Bryant & May - London's Glory: (Short Stories) (Bryant & May Collection)

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘You had your mobile with you?’ asked May, surprised. Arthur was three years his senior but several decades behind the rest of the world when it came to technology.

  ‘I did have, yes,’ Bryant admitted, tugging his trilby further on to his head. ‘Here’s our bus.’ He indicated the old open-topped Routemaster that was pulling up beside them.

  May was suspicious. ‘Then where is it now?’

  ‘I think I dropped it in the Princess Diana Memorial Drain. Don’t worry, it’ll just keep going around. I’ll get it when I come back. Well’ – he threw out a hand so that May could haul him on board – ‘you’re probably wondering what this is all about.’

  ‘And why we need to meet on a sightseeing bus, yes,’ said May, leading his partner inside the idling vehicle. The portly driver looked back over his shoulder, watching them through the glass. ‘I’ve seen the Regent Street lights already.’

  ‘It won’t do you any harm to see them again. I think Christmas gets better as you get older,’ Bryant remarked somewhat unexpectedly.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Oh yes. You have to buy fewer presents because most of your friends are dead. Let’s go inside; I can’t face the stairs. Let me fill you in. There was a rather sad little murder in King’s Cross during the night. A fifty-four-year-old cleaning lady named Joan McKay was strangled to death in her third-floor flat in Hastings Street. The HO felt the case warranted our involvement.’

  ‘But this bus doesn’t go anywhere near King’s Cross.’ May checked the route on the wall and saw that it tacked through central London on a loop.

  ‘Oh, we’re not going to the murder site. I’ve already been there.’ Bryant seated himself on the arrow-patterned seat at the front of the bus, next to a gingery young man who was standing in the aisle with a microphone. His badge read: ‘Hi! I’m Martin!’ ‘I wanted you here so that you could help me apprehend the murderer.’

  The Routemaster pulled away from the stop at Speakers’ Corner, heading into Oxford Street. Shoppers were out early, but many had already left the city to spend Christmas with their families. ‘My Uncle Jack used to get up on his soapbox over there, just after the war,’ said Bryant, tapping the rain-spattered window. ‘He was used to telling people what they shouldn’t do, like that man who used to wander the length of Oxford Street with the board that said ‘Less Passion From Less Protein’. Uncle Jack would pick a different subject every week: ban licentious theatre, hang Sir Anthony Eden, shoot the Welsh; he’d rant about anything so long as it involved getting rid of something or someone. Not a terribly positive attitude, I suppose, but at least Speakers’ Corner still gives us some semblance of free speech.’

  ‘Now, does anyone know the name of the great b-i-i-i-g department store on our right?’ Martin the tour guide was as proud and patronizing as a first-time father. There were no takers. ‘Anyone?’

  Bryant listlessly raised his hand. ‘Selfridges, opened in 1909 by Harry Gordon Selfridge. He coined the phrase “The customer is always right”, and was the first salesman to put products out on display where they could be touched.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said Martin.

  ‘No, but luckily I do,’ Bryant countered.

  ‘We’re catching a murderer on a bus?’ whispered May in disbelief.

  ‘We are now heading towards Oxford Circus, which was once described by Noël Coward as the Hub of the Universe,’ announced the guide.

  ‘This boy’s a dunderhead.’ Bryant jerked a wrinkled thumb at Martin, who overheard him. ‘It was John Wyndham, and he was describing Piccadilly Circus.’

  Bryant occasionally worked as a tour guide in his spare time, but his revolutionary methods of involving the general public in his talks tended to frighten off casual tourists. He forgot most things, but never the facts he had painstakingly gathered about his city.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ May persisted. ‘It sounds very straightforward. Why did we get the case?’ The PCU only handled investigations the Home Office found detrimental to government policy. A death of the kind his partner had described would usually fall under the local jurisdiction of the Metropolitan Police.

  ‘There are three oddities.’ Bryant ticked them off on his fingers. ‘One, after strangling Mrs McKay the murderer ordered two pizzas and calmly ate both of them. B, he slept overnight in the apartment. And three, his victim was killed after he left.’

  May considered the matter as the bus turned into Regent Street. ‘I’m sorry, Arthur, you’ve utterly lost me.’

  ‘Do try to pay attention. The murderer left the flat at seven fifteen this morning, not realizing that his victim was still alive. Mrs McKay struggled to the window to raise the alarm, but the effort of opening it was too much for her. She lost consciousness while sitting on the sill and fell out into the street, landing on a gentleman called Sir Ian Lowry—’

  ‘The MoD bigwig?’

  ‘The very same. Sir Ian was leaving a call girl’s flat on the ground floor, where he had apparently stayed the night. Mrs McKay broke her neck and his leg. And that’s why the HO called us in. Obviously, it’s a serious security breach because Sir Ian is privy to all kinds of military secrets. It doesn’t help that he was putting the call girl’s services down on his expenses. Private secretary, if you please. The girl has already been brought in, the coroner has certified that Mrs McKay bore the bruises of strangulation around her neck, and all that’s left is the apprehension of her killer.’

  ‘So I’m here to help you identify him,’ said May, still a little confused.

  ‘Oh, I know who the murderer is.’ Bryant cheerily flashed his oversized false teeth. ‘You were complaining about getting old the other day, so I thought this would be a chance for you to test your fading faculties.’

  The old-fashioned Routemaster bus stopped outside Hamleys toy store and the driver stared impassively ahead as a single Japanese tourist came on board. May looked around. There were now eight passengers seated downstairs. The rain was falling too heavily for anyone to remain on the upper open deck. Bryant checked his ancient Timex. It was 10.44 a.m.

  ‘You already know the murderer’s identity?’ asked May.

  ‘Better than that,’ replied Bryant smugly, ‘I can tell you the precise time he’ll be arrested. At 11.26 a.m.’

  ‘Are you saying we’re looking for somebody on board this bus?’

  The tour guide was attempting to deliver a potted history of the Haymarket, and was not happy about being distracted by these chatting elderly men. ‘There are seats further back,’ he pointed out.

  ‘We’re quite happy here,’ insisted Bryant. He withdrew his pipe from his top pocket and absently struck a match to it. A hefty woman in an LA Dodgers baseball cap, an oversized sweatshirt and huge baggy shorts reacted with horror behind him. ‘Oh-my-Gahd, that’s disgusting,’ she complained. ‘Hey, it’s illegal to smoke that thing.’

  ‘Yet it’s apparently not illegal to dress like a gigantic toddler, madam, which I find most curious.’

  ‘Listen, buddy, if you’d take my advice—’

  ‘I’m not your buddy, and if I took your advice I’d be enormous.’ Bryant turned back to his partner. ‘So take a look around and tell me who you suspect. Give me the benefit of your observational skills.’

  The ancient bus was now chuntering towards the rainswept plain of Trafalgar Square. ‘On your left, Nelson’s Column, finished in 1843, with four bronze panels at the base depicting his naval victories,’ said Martin the guide.

  ‘His left arm was struck by lightning in the 1880s and he only just got it X-rayed a couple of years ago,’ said Bryant. ‘That’s the NHS for you.’

  ‘So you know exactly where the murderer will get on this bus, how long he’ll stay on and where he’ll get off?’ asked May.

  ‘Indeed I do.’ Bryant could be supremely annoying when he was the only one holding privileged information.

  At 11.02 a.m., the bus stopped near the corner of Craig’s Court. ‘Pall Mall derives its n
ame from a seventeenth-century mallet and ball game played here by, er, members of royalty,’ Martin the tour guide stated with a hint of uncertainty.

  ‘Everyone knows that,’ said Bryant, fidgeting in his seat. ‘Tell them something new. Alleys of shops are called malls because they’re shaped like the game’s playing sites. Did you know that Pall Mall is only worth £140 on the Monopoly board?’

  ‘I don’t think he cares too much for your interruptions, accurate though they may be,’ whispered May. ‘You’re unsettling him.’

  ‘Some people deserve to be unsettled,’ Bryant replied. ‘When a man is tired of London he should clear off. Oh dear, he’s wearing a clip-on tie.’ Coming from a man as sartorially challenged as Bryant, this was a bit rich.

  When the bus stopped halfway along Whitehall, May surveyed the new arrivals. One of them was a murderer, but which one? There were now eleven passengers on the lower deck: two Americans, two Italians, two Chinese, one Japanese boy in a mad hat and two couples of indeterminate origins. He decided that the murderer had yet to put in an appearance.

  ‘Was this woman McKay in her own apartment?’ he asked.

  ‘Correct.’

  May thought of the call girl living on the ground floor. ‘Did she look after the other girls? Was her killer a client?’

  ‘No, she had nothing to do with them.’ Bryant sat back, trying not to listen to the tour guide’s incorrect description of the Cabinet War Rooms.

  ‘But the killer left behind a clue to his identity.’

  ‘No, it was something he took away with him that gave me the lead.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see how you could possibly know what he took.’

  The bus continued along Whitehall, picking up three more passengers, and lumbered towards Parliament Square through thickening traffic. May eyed the newcomers with suspicion. A German couple – he overheard their conversation – were taking pictures behind a fiftyish man with unmistakably Russian features and anxious, flitting eyes. May studied the Russian’s loud Italian jacket, his unshaven chin. A sad little murder, Bryant had said. This man had dressed in a hurry, without stopping to shave, and looked around every time the bus came to a halt. But if he was the killer, why would he make his escape aboard a slow-moving tour bus, on a trip that ended back where it began?

  ‘Who can tell me the name of this building?’ asked Martin the tour guide.

  ‘Houses of Parliament,’ the assembly muttered faintly, as if being asked to recite a prayer in church.

  ‘Now, many people think Big Ben is the name of the tower …’

  ‘Dear God no.’ Bryant sighed loudly. ‘Can’t he come up with anything more original than that?’

  Martin shot him a filthy look. ‘But it is actually the name of the single bell housed inside—’

  ‘Absolute rubbish.’ Bryant thumped the guide on the arm with his walking stick. ‘There are five bells in the Elizabeth Tower, young man. The other four play the Westminster Quarters, variations of “I know that my Redeemer liveth” from Handel’s Messiah.’

  ‘Your information is not correct?’ the German husband asked the guide, puzzled.

  ‘Look, who’s giving this bloody tour?’ Martin’s cheeks were turning as red as his hair.

  ‘It could be him,’ said May, pointing to the Russian. ‘He’s got a shifty look about him. Oh – that doesn’t sound very scientific, does it?’

  ‘I’ll take over if you like,’ Bryant snapped back at the guide. ‘These people aren’t getting their money’s worth.’

  ‘But, Arthur, how do you know when he was due on the bus? That just leaves—’

  ‘Listen, mate, I don’t have to put up with this. My shift ends here, anyway.’ As the bus stopped in the corner of the square, Martin threw down his microphone and tapped on the glass, signalling to the driver.

  As he made his way along the aisle, May said, ‘The guide, it’s the guide. And he’s getting away!’

  Bryant did not move a muscle as a moon-faced young woman with scraped-back hair and a ponytail took over from the departing Martin.

  ‘Hello, my name is Debbie, and I’m your guide on the last part of this tour,’ she told them. The bus pulled into the traffic and made its way around the square.

  ‘Why didn’t you stop him?’ asked May with growing incredulity. The ginger-headed tour guide was walking quickly away along the crowded pavement with his hands in his pockets.

  Bryant pulled back his sleeve and held up his watch so that his partner could read it: 11.19 a.m. There were still another seven minutes to go.

  ‘Who can tell me the name of this building?’ asked Debbie, pointing to Westminster Abbey and cupping her hand around her ear.

  ‘Is there some special nursery school where they’re trained to speak in this fashion, I wonder?’ said Bryant. The bus headed back on to Victoria Embankment.

  ‘Where does the tour go from here?’ asked May, keeping an eye on the Russian, who seemed to be sweating.

  ‘Around Covent Garden, where the lovely Debbie will probably regale us with selections from My Fair Lady, then back towards Oxford Street,’ said Bryant.

  ‘You said it was something he took with him that gave you a clue,’ May repeated, checking out the Japanese boy’s strange headgear.

  Bryant rested his chin on his knuckles and regarded the stippled thread of the Thames that could be glimpsed between buildings. ‘The lovely Debbie will ask them to name the river next,’ he muttered.

  ‘He was so unfazed by the thought of murdering Mrs McKay that he stayed all night …’ mused May.

  ‘I wonder if anyone knows where the lion on Westminster Bridge comes from?’ asked Debbie.

  ‘Because he was used to her …’ May followed the thought.

  ‘Good Lord, an intelligent question,’ Bryant beamed delightedly at the new guide.

  ‘It stood on the parapet of the Lion Brewery until 1966, near Hungerford Bridge …’ said Debbie.

  ‘… Because he was married to her,’ said May.

  ‘Yet we have come to regard it as a symbol of London …’

  ‘… And he stuck to his routine, ordering pizza for them both, sleeping beside her and getting up the next morning …’

  ‘… So when we photograph the lion standing proudly beside Big Ben, we recreate the traditional link between Members of Parliament – and alcohol.’ Debbie flourished a smile.

  ‘Oh, bravo!’ exclaimed Bryant. ‘I like her!’

  ‘… And he came to work just as he always did, because he couldn’t think of what else to do. He had to stick to the schedule. Not the tour guide at all, but the bus driver,’ said May as the truth dawned.

  ‘Correct. His timetable was still on the kitchen counter, but his jacket, cap and badge were all missing from the flat.’ Bryant rose unsteadily to his feet and pressed the stop bell. ‘That took you long enough,’ he sniffed. ‘I’m sorry, Debbie. I’m afraid the tour will have to terminate here.’

  May looked out of the window. The bus stop faced New Scotland Yard. It was exactly 11. 26 a.m.

  ‘He won’t run off,’ said Bryant. ‘He wants to be taken in for the murder of his wife. He loved her. But the neighbours said she never stopped nagging him about his weight.’

  The Japanese tourist and the Russian took some very nice photographs of the two detectives leading the devastated driver down from his cabin. ‘Arrest ye merry gentlemen,’ said Bryant with a grin as the flashes went off.

  ‘You’ve got holly in your hat,’ May pointed out.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bryant, ‘I like the smell.’

  ‘Holly hasn’t got a smell.’

  ‘It does, actually. The bright, spiky appearance is all bravado. If you gently break the stem, you’ll smell it – there’s a bitter tang inside,’ he explained. ‘Like some people.’

  BRYANT & MAY: THE CASES SO FAR

  New readers start here: Arthur Bryant and John May head up the Peculiar Crimes Unit, London’s most venerable specialist police team, now based in King’s Cross
. It’s a division that was founded during the Second World War to investigate cases that could cause national scandal or public unrest.

  Previously based above Mornington Crescent tube station, the technophobic, irascible and vaguely revolting Bryant and his smooth-talking modernist partner John May head a team of equally unusual misfits who are just as likely to commit crimes as solve them.

  Arthur Bryant has been writing up his strangest cases as memoirs, but they’re as unreliable as he is, because he couldn’t possibly have tackled his first case during the Second World War – could he? The memoirs were turned into novels by a hack writer employed by Mr Bryant’s publishers to present them to the world. Here are the twelve cases covered so far.

  FULL DARK HOUSE

  In Which Mr May Gets Stage Fright

  And Mr Bryant Gets Blown to Kingdom Come

  When Arthur Bryant got blown up in his office and all that was left of him were his false teeth, his partner John May looked for clues to his death. The hunt took him back through the decades to the unit’s foundation, the worst day of the Blitz and a murder investigation in the Palace Theatre, where an outrageous production of Orpheus in the Underworld was being staged, and where the principal dancer was found without her feet.

  Everyone in the Palace Theatre became a suspect. Soon there were more bizarre deaths, including a gruesome on-stage spearing from a lightning bolt, and as the argumentative young detectives tracked their elusive quarry through the blackouts, the fog and the falling bombs, they found themselves unwittingly following the pattern of the play, chasing Orpheus down to Hades. It seemed that the killer they sought was ‘some kind of giant dwarf’, which made about as much sense as anything else in the investigation.