Bryant & May 09; The Memory of Blood b&m-9

by Christopher Fowler

  ∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

  26

  Disinformation

  There was something wrong with Leslie Faraday’s chair. It squeaked every time he tipped it back. Faraday had sat his broad bottom on it every day of his working life for the last fourteen years, and took it with him when he moved departments. Like its owner, it was noisy and had an overstuffed red seat. It tilted and swivelled and had fat wooden arms that helped to support his increasing girth. Faraday leaned forward and punched out his PA’s internal number.

  “Miss Queally, could you get maintenance to come up here with an oilcan?”

  There was a sigh of impatience. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “And can you bring in the file on the PCU?”

  “Which one? There are so many.”

  “Just dig out the latest. And brew some fresh tea, will you? I’m spitting feathers.” The portly Home Office liaison officer unsheathed himself from the chair and gave it an experimental wiggle. It squealed in protest. Sighing, he went to the window and looked down into the tiled Whitehall courtyard, at the palms and ferns, the pacing executives on their BlackBerrys. He saw the same view every day. It was like being in prison, only with more paperwork. It seemed he had spent his life peering out from cages: through the bars of his nursery pen at his family home in Norwich, through the mullioned windows of his prep school in Cambridge, through the stained glass of his college chapel in Bristol. He was happily institutionalized, and if someone was to open the door of his office and boot him unceremoniously into the outside world without his black umbrella and initialled briefcase, he suspected he would creep around the back of the building and return via the service bay, to remain in place until the day he died, after which he would be technically freed from his contract.

  He knew, as soon as he heard the news, that Oskar Kasavian would be over to see him. He dreaded visits from the Home Office Internal Security Supervisor. Where Faraday bumbled and caused offence, Kasavian focused and targeted and made others fearful. He reminded his staffers of a Stalinist apparatchik preparing to erase malefactors from history. His laser glare made subordinates fidget, and his reports damned the innocent along with the guilty. Faraday stood at the window watching him crossing the courtyard on his way to the building, his coat flapping like a vampire’s cape. Was it pure coincidence that the pale sun chose this moment to cloak itself in cloud?

  Faraday searched his desk for evidence of inefficiency, knowing that Kasavian would home in on his faults like an airport Alsatian sniffing out drugs. He tried to remember if the supervisor had a favourite biscuit (this trait alone providing an insight into the smallness of the civil servant’s mind) but came up empty, for he had never seen Kasavian nourished by anything other than night and misfortune.

  In a fug of panic, Faraday searched his hard drive for anything untoward. Luckily, that embarrassing fracas after his off-colour remarks at the Down’s syndrome fundraising dinner, and his display of support during an NHS recruitment campaign for an organization funded by the tobacco lobby – those mistakes could be written off as mis-briefs. But the latest PCU mess was harder to dismiss. He was struggling with a way forward when the door whispered itself open and Kasavian glided in.

  Oskar Kasavian had no time for pleasantries or platitudes, even as a wrong-footing device; he preferred to plunge in, shake things up and leave before the inevitable tsunami of blame and recrimination began. “I understand the Peculiar Crimes Unit is investigating Gail Strong. I assume you know who she is.”

  “Yes, she’s the granddaughter of the Lord Commissioner of the Treasury and the daughter of the Minister for Public Buildings.”

  “Well done. Before I come to ask how this happened, perhaps you could explain why you thought it was in the nation’s interest to allow this investigation to proceed without recourse to a higher authority.” He spoke slowly and clearly, like a judge pronouncing a death sentence.

  Faraday had trouble following that train of thought. His palms were sweating and his jacket felt suddenly constricting. He wracked his atrophied brain for an answer but came up with nothing positive, because the truth was that it had happened before he was even aware of the circumstances. He had read about it in a free newspaper on the way to work, like everyone else. He knew that the most important thing to do now was appear confident and sure of his facts, so he stuttered and waffled.

  “The thing is, none of us realized Miss Strong was directly involved. I mean, the PCU’s cases get flagged up whenever they come in, but the notes just cover the outline of the investigation, they don’t go into detail. Jack Renfield has refused to keep us apprised of the situation ever since we fell out with him. The first we heard about the extent of Miss Strong’s involvement was when the minister called.” To scream at us for letting her name get into the news again, he remembered.

  “I have to assume you understand the implications of this situation,” said Kasavian slowly. “Even you can’t be that stupid. There is a credit crisis. There are those who consider the minister’s daughter to be a reckless, dim, spendthrift little tart, photographed falling out of nightclubs while those who pay her father’s salary have their benefits cut.” Kasavian studied Faraday’s blinking face. “I’m making this too difficult for you, aren’t I? Let’s put it this way. Given the situation, do you think the general public will be for or against the minister when he tries to railroad through the latest round of spending cuts later this month?”

  He watched Faraday’s mouth open and shut like a beached sea bass. “Still too complicated? Then let’s try this. What do you think will happen if you now try to divert the Peculiar Crimes Unit away from investigating the Right Honourable Gentleman’s daughter?”

  A look of horror dawned on Faraday’s plump face.

  “That’s right, we’ll be seen to be perverting the course of justice with the tacit approval of a government minister. An incredible insight into the workings of the public mind. And all because you didn’t act in time. So what happens next? Well, there are several possibilities, not including the one where we encourage you to fall on your sword.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Faraday stammered.

  “Of course not; your stupidity is largely genetic and a by-product of your education. I suppose I could let you flounder around looking for a solution, but I think it would be better for all of us if I tell you exactly what to do. First and most obviously, you’re going to remove Gail Strong from the investigation by shipping her off to some flyblown country where communications technology consists of two baked bean cans and a length of string. Then you’re going to discredit the Unit by getting them to pin the blame on the wrong person.”

  “How will I do that?”

  “By encouraging Arthur Bryant to run with his instincts. He’s as mad as a bat and will follow any lead you give him provided it makes no sense whatsoever. Come up with something that will appeal to his inner crackpot. Here’s a little starter for you. Robert Kramer is an opposition party donor. He pays them out of an offshore fund he set up with his accountant called Cruikshank Holdings. We’ve been looking to use that against him when the time was right. According to my sources, the PCU already thinks he’s the most likely suspect in the case because of his bad relations with his wife. Bryant has harboured suspicions about Kramer from the outset. Now you just need a way to confirm them.”

  “You want to secure a conviction against a man who might be innocent?” asked Faraday, appalled.

  “I didn’t say that. But it would suit everyone if he was arrested, whether it turns out that he’s innocent or guilty.”

  “I’m not sure I understand – ”

  “If he’s innocent, the Unit will be blamed for wrongful arrest, and I can act against them. If he’s guilty, we remove a source of party revenue, taint the system by association and find another way to blame the PCU for not acting sooner.”

  “Why is it so important to you?” asked Faraday, undergoing a nanosecond of lucid thought. “Why are you so intent o
n closing them down?”

  Kasavian looked as though he’d been struck in the face with a codfish. Could this insignificant little time-server actually have the temerity to be growing testicles? “Because,” he said, very slowly, as if explaining to a simple child, “there is no room in the government’s structure for a stalactite.”

  “A stalactite?” Faraday repeated in confusion.

  “A calcified accretion from years gone past. You can’t control these people. They stray off-message and destabilize the system.”

  “Then why don’t we simply slash their budget?”

  “What budget? Their salaries are minimal, their operational costs are negligible, they’re being studied by the IPCC as an economic test case and the Chief Inspector of Constabulary himself upholds them as a shining example of independent policing. With so much background attention on them, anything we do will be thoroughly examined, which is why you have to proceed with caution. There must be no trail back to us. Your safest bet is to employ an intermediary – and I think I have the very person you need.”

  Kasavian wrote an email address on a slip of paper and handed it to Faraday. “Destroy that after you’ve entered it, and erase your file path after each electronic communication.”

  “I don’t know how – um, Miss Queally might know how to, er – ”

  “I expect a result from you before the weekend is out.”

  “We can’t get to Arthur Bryant this way,” Faraday objected, reading the slip. “I don’t think he’s easily swayed by the opposite sex.”

  “Who said anything about Bryant? I want you to use this woman to go after John May. He’s the only person Bryant listens to. She’ll plant her information, May will feed it back, Kramer will be arrested and when the lady in question is summoned back for a deposition, she’ll have mysteriously disappeared.”

  And with that he was gone, slipping from the room without, it seemed to the civil servant, either turning his back or opening the door, like a wraith passing through a castle wall.

  ∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

  27

  Source

  Arthur Bryant dug out an old penny and inserted it in Madame Blavatsky. “I say, come and see this, Raymondo.”

  Land reluctantly dragged himself over to the glass case containing the tattered medium. “This is all a load of old rubbish,” he complained, but watched over Bryant’s shoulder.

  There was a clonk, and Madame Blavatsky’s eyes glowed to life. Her gears creaked and groaned as she reached out a grubby, rubbery hand, dropping her prediction into the slot beneath her. Bryant pulled out the card and read it.

  LIFE AND DEATH ARE INDIVISIBLE

  “Not very exact, is it?” said Land. “I don’t think she’s going to be helping us much in the investigation.”

  “She’s right, though. Two dead bodies and two living puppets.” Bryant rolled his eyes at Land suggestively.

  “Why am I even listening to you? I should have prevented you from taking control of this unit years ago. It’s your fault we’ve ended up in a building once rented by Aleister Crowley. Now you want me to believe inanimate objects can come to life and murder people.”

  “Well, you’re not getting results using traditional investigative methods, are you?” Bryant took out his gobstopper to see if it had changed colour, then reinserted it in his mouth. “Did you find out where all the guests at Kramer’s party were around Gregory Baine’s estimated time of death?”

  “Many of them were travelling at that point of the evening. We’re checking their Oyster cards and looking at CCTV footage, but nearly half are unaccounted for. The whole thing is a nightmare.”

  “Poor old sock, you’re not cut out for this sort of thing, are you?” said Bryant. His gobstopper rattled annoyingly against his false teeth. “For years we’ve tried to protect you from involvement in our work, and now you’ve got stuck in and made a mess of things. I’ll be happy to help you out, but you have to let me work in my own fashion. You’ve started from the wrong end. Turn the case around the other way. Forget about what the witnesses did or didn’t see, and start with the killer’s mind. Why would you wait until there was a house full of people to murder someone? To increase the number of suspects. Why would you leave the PCU’s business card at the site of the second death? Because, having met them, you’re sure they’re on the wrong track and you want to keep it that way. Why direct attention to the Punch and Judy dolls? Because Robert Kramer believes in their power.”

  “You’re already losing me.”

  “You have to believe very strongly in something before you act upon it. Ray Pryce was surprised by Kramer’s interest in his script – Kramer was interested by the idea of the dummy exacting revenge. His fascination with the Punch legend arose because he sees a mirror image of himself in it. Strong men are always looking for analogies that explain why they’re so driven. Remember the Thatcher generation? When the bankers openly admitted they believed greed was good, back in the eighties? Do you know what the top-selling book was in the City of London during that time? Machiavelli’s The Prince. Those captains of industry saw in it a reflection of themselves.”

  “So you think it’s Robert Kramer?”

  “I didn’t say that. It’s one of two leads I’m pursuing, but you wouldn’t like the other one. As far as I can see, Kramer is the only one with a real motive and the ability to hide his feelings that deeply. His relationship with Gregory Baine was strained to breaking point. Baine was Kramer’s partner and strongly disapproved of his expansion plans. The pair of them own a dodgy company that Baine has been draining money from.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “It’s not difficult. I checked their company registration and followed up reports in the financial papers. Kramer is subject to fits of anger. We know that from talking to his wife and to Ray Pryce, who saw them fighting in the theatre. Now, let’s suppose Kramer follows his role model. He revels in being pugnacious, amoral, murderously strong-willed. He determines to remove all obstacles to his ultimate victory.”

  “But what does he hope to achieve?”

  “What does anyone with that mentality hope for? Power over others. And what is the one trait that marks such men out from those whom they consider to be their inferiors? Aggressive, overreaching self-confidence. Which is why he even dares to link Baine’s death to our unit.”

  “Well, when you put it like that…” Land rubbed his chin, thinking it through. “But if he’s that smart, how do we nail him?”

  “By understanding how he did it,” said John May, appearing in the doorway. “I think I have a lead.”

  “Wait, I’m not saying he did it,” Bryant backtracked. “I’m merely proposing an academic theory. Now, if you’d like to hear my further thoughts on the matter – ” But Land and May had already gone.

  ♦

  Lucy Clementine had sea-green eyes, long legs and raven-wing hair. Her smile was so bright and perfect that if the room slowly dimmed on her it would have been the last thing to disappear, and the sight that everyone would most remember. She sat in the Ladykillers café in a short black skirt and suit jacket, stirring honey into her lemon tea, listening to May.

  “I can’t tell you anything more than that, because the matter remains under investigation, but if you really can shed light on the case I’d be grateful.” John May’s weakness for pretty women manifested itself in the gentlest and most charming of ways; he found himself believing almost anything they said. If a woman told him she was cold, he would raise the heat to an unbearable degree. If she told him she believed in astrology, he would follow her horoscope for weeks. And now that Brigitte, his partially present, wholly difficult ladyfriend, had decided to extend her stay in Paris, he was more susceptible than ever.

  Lucy was a government employee in a division he was not familiar with, something called the Department of Social Resources. She said she had decided to email May after reading about the case in the Daily Telegraph that morning.

  “I
worked for Mr Kramer at his property company, Cruikshank Holdings. It wasn’t an easy job. He was nice most of the time, but had – well, let’s say anger management issues. He used to be extremely unreasonable with his wife.”

  “Did you ever see or hear him lose his temper?”

  “Yes, several times. The worst was just after Judith – I mean, Mrs Kramer – told him she was pregnant. She came to the office one evening – they were going out to dinner – and they had such a terrible argument that she went home in tears. After she’d gone, he told me he didn’t want to become a father, that it would interfere with his career. He used to keep these creepy dolls in his office, Punch and Judy puppets, and I remember something he said that really bothered me.”

  “What was that?”

  Lucy looked up at May with sadness in her eyes. “He said that Punch had the right idea when he beat the baby to death.”

  “You clearly recall hearing him say those exact words?”

  “Yes, I do. But I don’t know whether he meant half the things he said. I think he liked to shock people.”

  “What was he like to work for?”

  “Very charismatic but a bit frightening – his energy amazed me. He could go out to a fund-raising night until two in the morning and be at work the next day at six a.m. I was in awe of him. He told me he was superstitious. That was why he owned the puppets.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He believed in what they represented. Some evenings, if we were working late, he would open a bottle of wine in the office. He would invite me to sit and have a glass with him.”

  “And did you?”

  “No, I don’t drink. But I would listen to his stories. I think he felt lonely, even though he was married. He once explained the whole Punch story, how it was a metaphor about the making of the modern world. He called Punch ‘the unpalatable face of heroism’, and said that this was the way all successful businessmen would have to behave one day.”