‘Oh come on,’ said Giles, ‘you’re a policeman, you suspect everyone. What about her enemies?’
‘An ex-boyfriend in Liverpool. Turns out he died of a barbiturate overdose nearly a year ago. We’ve good reason to suspect the husband, but he has alibis in the form of half a dozen employees, so he must have got someone else to do it. Dan’s searching every inch of the field but so far he hasn’t found any marks in the snow other than the ones we’ve accounted for.’
‘A throwing dagger,’ said Bryant suddenly.
‘They’d have found it,’ said May, shaking his head.
‘Not if it cleared the field.’
‘Thrown three hundred metres?’
‘With rockets attached. Or a boomerang. Circus performers. A crossbow with razorblades on the front.’
‘I’m going to take him back to the unit now,’ May told Kershaw, patting his partner’s arm. ‘It’s time for his medication.’
‘Not yet,’ Bryant insisted. ‘Let’s check Kastopolis’s alibi. His employees are going to say anything he tells them, aren’t they? The Rajasthan Palace, Cally Road, didn’t he say he spent most of last night there?’
‘Marsha Kastopolis died this morning.’
‘But if he hired someone else to kill his wife it was because of what she’d told Kaylie Neville, and maybe he planned it in the restaurant. Besides, it’s been ages since I had a decent Ruby Murray.’
‘Don’t you ever stop thinking of your stomach?’ asked May.
‘I need to keep the boiler functioning in this weather,’ said Bryant. ‘If my pilot light goes out, I might never get it started again.’
From the outside it was not the most appealing of restaurants. The splits in the yellow plastic fascia had been repaired with brown parcel tape, and computer printouts of takeaway menus were plastered over the windows, but the staff were smartly uniformed and the interior was clean enough. May selected a salad while Bryant followed the time-honoured British tradition of ordering twice as much Indian food as he could possibly eat, topped off with a Peshwari naan and a pint of Kingfisher. As the waiters got busy he attempted to question them, but they proved reluctant to be drawn on the subject of their customers and anxiously fetched the manager, Mr Bhatnagar, who tentatively tiptoed out towards them.
‘Mr Eddie is our very great friend,’ the manager explained, beaming eagerly. ‘Everyone calls him Mr Eddie. He is coming here regularly for dinner and staying a very long time.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’ asked May.
‘Last night, same as always. He arrived soon after eight and stayed until we closed.’
‘What time was that?’
Mr Bhatnagar silently calculated the validity of his drinks licence. ‘Midnight,’ he assured them.
‘You remember who he was with?’
‘His colleagues from the office, all very nice but very fond of a tipple, I think. Very – energetic.’
Bryant assumed he meant loud and ill-mannered. ‘Does he bring anyone else here apart from his colleagues?’
‘Sometimes he comes here with his lovely wife.’
‘Does she eat here with her own friends?’
‘No, just with Mr Eddie.’
‘And who else does Mr Eddie bring to dinner?’
‘Many people. Mr Eddie has many, many friends. He is very well known in this neighbourhood.’
‘And your staff’ – Bryant waved his hands at the young waiters illuminated by the pale light of their mobiles behind the counter – ‘they were all working here last night?’
‘All except these two, Raj and Said.’
‘You manage several restaurants along this road, I suppose.’
‘Yes, half a dozen or so.’
‘And Mr Eddie owns them. Do your staff take shifts in the others?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do the waiters move around?’
‘Indeed so.’
‘I don’t suppose you overheard any conversation last night?’ asked Bryant, already sure of the answer.
‘Oh no, sir,’ came the hasty reply. ‘We would never eavesdrop on our esteemed customers, certainly not.’ Mr Bhatnagar gave them both a friendly, reassuring smile.
‘What was all that about?’ asked May as they stepped back into the street.
‘I like to get a thorough picture,’ replied Bryant evasively. He was carrying a foil package shaped like a swan containing two-thirds of the meal he’d ordered.
‘Yes, and I also know when there’s something funny going on in your head. One more stop and we’ll go back to the PCU. The Islington Better Business Bureau. It’s the council’s outsource in charge of the licences for properties along Upper Street and the Caledonian Road. Let’s see what they make of Mr Kastopolis.’
‘Do we have any friends there?’ asked Bryant.
‘We’re not their favourite people. You gave them grief over a corpse found in one of their properties, remember? A headless body stuffed into a chip-shop freezer? Ring any bells?’
‘Oh, that. Not someone called Anderson, by any chance?’
‘The very one. He’s Kastopolis’s liaison officer. I’m sure he remembers you. You made him go to the old Bayham Street mortuary to identify the victim.’
‘Why did I do that?’
‘You didn’t like him.’
‘Ah. I wonder if he remembers.’
‘I imagine it might have stayed in his memory, yes,’ said May. ‘Better let me do the talking.’
May held a twanging glass door open for his partner. They entered a lobby that resembled a spaceship’s flight deck from a low budget film in the late 1980s. David Anderson came down to meet them, waving them anxiously towards a minuscule pink and blue glass meeting room beside the reception area, a holding pen for those not worthy of being granted full access to the executive suites upstairs. He was slightly plump, slightly balding, slightly ginger, slightly invisible, the kind of man who makes you feel old when you realize with a shock that he’s probably only in his early thirties.
‘Our relationship with Mr Kastopolis has been somewhat fractious in the past,’ he explained, placing himself between the detectives and the waiting area outside, for he was none too pleased about having the law visit council offices. ‘He’s quite a larger-than-life character, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.’
‘We’re more concerned that he may—’ be a murderer, Bryant was about to say, but May kicked him under the table. As this was also made of glass, everyone saw him do it.
‘—have done more than just bent a few bylaws this time,’ concluded May diplomatically. ‘Perhaps it would be better to discuss this somewhere less open.’
Anderson was clearly upset by the idea, but was hardly in a position to argue. The trio headed up to his third-floor office and settled themselves in plusher, more traditional surroundings. Bryant had to be surreptitiously cautioned against rummaging about on Anderson’s desk. The meeting did not go well. The planning officer was prepared to admit that the bureau suspected Kastopolis of flouting property regulations, but was unwilling to divulge any personal doubts.
‘What about outside of work?’ Bryant asked. ‘Do you see each other socially?’
‘Good Lord, no.’ Anderson seemed genuinely horrified by the idea. ‘We’re expressly forbidden from seeing clients outside of the building. There’s a sensitivity about undue influence, you understand. And after the MPs’ expenses scandal, it’s more than our lives are worth. Can you give me more of an idea why he’s of particular interest to you at the moment?’
‘No,’ said Bryant offhandedly, trying to read the liaison officer’s paperwork upside down.
‘The seriousness of the matter at hand means we must limit information until there’s a case to be made,’ said May, ‘if indeed there is one to be made. But we appreciate the help you’ve been able to give us.’
‘Was there any need to be quite so diplomatic?’ asked Bryant as they left the building. ‘“We must limit information until the
re’s a case to be made.” You don’t get anything out of people if you don’t frighten the life out of them. A typical council man, wet as a whale’s willy, reeking with the stench of appeasement, utterly incapable of confrontation. Kastopolis runs roughshod over the lot of them and they do nothing.’
‘You don’t know that,’ said May. ‘Kastopolis has spent the last thirty years finding ways to balance along the edges of the law. Men like that eventually make mistakes.’
‘I can’t wait for him to make a mistake. I’m too old.’
‘What do you want to do, then?’
‘Head back to the PCU,’ Bryant said with a sigh. ‘There’s something I need to check.’ May was glad they had brought the car. The iced-over pavements had become bobsleigh runs, and his partner was unstable at the best of times.
As the hours passed, May worked on with the rest of the PCU team while Bryant remained holed up in his office with the door firmly closed to visitors. Finally, when he could no longer bear the suspense of not knowing what his partner was doing, May went to check on him.
‘You should put the overhead lights on,’ he said. ‘You’ll strain your eyes.’
‘She’s here,’ Bryant said, looking up sadly. He had printed out everything he could find on Marsha Kastopolis, and had stacked it all in the centre of his desk. His hands were placed over the file, as if trying to conjure her presence. ‘I can sense her.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked May.
‘She was a bright girl. Then she was abused by her new stepfather. Her mother did nothing. The social services failed to protect her. She became withdrawn and lost. Her school grades dropped away. She was made pregnant by a junkie, came to London and started again. By this time she had grown a tough hide, and was determined to make something of herself. She must have been able to see through her husband, so why did she put up with him? What did she get from the relationship? Stability? Money? No, something else. That’s the key to this.’
‘Funny,’ said May.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. I thought you’d be in here trying to work out how he did it. You know, the mechanics. The nuts and bolts. More up your street than people.’
‘Don’t be so rude. I hate to see promising lives ruined. As it happens, I know how it was done.’
‘You do?’
‘Most certainly. And I think I want to handle the last part by myself.’
‘I don’t understand you, Arthur.’
‘I want to do the right thing for her. You can see that, can’t you? I don’t anticipate a problem, but it might be better if you stayed within reach of your mobile. I’m not going very far.’ With that he rose stiffly, jammed on his squashed trilby and burrowed into his old tweed overcoat. May watched him go, flummoxed.
‘What’s up with the old man?’ asked Banbury as he passed.
‘You know how possessive some people are with their books?’ said May. ‘Arthur’s like that with crimes. Sometimes I think I hardly know him at all.’
Bryant pushed open the wire-glass door of the Rajasthan Palace and seated himself by the window. An impossibly thin, hollow-eyed waiter who looked as though he’d not slept well since Gandhi’s death approached and placed a red plastic menu before him.
‘I’ll just have a hot, very sweet chai,’ said Bryant. ‘But you can send Mr Bhatnagar out to me. I know he’s there, I just saw him peep through the curtain.’
Moments later the portly little manager appeared from behind the counter and made his way over to the table, bouncing on the balls of his feet. ‘Mr Bryant,’ he said, ‘what a pleasure to see you again, so very soon.’
‘You may not think so in a minute.’ Bryant gestured at the seat opposite. Mr Bhatnagar’s smile showed sudden strain, and he remained standing. ‘Mrs Kastopolis,’ said Bryant. ‘She ate at the Bhaji Fort last night. Your boy Raj saw her, didn’t he? More to the point, he overheard her. Who did he tell you she was with?’
‘Raj is a good boy,’ said Mr Bhatnagar anxiously. ‘Mrs Kastopolis was with another lady, a friend, that’s all, not somebody my boy knew.’
‘Then why did he bother to call you?’ asked Bryant. ‘I’ll tell you why.’ And he proceeded to do so. By the time he had finished, Mr Bhatnagar had visibly diminished. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Finally, he sat and dropped his head in his hands, not caring about his staff, who were nervously peering out at him from their counter. Mr Bhatnagar realized that his eagerness to please had finally been the undoing of him, and wept.
‘I thought you didn’t like the fresh air,’ said May, slapping his leather-clad hands together in an effort to keep warm. His breath condensed in dragon-clouds as he looked down from the pinnacle of Primrose Hill over the frost-sheened rooftops of London.
‘I don’t,’ said Bryant, dislodging the snow from his trilby by violently beating it. ‘But it’s windy today, and I wanted you to see this. How it was done.’ He pointed to the far edge of the hill, where several young Indian men were standing. May followed his partner’s extended index finger up to the burnished winter sky. ‘Can you see them now?’ he asked.
Overhead, half a dozen diamonds of indigo and maroon silk soared and swooped around each other like exotic fish fighting for food. ‘Kite-flying is a very popular pastime in Rajasthan. But it’s far from a gentle sport. It’s a matter of kill or be killed, and sometimes huge bets ride on the outcome. The idea is to destroy your enemies by bringing them down. The only way to do that is by severing their strings. So the kite-warriors coat their cords with a paste of boiled rice mixed with glass dust. It makes them as sharp as any cut-throat razor. And they can control the lines to go exactly where they want. Our assassin only had to bring his kite down from the sky and touch it across her throat.’
May was incredulous. ‘You’re saying Mrs Kastopolis was killed by a kite?’
‘By the cord of a kite flown by an expert, yes,’ said Bryant. ‘Mr Bhatnagar looked out for his friend and protector, the landlord of all his properties. He made sure his waiters kept their eyes and ears open. When one of them overheard Marsha Kastopolis telling her friend that she was going to talk to the police about her husband, he stepped in to help. He called the man who had repeatedly asked him to stay vigilant.
‘Obviously, if anything bad happened to Marsha on her husband’s home turf suspicions would have been aroused. So one of the waiters was paid to draw her away. Mr Bhatnagar called her pretending to be an ally, and said he had important information for her. He lured her to the meeting on Primrose Hill. He thought he could get rid of her in a quiet place, and made his waiter, Raj, do the dirty work, using the one special skill he possessed. I don’t suppose the lack of footprints in the snow even crossed anyone’s mind. Unfortunately for him, it made the case unique enough to attract our attention.’
‘Why would this waiter Raj agree to do such a thing?’
‘He had no choice. He was in debt to Mr Bhatnagar.’
‘Have you sent someone around to arrest Kastopolis?’
‘No, you’ve misunderstood,’ said Bryant. ‘Kastopolis didn’t ask Mr Bhatnagar to keep an eye out for problems. It was the liaison officer, Anderson. Your first instinct was right: Kastopolis had bought someone on the committee. That was how he got away with breaking the law for so many years. Anderson got kickbacks and watched out for his client in return. Ultimately it was Anderson who forced the waiter, Raj, to commit murder.’
May was mystified. ‘But how did you know it was him?’
‘Anderson vehemently denied ever consorting with his client, remember? But when I rummaged about on his desk I saw a receipt for the Rajasthan Palace. He’d eaten there the night before. He couldn’t resist slipping the dinner through on his expenses.’
‘All these people, working to protect one corrupt man,’ said May, ‘and they’re the ones who’ll go down for him while Kastopolis walks away again. It’s not fair.’
‘You’re forgetting one thing,’ said Bryant. ‘The notebook is still out there
somewhere. We just have to find it before he does.’
The elderly detective turned back to watch a shimmering turquoise kite as it looped down and slashed the string of its nearest rival. The other kite, a fluttering box of emerald satin, was caught in a tight spiral and plunged into a dive, collapsing on the frozen earth.
‘Alluring and dangerous,’ said Bryant. ‘The winners are raised up on the sacrifices of the fallen. That’s how it has always been in this city.’ He smiled ruefully at his partner and turned to watch the turquoise diamond weaving back and forth across the silvered clouds, savouring its brief moment of glory.
Here’s a short, simple tale hinging on something I found in an old book. There’s rarely enough time to pull off a whodunnit in a very short story, so you tend to concentrate on another mysterious aspect of a case. Those who know me well will recognize the influence of Norman Wisdom in the title.
BRYANT & MAY ON THE BEAT
‘I’m completely out of ideas.’
John May, senior detective at the Peculiar Crimes Unit, studied the living room of the chaotic tenth-floor apartment. Its contents were sealed beneath a cowl of clear plastic, designed to prevent contamination of evidence. ‘His body was found over there by his landlady and was taken straight to University College Hospital. The last time anyone saw him was Christmas Eve, four days ago. The doctors want to know if he was a farmer or had visited a farm in the past two weeks.’
‘Seems a bit unlikely,’ said Arthur Bryant, his partner, laboriously unwrapping a rhubarb and custard boiled sweet. ‘Living in the Barbican, hardly the most rural spot in London, although I suppose it does have a lake. Why farming?’
‘They think he died of anthrax. He had mouth ulcers, had complained of stomach cramps and feeling sick. Anthrax is a virus that’s more likely to be used for bioterrorist attacks.’
‘I remember. In 2001 it was sent through the American Postal Service and infected more than twenty people. Turned out to have been mailed by a US government scientist with a grudge, didn’t it? Maybe the same thing happened here.’ The boiled sweet rattled against Bryant’s ill-fitting false teeth as he turned the problem over. ‘What do we know about him?’
Bryant & May - London's Glory: (Short Stories) (Bryant & May Collection) Page 6
