Wild Chamber

by Christopher Fowler

  Without the sternly benign ghost of Arthur Bryant stalking the corridors issuing admonitions around a clenched pipe, the wheels of this particular investigatory vehicle had come off in spectacular fashion. Steffi Vesta watched in ill-concealed amazement as the arguments raged from room to room, Longbright dropped another great stack of witness reports on to her desk and Raymond Land repeatedly fell over the cat. Nothing like this ever occurred in the Cologne Bundeskriminalamt.

  ‘It’s all right, you know,’ May reassured her. ‘They’re not having a go at each other; they’re trying to find a solution. They just get a bit shouty sometimes.’

  ‘I do not understand how anyone can work productively in such an environment,’ said Vesta, watching as Land threatened to have the operations room cleared for the third time in an hour.

  ‘You seem to be managing,’ May told her. ‘Look at the information you were able to dig up on Forester’s secret investments.’

  ‘Yes, but this is not important for the case, I think,’ said Steffi.

  ‘Of course it’s important. Can we find out what’s in the Hong Kong free port consignment?’

  ‘That is privileged information. But if the goods were imported from the EU there may be a way.’ She headed for one of the unused laptops. ‘Give me a few minutes. I will see if I can find someone in Customs and Excise.’

  May went to the window and looked out at the officers massing on the pavement. They looked like a chorus waiting to go onstage and perform ‘A Policeman’s Lot Is Not a Happy One’. ‘I think we’re about to run out of time,’ he warned. ‘Dan, do you have anything that can pick up what they’re saying?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ said Banbury. ‘Give me a mo.’ He returned with an electronic cone covered in black wires. ‘This little bugger increases ambient sound gain by more than fifty-five decibels and picks up sounds more than one hundred yards away using a multi-element, high-sensitivity, ninety-degree swivelling microphone.’

  ‘Point it at Link,’ May instructed.

  Banbury raised the window six inches, put on his headset and aimed the cone.

  ‘He’s telling his men they’ve found a health and safety officer who’s prepared to approve the closure. They’re just waiting for her to say that the order’s been filed, and then they’re coming in.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Hang on.’ Banbury listened. ‘Five to ten minutes,’ he reported.

  ‘OK, listen up, everybody.’ May turned to the others, who all stopped talking except for Meera, whose last words were ‘—and that’s why Raymond’s wife left him’, before lapsing into awkward silence.

  ‘Link is getting ready to clear the building,’ May said. ‘We could still make it difficult for them to gain access.’

  ‘This isn’t a St Trinian’s film,’ said Banbury. ‘I’m not going to stand on the battlements throwing bags of flour at them.’

  ‘There are London bolts on the front and back doors,’ Colin pointed out. ‘The two Daves are supposed to have put in an electronic operating system so that we can control them from up here, but I don’t think they finished installing the junction box.’

  ‘Link doesn’t know that,’ said May. ‘Go and lock them manually. If Arthur reckons he has a lead, we’re just going to have to trust him.’

  The phone in his hand rang. Everybody froze and listened.

  ‘It’s Giles,’ May told them. ‘He says the cadaver they removed from our basement isn’t infected. He’s just texting Link now to warn him that there’s no legal reason to quarantine the building.’

  ‘But that’s great news!’ said Land. ‘We’ll be able to stay here.’

  ‘Too late.’ Banbury pulled off his headset. ‘The order’s just been approved. They’re coming in.’

  ‘Hang on.’ May raised a hand for quiet and listened. ‘Thanks for the warning.’ He put down his phone. ‘We’re going to be investigated by America’s Central Intelligence Agency.’

  ‘The CIA? Are you crazy?’ said Renfield. ‘What for?’

  ‘Giles has some further information on the body. It seems that seven years ago, the US ambassador to Britain lost his son. Well, he just turned up.’

  ‘In our basement?’ Land was beside himself. ‘The government purchased this property – it has nothing to do with us!’

  ‘Let’s not worry about it right now,’ said May. ‘We’ve got other problems.’

  Land’s phone was the next to ring, making him jump.

  ‘Mr Land, there appears to be a tramp marching up and down past Mr Bryant’s window like a goose-stepping soldier,’ said Darren Link with exaggerated politeness. ‘If he’s meant to be stunt-doubling for your detective, I have to say his performance isn’t likely to bag him a BAFTA. My uncle Wilfred could have done a better impersonation and he was in an iron lung. By the way, we’ve got the closure order, but my men appear to be having some trouble gaining access to your building. Can you come down and let them in?’

  ‘Ah, I’d love to be able to help you,’ said Land, trying to sound casual, ‘but we’re having a few teething problems with our new electronic operating system. There’s a faulty junction box. We’ve called out the engineers and they should be here within the next hour.’ May nudged him. ‘Two hours. Three to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ insisted Link. ‘We can’t wait out here that long. Just open the bloody door. I can almost hear you lot thinking – it’s like watching a baby giraffe trying to stand up. It’s just too painful. The Crick Institute is sending over its team, and we need to allow them access. Failure to comply will mean—’

  May interrupted. ‘Darren, come on, you know me, we’ve worked together often enough in the past. I’ll be honest with you, really honest this time. Arthur has a fresh lead on the case. He won’t tell me what it is or how he got it, but it won’t take him long to find out if he’s on the right track, possibly only a few more minutes. That’s why we’re stalling you. If I let you in now it’ll be the end of us, you know that.’

  May pressed his ear close to the phone. Link was thinking. He pushed the point. ‘We’ve helped you immeasurably in the past, Darren. Our strike rate pulled up your own aggregate at the City of London and helped to secure your funding. Faraday’s your enemy, not us. He’s planning to push privatization on to the parks, and doesn’t care how bad it makes you look. We don’t need the Crick sending a team; there are no infectious diseases here. Please, keep this line open for me, just for one more hour.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s three p.m. now. If I haven’t heard back from Arthur by four o’clock I swear I’ll open the doors to you. And if he calls me before that to admit that his lead is a dead end, I’ll let you in immediately.’

  The line fell silent again. May could feel the seconds ticking by.

  ‘No deal,’ decided Link. ‘My neck’s on the line, too.’

  ‘All right,’ said May. ‘Half an hour. You get in at three thirty. Darren, I have never asked you for a favour.’

  ‘I’ll hold them off until I hear from you.’ Link hung up.

  May turned to the group. ‘OK, let’s see if we can help Arthur. I’ve got a text from him asking if Lauren Posner committed suicide in a summer dress. Is there some way we can check that out?’

  ‘Easy,’ said Longbright. ‘I’ve got the coroner’s file. Give me a minute.’

  ‘Why would Mr Bryant want to know something like that?’ asked Colin.

  Longbright searched her laptop. ‘You know Arthur, he’ll only sound like Cassandra if he tries to explain.’

  ‘Blimey, have we got another suspect?’ asked Meera.

  ‘No, Meera, in Greek mythology snakes licked Cassandra’s ears and gave her the ability to hear the future, but Apollo cursed her by spitting in her mouth so that no one would ever believe her prophecies, even though they were truthful.’

  Mangeshkar pulled a face. ‘That’s gross. I don’t understand Mr Bryant’s reasoning. If he knows what Posner was wearing when she topped herself, does that mean he’l
l know who the killer is?’

  May sighed. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  Longbright scrolled through her screen. ‘Here we go – a white cotton skirt and white blouse. That’s odd.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It was the end of April and unseasonably cold. Why was she dressed for mid-July?’

  48

  ‘YOU SAW THE LIGHT DIE IN HER EYES’

  ‘Arthur, I can’t walk any faster.’

  ‘We’re running out of time,’ Bryant warned, hurrying his companion along Euston Road. ‘We can’t afford any further delays. Turn in here.’ They passed Paolozzi’s huge bronze statue of Isaac Newton and headed into the rain-slick courtyard of the British Library.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I need to see inside your bag,’ said the security guard as they stepped inside the entrance to the building’s immense atrium. ‘And you, too, madam.’

  ‘I wonder if you could just let us through?’ asked Bryant, sounding far more suspect than he’d intended. ‘I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a hurry.’

  The British Library was not used to dealing with rush demands. The guard took Bryant’s satchel from him with slow deliberation and put his hand inside it.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that—’ Bryant began, just as the trap went off and the guard yelped. ‘I’m most awfully sorry.’ The grimacing guard withdrew his hand, encased in steel mesh. ‘I adapted a Victorian model originally designed to trap badgers. I thought it would deter thieves. We live in King’s Cross,’ he added by way of explanation. ‘Here, let me.’ Together, they wrested it off the guard’s bruised hand.

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to show me what else you’ve got,’ suggested the guard. ‘Save me losing any more fingers.’

  Bryant emptied out a pound of liquorice allsorts, a volume by C. C. Stanley entitled Highlights in the History of Concrete that he had borrowed from Banbury, a weather station barometer – ‘I’m taking it in to be repaired,’ Bryant explained – his address book, two notepads, various assorted pens, pencils, bits of string, magnets, coins and a gun.

  ‘You really can’t bring that in here.’ The guard pointed to the Walther PPK with an air of apology.

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t planning to fire it, although it is loaded,’ Bryant assured him. ‘I was using it in a demonstration the other day and thought it might be useful.’

  ‘I’ll just set this on one side for now,’ said the guard, lifting it by poking a pencil down the barrel.

  ‘He’s a police officer,’ interposed Maggie. ‘Tell him, Arthur.’

  ‘Oh, didn’t I mention that?’ said Bryant, surprised.

  ‘No, sir, you didn’t,’ replied the guard. ‘Madam, what have you got?’

  Maggie upturned her bag on to the guard’s counter. This time the haul included dowsing rods, a Ouija planchette, playing cards, a hammer, various purses and a bugle, the latter for use in séances. Some kind of insect fell out and ran out across the floor. The guard raised the hammer and one eyebrow.

  ‘You never know around here,’ said Maggie. ‘A lady must feel safe.’

  ‘Are these drugs?’ the guard asked, raising several packets of amber, cobalt and saffron powders.

  ‘It rather depends on your belief system, I suppose,’ answered Maggie. ‘I mean separately they’re not illegal – except that one – but in the right combination they can be absolutely lethal. If you mix this one with cayenne pepper, sulphur, gunpowder, willow bark and dill you can give your enemy the most appalling diarrhoea.’

  ‘I think you’d better leave all of these items with us,’ said the guard. ‘I think I need to call my boss.’

  ‘This is really most inconvenient,’ said Bryant, checking the single working hand on his watch. As the guard turned to look for his superior, Bryant grabbed Maggie’s hand and pulled her around the counter. They set off at a half-run and disappeared under the central staircase before anyone realized they’d gone. The guards weren’t used to senior citizens operating at speed on highly polished floors.

  ‘I need you to meet me in ten minutes,’ Bryant told the white witch. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to find room B230?’

  ‘Darling, I know this building like the back of my hand,’ she retorted. ‘I could find my way around the occult history section in a power cut. It’s over there, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, those are the wheelchair toilets. Never mind. Perhaps it’s best if you stay here.’ He patted her on the head and set off for the lifts.

  They had lost valuable time having to explain themselves to the security guard, and now, without Ray Kirkpatrick to guide him, Bryant had trouble locating the antique maps room. Finally he chanced upon the door and entered. The floor was deserted, but he remembered where to go.

  Heading over to Duncan Aston’s desk, he saw that the huge map book detailing Bazalgette’s drains was still here, although now it was closed. It was the sight of this open book that had fascinated him on his last visit.

  ‘So easily distracted,’ he muttered, looking away from it to the Impressionist prints and old photographs that lined the walls.

  One particularly drew his attention. The monochrome stage portrait showed a young woman in a bower of small white flowers. She wore a headdress and a diaphanous flowing gown. From the faraway look in her eyes, it was obvious that the photographer was attempting to suggest a dreamlike quality, but as in so many old theatre photographs she looked rather lumpen and earthbound. Bryant had been reminded of it when he had looked at the photograph of Nathalie. He had seen it from the corner of his eye but not spotted its meaning. What can I do? he thought. How can I bring this to a quick end?

  The entrance door swung open and shut. If Duncan Aston was surprised to find the elderly detective standing over his desk, he didn’t show it. ‘Can I help you, inspector?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I’m not an inspector,’ Bryant replied. ‘I don’t even have a title any more. They’re taking them all away from us. Plain old Mr Bryant will do.’ He pointed at the picture. ‘I rather like this portrait, for all its theatricality.’ He waved a hand across it. ‘Do you know who’s in it?’

  ‘That’s my grandmother.’ Aston seemed harassed, and ran his hand through his cropped russet hair with impatience. ‘I have a lot of work to get through this afternoon. We’re preparing for a major exhibition of rare London maps.’

  Bryant held up his hands. ‘Sorry, I only popped by for a chat. I don’t want to hold you up. You said your mother was an actress as well, didn’t you? It’s funny how often theatre runs in the family.’

  ‘In my case only the women.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Bryant pulled out his trifocals, leaned forward and squinted at the caption. ‘Sleeping Titania in Her Faerie Bower. You’ve been in this room a long time, haven’t you?’

  ‘Far too long.’ Aston advanced on him. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘And you chose the pictures?’

  ‘I found that one in the archive. We have an extensive collection of theatre photography.’

  Bryant chewed his lip, thinking. ‘It’s just that after remembering this photograph, something stuck in my brain. I tried to decide – and I know you’ll think this sounds silly – what parks and gardens are actually for. They’re to provide tranquillity. To show you perhaps, and I hope you won’t think this too fanciful, what Eden or heaven looks like. If it was the last thing you saw before you passed away, wouldn’t you die happier?’

  ‘If this is about my girlfriend, Mr Bryant, it’s in rather poor taste.’

  ‘I suppose it is about your girlfriend.’ Bryant tapped his pockets for his pipe. ‘But first, tell me about your mother.’

  ‘Mr Bryant, I really don’t have time for this.’ Aston irritably tapped his foot on the parquet.

  ‘I’m sure you can make time. You see, I made a number of mistakes. Helen Forester came to our attention first, so we assumed that our investigation started there, but it went back earlier, didn’t it? Right back to when Lauren Posner killed herself. It was a raw April morning, bitterl
y cold, but she went to sit in the park dressed in white like the woman in the photograph. She didn’t even have a coat.’

  ‘She wasn’t herself,’ said Aston.

  ‘So you told me.’ Bryant folded his glasses away. ‘So you told everyone. And you’d know, because you were there with her, weren’t you?’ Bryant’s wide cornflower-blue eyes could not be avoided. ‘There were no cameras to see you, of course, but there was a witness. An old man with a dog said he remembered you, but he thought he saw you leaving while the girl stayed behind sitting on the bench, so his witness statement was filed and forgotten. Until I unearthed it.’

  ‘It’s no secret,’ said Aston tetchily. ‘I sat with Lauren for a while. She was drunk and tearful. I didn’t know she had pills on her. She’d hardly stopped crying since—’

  ‘The accident. Ah, yes.’ Bryant touched a forefinger to his temple. ‘I couldn’t help thinking that you rather over-egged the pudding, telling me her alcoholism was in her medical records. What gave me more trouble was the suicide note. She handwrote it, didn’t she, posting it to her parents earlier that day? All rather formal, but not beyond the bounds of possibility. Funny that she didn’t leave one for you.’

  ‘I suppose I saw more of her.’

  ‘And as you say, she was not herself. Luckily her parents kept theirs, although they threw away the envelope, which was a pity.’ Bryant looked around the room. ‘I love it up here. Maps, books, pens – calligraphy pens. How are your handwriting skills?’

  Aston shrugged. ‘Part of my job is retouching map panels as well as restoring them, so my handwriting has to be perfect. I’m a trained calligrapher.’

  ‘It’s funny, Duncan – can I call you Duncan? Probably best to, because Aston isn’t your real name, is it? You see, the last time I saw you I still had Bazalgette’s drawing of the London drains in my head. And as I walked out into the street, looking down at the pavement, what did I see? “Aston’s New Warrior”. That’s what it says on the drain panel outside. They’re all over London. A silly connection, but I couldn’t resist running a search. And what did I find? You changed your name when you came to work here. Your real surname is Richmond, isn’t that right?’