May waited impatiently while his partner sorted through half a dozen pairs of spectacles, settled on the right ones and roamed through the pages of the bright yellow volume. ‘Nope,’ he said finally, slamming it shut, ‘nothing that remotely corresponds. I’ll have to examine these in more detail. I suppose it could be a standard substitution code.’
‘So now what do we do?’ May asked.
Bryant tapped the side of his pug nose. ‘The book doesn’t have the answer, but I know a man who does.’
On Monday afternoon Dan Banbury printed out his photographs from the garden and laid them around the briefing room. He preferred to keep all work on his laptop but produced separate pages for the detectives, who still believed in getting a feel for a crime scene by writing on big pieces of paper with fountain pens.
‘You didn’t find any other footprints apart from the trainer mark in the bushes?’ May walked from one shot to the next.
‘I didn’t think I would,’ said Dan. ‘How we use parks in this country is very different to almost anywhere else.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’re always slightly embarrassed about walking on the grass even when we’re allowed to, and tend to stick to the paths. That probably even applies to killers. It’s simple conditioning. The dew was unbroken except for paw marks, so I think she stopped and took the dog off the leash. Her attacker came in through the gate and only left the path to step into the bushes and wait for her.’
‘There’s always a big list of things you can’t do in parks,’ said Bryant, studying the shots. ‘No cycling, no ball games, no skateboards. They’re green and neat but not much fun, especially with our weather.’
‘Then why do we have so many of them?’ asked Dan, laying down another photograph of a herbaceous border.
Bryant unwrapped a sherbet lemon, thinking. ‘Our communal spaces were modelled on formal English gardens, which were exclusive and expensive to maintain. They weren’t places for recreation but for reflection. Crowds are associated with chaos and loss of control.’ He peered at a photograph of an immaculately pruned rose bed. ‘Look at this, picture-perfect. English gardens took inspiration from Poussin and Claude Lorrain, presenting an idealized view of nature. We created places where you could promenade in your finery past lakes with swans, striped lawns and rose beds. We plonked fake temples and Gothic ruins into idyllic pastoral landscapes. In the Middle East and the Mediterranean, parks are there to provide relief from the sun, which is why they’re used after dark. And the activities that go on – rollerblading, tightrope-walking, yoga, acrobatics, smoking dope, cycling, dancing and playing musical instruments – your average English park-keeper would be having a conniption.’ His fingers traced the violet petals of a ceanothus shrub. ‘You know, when the British first took up residence in India they tried to re-create their parks from home, laying lawns that went brown and importing flowerbeds that instantly withered. Their wives paraded in crinolines and dropped like flies. If it was an English garden, English rules applied. The policy of “Look, don’t touch” remained in place.’
For once John May did not interrupt his partner. It was good to have Bryant back on form again, showing an interest in everything around him, even when he drifted off topic. ‘Dan, this Mrs Farrier, the head of the garden committee,’ Bryant said. ‘She issues Ritchie Jackson with a typed-up planting schedule?’
‘That’s right. There was one in his toolshed. I brought it back with me because it has a scale map of the gardens.’
‘Good man.’ They pegged it beside the photographs. Bryant studied the roster in silence, then went to the pictures of the flowerbeds. The others had no idea what he was looking for.
‘You said Jackson is passionate about his plants, didn’t you? So he’s not likely to make a mistake?’
‘I imagine not,’ said May.
‘Then why does this rose bush’ – Bryant tapped the photograph – ‘have a nameplate saying that it’s a Shropshire Lad, which I happen to know is a thornless peach rose, when it’s quite clearly been marked down on Mrs Farrier’s plan as an Apothecary, which is thorny and deep red, the original rose of the House of Lancaster?’
‘Blimey, people do make mistakes, Mr Bryant,’ Banbury protested, but the old man was right; someone had removed one of the green plastic nameplate stakes and stuck it in front of the wrong rose bush.
May picked up his phone. ‘Colin, are you and Meera still in Clement Crescent? I know this is going to sound daft but just do it, will you?’ He gave them instructions to find the rose bush and search underneath.
Five minutes later Colin called back to say they had found another knife, and that this one was more unusual, almost a foot long, with the blade sharpened on both sides.
‘He needed to be able to find it at a later date so he pushed it into the earth and marked it with the rose stake,’ said Bryant. ‘This doesn’t look good for Ritchie Jackson. Dan, see if you can get prints from it.’ He pulled his homburg and scarf from his pocket and prepared for the outdoor onslaught. ‘I’m off to see a gentleman called Dante August. Back in an hour.’
‘I’ll say this for him,’ said May, watching him go. ‘He certainly bounces back. Does he seem all right to you?’
‘I ask him why we have gardens and he gives me a bloomin’ history lesson,’ said Banbury. ‘So yes, I’d say he’s back to normal.’
Longbright put her head around the door. ‘I’ve got Jeremy Forester on the line.’
‘How did you find him?’ May grabbed his notes and headed for the operations room.
‘We didn’t, he found us,’ said Janice. ‘We’ve pinpointed his phone. It’s an unregistered handset. He’s on the move, not far away. We can grab him.’
‘No, don’t do that.’ May put the call on speaker. ‘Mr Forester, I assume you know what’s happened,’ he said, seating himself before Longbright’s monitor so that he could keep Forester’s details in front of him.
‘Melissa called me. She, ah – she was my assistant. Do you have any more information? Where was Helen found? Can I see her?’
May was not inclined to share too much information. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.
His voice was uncertain and hesitant. ‘Look, I’m in a bad situation. I didn’t hurt my wife. You have to believe me.’
‘When did you last see her?’ May looked across at Longbright, gesturing. Do we know exactly where he is?
‘Square Mile,’ said Longbright quietly. ‘Near the Bank of England, heading away from the river.’
‘I saw her a couple of weeks ago. We met one evening at her flat,’ said Forester.
‘How were things between you on that night?’
‘Relatively civilized.’
‘You didn’t shout at her from the street?’
‘We had a few cross words but it was nothing serious.’
‘We need you to come in,’ May warned.
‘I can’t right now. I need to stay on the move.’
‘Why? Give us details of your movements this morning and we’ll be able to clear you.’
‘I can’t do that. You’re going to try to trace this call.’
‘We already did,’ said May. ‘We’re not coming after you. At this stage I just want to talk, OK? Do you have time to do that?’
Silence. Then: ‘Yes, fine.’
‘You were fired from your job – what happened?’
It wasn’t the question Forester had been expecting. ‘I’d worked there for seven years,’ he said. ‘They didn’t like the way I handled their business.’
‘Tell me what happened, Jeremy. Talk about anything. I need to understand what’s happened here.’
Another silence. Then a deep breath. ‘OK. Let me see. I drove home from Washbourne Hollis and lied to my wife. The thought of telling her the truth was too exhausting. I still loved her, desperately so, but she changed – we changed. Money changed us. Helen could smell financial problems like a deer senses earthquakes. As a kid she watched her father’s businesses
go bankrupt. She learned a lot from that, became very hard-headed. She thought I had too much respect for my bosses. I disappointed her – I know that. But it’s not what wrecked our marriage.’
May was about to jump in, but decided to wait and listen. Bryant had taught him to have patience.
‘I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I’d lost my job. It didn’t even occur to me that my behaviour was strange. Each morning at seven thirty I’d climb into my car and drive to work, parking in the basement of the NCP across from my office. Then I went upstairs to a corner café for coffee and a croissant, followed by a walk around the City. I’d return at lunchtime to eat a sandwich in the car. I kept my phone in meeting mode. Finally I’d drive home and go to my study. I’d sit up all night with my door closed, trying to find a way out of my debts. I sold the Mercedes, sounded out a few connections on LinkedIn and drained my current account. I lost weight. I polished my shoes every night but my clothes never seemed clean enough any more. Then I got beaten up.’
‘What happened?’
‘One of my creditors had been tipped off as to my whereabouts by someone – I don’t know who. Two guys followed me from the tube station at Chalk Farm. They shoved me into an alleyway for a good kicking, loosened a couple of teeth and tried to make me sign some property papers. They ran off when a police constable walked past. I went home knowing they would soon be back, and next time they might come to the house. Two days later they found me in the café near my old car park and handed me a schedule with a series of account numbers. They told me that if I missed any payments I would have one of my eyes removed. They weren’t the worst of my creditors.’
‘You didn’t report any of this?’
‘I guess my body was less badly bruised than my ego, which took another blow that night when Helen confronted me with a statement of missed payments, along with an order from the bank to vacate our house.’
‘What did she do?’
‘Well, she didn’t scream or cry. She just looked as if she’d always known that something like this would happen, that I’d finally lived down to her expectations. That look – it devastated me. The very next morning she packed a bag and left. After that, all communications came through her lawyer. I left behind the Primrose Hill house and everything in it. I hung around the city at night, sleeping in cheap hotels, then hostels, and finally in the alleyways behind hotels. That was when the real nightmare began.’
‘What happened to your wife? You don’t think your creditors went after her?’
‘The idea had crossed my mind, but it seemed a bit far-fetched.’
‘Do you know if she had enemies? Anyone who might wish her harm?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Did relations between the two of you become any more amicable?’
‘It was a divorce. Everything went wrong. See, there’s something else. We’d lost our son, our little boy, Charlie. In a way, you were involved.’
May was bewildered. ‘What do you mean?’
There was a sigh, a pause. ‘It was back in February. Raining hard, very late. Your unit was looking for someone at London Bridge Station. Your officers had closed off the surrounding roads. My son and his nanny had to walk through a tunnel. Charlie was nearly hit by a diverted truck, and the car behind crashed into a wall rather than run into the back of him. Something hit Charlie in the eye. He was taken to St Thomas’ Hospital, but this tiny speck that nobody could see somehow found its way to his brain and caused a blood clot. He died a few minutes later.’
The memory of the event came flooding back to May. They had been tracking the Mr Punch Killer. After they’d caught him, word had come through of an accident in one of the tunnels that ran beneath the railway arches. An inquiry had quickly settled on a verdict of accidental death, but the traffic supervisor had subsequently been placed on gardening leave.
‘I can’t imagine how upset you must have been.’
‘A series of unfortunate circumstances. That was what the police told us.’ The line went quiet. For a moment May thought Forester had hung up, but the man was trying to control his emotions. ‘The tunnel was badly lit and filled with fumes. It should never have been used as a traffic detour. There were no signs explaining where pedestrians should go. As a result, my child’s life was lost.’
‘What happened to the nanny?’
‘Sharyn blamed herself for what happened. I didn’t stay in touch with her. At that point Charlie was holding our marriage together.’
‘When was the last time you spoke to your wife?’
‘I called Helen a week ago and left a message. I’m sure you have that. I wish we could have talked one more time. And I wish it was anyone but you investigating her death. I must go.’
‘You need to come in,’ said May. ‘There has to be a formal interview.’
‘That’s not possible at the moment.’
‘You don’t have a choice, Mr Forester. Either you do it willingly or we fetch you.’
‘This isn’t how it looks. My life is in danger.’
The line went dead.
‘Janice, get him here,’ said May.
‘His signal just vanished,’ said Longbright. ‘We’ve no one in the area but I’ll try.’
‘Do you have Mrs Forester’s voicemails?’
‘Yes. Jeremy Forester asked to see her urgently.’
‘Anything else on him?’
Longbright checked her notes. ‘Some background stuff. He was the CEO of a company called StarMall SEA. They built shopping centres all over South East Asia. Then he went to Washbourne Hollis, where he stayed until he was let go back in August. Smart chap like him, you’d think he’d have some collateral squirrelled away.’
‘How much was his wife due to get in the divorce?’
‘I don’t have any figures yet,’ said Longbright, ‘but she told a colleague that after the settlement she was planning to set up a new company and buy the flat in Holland Park outright. And there was a gallery being purchased in Hoxton. As far as I can see, none of it went through.’
‘Any luck finding a lover?’
Longbright held up a crimson-varnished fingernail. ‘Funny you should ask. She was seen with an orchestra conductor named Charles Haywood Frost. He’s your best bet. At the moment he’s based just around the corner from here, at the Kings Place concert hall.’
‘Then that’s my next port of call,’ decided May. ‘You’d better forewarn him.’
‘I already did,’ she said, swinging back in her chair.
May grinned. ‘What would I do without you?’
‘Starve, for a start.’ She handed him a cling-film-wrapped sandwich. ‘Shippam’s crab paste on rocket.’
May paused in the doorway. ‘You know, it has to be Forester.’
‘You can’t be sure of that,’ said Longbright. ‘Not from one phone call.’
‘I need to know why he left his job and what he’s so afraid of. His son died right around the corner from us, and now his wife turns up dead. You and I would call that a tragedy. Arthur would call it a conspiracy. Get digging.’
He returned to his office and wrote out some fresh interview questions, but could not stop thinking about the night they had trapped a murderer at London Bridge, and the separate drama that had been unfolding a few hundred yards away. He tried to imagine how the past and present tragedies might be linked, but came up with nothing.
Sometimes the trickster city spawned extraordinary events and dared you to connect them when there was really no link at all.
12
‘LIKE GOLDFISH INTO A BOWL’
The Jerusalem Tavern in Clerkenwell was an itinerant pub. Since the fourteenth century it had wandered off a number of times, finally settling down in its present location in 1720, but it had only recently been returned to what Arthur Bryant called ‘a proper boozer’, with the usual perquisites of a falsely imagined past: freshly aged counters, newly roughened wood floors, olde worlde cabinets and stools. As such it created a typical Lond
on paradox: a place that was rooted yet rootless, ancient but new, false and real. And like all pubs, on a wet day its interior appeared to shrink. Denied the appeal of standing outside with a pint in hand, its drinkers apologized profusely as they squeezed past each other like wet cats, trying to reach the bar.
Bryant had played the senior citizen card and bagged the only pair of seats by the open fire. He had arranged to meet Dante August, the curator of the Museum of London’s recent ‘Street Life’ exhibition. The tiny pub suited August, as he was an extremely small wild-haired man with delinquent eyebrows and a loud high voice, developed by his determination to be heard if not seen. Like many small men he had an ageless quality that pegged him somewhere between forty and sixty.
‘So, you’ve a fellow hiding in a park waiting for an opportunity to attack young ladies, and this was under his foot?’ August flattened out the photocopy of the note, donned his reading glasses and examined it with his nose almost touching the paper.
‘I thought it might be some kind of thieves’ code,’ said Bryant, attempting to separate himself from his scarf, ‘a way of working out who he can rob.’
‘Did he steal anything from his victim?’
‘No, although he may have threatened her with a weapon first; we found a rather peculiar ornamental dagger planted in a rose bed.’
‘Well, this isn’t a thieves’ code, I can tell you that,’ announced August, sitting back up and blinking his distended eyes back into their sockets. ‘The belief in a housebreaker’s code of ethics comes from the idea that Russian criminal families have brought their habits to this country. The real codes are mostly made up of circles, squares and triangles, not letters and numbers.’
‘Don’t they just indicate homes with valuables or fierce dogs?’
‘Supposedly, but it’s hard to tell how much of that is urban mythology. The use of thieves’ codes has been exaggerated by overexcited tabloid journalists. Our lives are peppered with false beliefs, Arthur. Fear of foreignness was once our defining characteristic. This is something else.’
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