’s first choice for cracking the flash drive, but none of his other expert freelancers seemed to be available. He was a former MI6 cryptography expert based at the original ‘Station X’ in Bletchley Park, who had retired at the age of seventy-six to tend the rose garden in Regent’s Park. He met Bryant in his shed, tucked behind the piddling fountains and crisply clipped walkways of the park’s Inner Circle.

  Constable reminded Bryant of a grey stick insect, a Giacometti-like figure of a man, awkwardly folded up in a little hut filled with manure bags, pitchforks and plant pots. A whistling kettle and a large brown china teapot sat atop a small stove next to an incredibly filthy computer. Constable blew some dead leaves off the keyboard and gave it a bash to get the dirt out.

  ‘It’s about time you upgraded that thing, isn’t it?’ asked Bryant.

  ‘A computer doesn’t require a new OS every six months just so I can play a new level of Angry Birds on it, Arthur. Actually I’ve stripped this little bugger out and given it some oomph. It may look like a Ford Prefect but it’s a Ferrari under the bonnet. Anyway, I’m waiting until quantum computation is perfected, then I’ll do some serious upgrading. These youngsters wandering about with voice-activated mobiles think they’re so modern, but once retinal tasking and D-Wave System technology is up and running it’ll look like they’re carrying baked-bean cans attached to bits of string. How have you been keeping? I heard you were down at Bletchley recently with Angela – not rekindling an old flame, surely?’

  ‘That’s classified information,’ huffed Bryant. ‘She was helping me with an investigation.fn1 Just as I hope you will. I’ve got a dangle.’ He produced the mud-encrusted flash drive and gave it a wipe with his hankie.

  ‘A dongle. Right, give it here. God, did you have to bury it first?’

  ‘I didn’t bury it, someone else did. I thought you might be able to open it. I’m as technical as a Tunisian.
’ He explained as much of the situation as he knew himself, but in such a Bryantian way that it made virtually no sense.

  At some point Constable gave up listening and inserted the drive into a port on his Mac, wiping a clean patch on his screen. Underneath the dirt was a picture of the rose garden in full glorious bloom. When the folder appeared he double-clicked and waited again. Half a dozen blue-grey files popped up in two lines. Bryant was now at the limit of his technical knowledge, and looked wistfully at the teapot.

  ‘Odd,’ said Constable, running a wrinkled hand through his long grey hair. ‘What’s supposed to be in these things?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Bryant admitted. ‘Hopefully something damning about the financial practices of a waste-management company. Why?’

  ‘I can’t open the files. They’re not password-protected, they’re just empty.’

  ‘Why would someone keep empty files on one of those things? Can I make some tea?’

  ‘It’s already brewed,’ said Constable. ‘I know what you’re like. Give me a minute to think. Whatever’s on this stick, it’s not in the files.’

  Bryant poured thick brown tea into white enamel mugs. ‘But there’s nothing else on it, is there?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Constable. He fiddled about for a few minutes, trying various combinations of keys to no avail.

  ‘It wouldn’t have to be the information itself,’ said Bryant. ‘It could just be the key to where it is.’

  ‘That makes more sense,’ said Constable. ‘The system abbreviates file names for the sake of space. But if I click and hold – as if I was going to rename them – I can read the full titles, yes?’ He gave a low whistle. ‘Well I’m damned. You’re right. The information isn’t in the files themselves, it’s in their names. Look at this.’

  Bryant leaned forward and read the full titles of the little folders. ‘Romanée-Conti’. ‘DRC 1990’. ‘Code 1536’. ‘Palace of Whitehall’. ‘DSQ45106’.

  The first line rang a bell with Bryant; Jhadav had used the pseudonym ‘Roman Conti’ when meeting Stephen Emes at the Bleeding Heart.

  ‘Whitehall Palace,’ Constable said. ‘Funny how the word “Whitehall” has become a metonym for all things governmental. The original building’s gone now, hasn’t it?’

  ‘It burned down in 1698,’ said Bryant absently. ‘The MoD now stands in its place.’

  ‘Do you know what this means?’

  ‘I’ve a pretty good idea,’ said Bryant. ‘Henry the Eighth. He was an inveterate collector of precious objects, you know. In 1536 he had a wine cellar built in the basement of the Whitehall Palace. I imagine that when the directors of a company go into the money-laundering business, the biggest problem they face is how to invest their provenance-free cash into something that will continue to appreciate in value. Run those first two titles together and Google them, will you?’

  Constable did as instructed and read from the screen. ‘“Romanée-Conti. In 1996, eight bottles of Romanée-Conti DRC 1990 fetched $224,900 at auction at Sotheby’s London. Seven of the bottles were subsequently lost during exportation. The single remaining bottle instantly became one of the world’s rarest and most valuable wines, commanding many times the original valuation.” It says here, “One of the prime reasons for the high price of this wine is the low soil yield in the area of France where it is produced. It takes the produce of three Pinot Noir grape vines to make one bottle. The average age of the vines is fifty-three years …” There’s a lot of guff about that year having below-average rainfall followed by rain, which staved off vine rot, but you get the general idea.’

  ‘I certainly do,’ murmured Bryant. ‘I don’t suppose Jhadav could be trusted to keep the director’s ill-gotten gains under his own name somewhere, so he invested it. The only part of the Whitehall Palace that survived was Henry the Eighth’s wine vault. It’s now in the basement of the Ministry of Defence.’

  ‘Then what we’ve got here is a key to where he left the wine, its label, location, pass-code and item number,’ said Constable, ejecting the flash drive and handing it back.

  ‘Hang on, can you write it down for me on, you know, a proper bit of paper?’

  ‘I already have.’ He handed Bryant a yellow slip.

  ‘Thanks, Herbert. This has been most enlightening,’ said Bryant. ‘Can I take a buttonhole on the way out? Nothing rare, something red with a bit of scent will do. We must see a bit more of each other.’

  ‘You could come by and give me a hand in the rose garden sometime,’ said Constable. ‘It’s a lot more therapeutic than digging up dead bodies.’

  fn1 See Bryant & May and the Invisible Code

  45

  ONE FROM THE VAULT

  Martin Wallace led the way down the wet stone steps cut into the side of the building. There were few passers-by in this dingy corner of Clerkenwell. ‘I’ve only got an hour’s practice booked and I’m already fifteen minutes late,’ he said. ‘You didn’t have to come with me.’

  ‘I wanted to,’ Sennen told him. ‘I had a private study double period anyway. Martin, do you think your mother knows more than she’s letting on? Is that why she started following people?’

  ‘My mother … All I can tell you is that since my old man died, she’s had some kind of weird persecution complex. We don’t have much to do with one another. Nothing she says or does ever makes much sense to me. Dad was the only one I cared about.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like him, the way you talked.’

  ‘You don’t know much about males, do you?’ He pushed open a red fire-escape door and held it open. ‘It’s quicker this way. Mind the puddle.’

  They were standing in a steel and concrete basement below one of the larger jewellery stores in Hatton Garden. ‘This used to be a storage vault for diamonds,’ Martin explained. ‘A lot of the older Jewish companies have moved out now, but they still own the buildings, so they rent out the spaces. It’s perfect as an archery court. Hardly anybody ever uses it so I can practise whenever I want.’

  He led the way to a grey steel locker at the rear of the room, and changed his sweatshirt for a tight black vest. Sennen could not help noticing the muscles in his upper arms.

  ‘How’s your dad getting on with the case?’ he called back, removing an aluminium case from the shelf and opening it.

  ‘They’re going to make an arrest any time now,’ she said. ‘He tells me everything. Sometimes I help him out on investigations.’

  ‘Like this one? They interviewed my mother like she was a criminal.’

  ‘They have to talk to everyone, so they can eliminate suspects.’

  ‘So she’s a suspect?’

  ‘Of course. And so are you.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  She pointed to the crossbow in his hands. ‘I think you know why. How good are you with that thing?’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ he said slowly. ‘Have you got an apple or something in that bag of yours?’

  ‘No – I’ve got an orange.’

  ‘Take it over to the target and put it on your head.’

  Sennen gave a nervous laugh. ‘No. That’s how William Burroughs killed his wife.’

  ‘He used a handgun and a glass of water. And he was off his face. What? Don’t you think I can do it?’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I know you were involved, Martin.’ She made it sound like common knowledge.

  Martin shook his head and smiled at the ground. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I told you. My father is working on the case.’

  ‘They don’t know the truth.’

  ‘Ah, but I do.’ Her eyes were knowing, her smile flirtatious.

  ‘I don’t see how that’s possible. You don’t even know me.’

  ‘I do. I know everything about you,’ she said confidently. ‘I’ve watched—’

  He cut her short, pointing. ‘Go to the target.’

  ‘What?’

  He indicated the straw board
at the other end of the range. ‘Now.’

  ‘Why?’ It was dawning on Sennen that she was no longer in control of the situation.

  ‘Just do what you’re told.’

  ‘No, Martin.’

  ‘Go to the target, Sennen.’

  Picking up her rucksack, he gripped her hand and led her across the concrete floor to the far end of the room, which was divided off with chicken wire. ‘All you have to do is forget what I’m doing and stand very, very still.’

  He pulled down a fresh white paper target and placed her in front of it, carefully arranging her so that she was facing him beneath the spotlights. Then he took the orange from her bag and balanced it on her hair. At first it wouldn’t stay in one place, so he flattened it slightly and tried again.

  ‘Martin, please don’t do this.’

  ‘Don’t move. If the orange falls off, I’ll shoot you in the head. Do you understand?’ He turned and marked out his paces.

  She found herself shaking involuntarily. At any minute it seemed her legs might collapse from under her. She needed to find a bathroom very badly.

  The orange was starting to slip. Tilting her head, she fought to keep it from falling. She could hear water trickling in a steady, mournful stream somewhere behind her. The floor around her shoes looked wet. Even though it was cold in the basement, sweat trickled down to the small of her back. She realized she had behaved like an idiot. Nobody knew she was there. She had even turned off her mobile so that they wouldn’t be interrupted.

  Martin stood with his feet apart and hefted the crossbow on to his arm. ‘Do you still think I killed them, Sennen?’ he called.

  She was terrified now. ‘No. I didn’t say that. I just said you were involved.’

  ‘Why would you say such a thing?’

  ‘I wanted you to – to—’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I thought you’d notice me.’