“So he was sitting on the seat – how do you operate this thing?” Bryant peered around the back of the machine. “What on earth does it do?”
“Builds the pectoral muscles, sir, like this.” He held his arm with the radius bone at right angles to the humerus. “You raise your hands and hold the grips above your head on either side, pushing the pads forward with your forearms until they meet in the middle, then slowly releasing them.”
“What on earth for?”
“It’s good for the chest.”
“Not in his case. Looks as if he was seated here and fell forward after overexerting himself.”
“That’s what I thought, sir. In which case the burns make no sense. I don’t see how he superheated so suddenly.”
“There have been numerous documented cases of spontaneous combustion,” suggested Bryant. “Nothing left of people but their shoes.”
“Beg to disagree, sir. None ever properly substantiated, bit of a folk myth.”
“But I’ve seen photographs of the process occurring,” Bryant insisted.
“With all due respect, you’ve seen pictures of the aftermath, charred remains. It’s an old wives’ tale stemming from a single photograph of a woman who fell into a fire, taken in the 1920s, although it’s true that the body can change its temperature very quickly. We’re extremely adaptable machines.”
Bryant wasn’t happy about being corrected but was willing to concede the argument. “Do you have a workable theory about this?” he asked.
“Think we should talk to the witnesses now, sir. They can shed some more light.”
Channing Gifford and her partner whose name Bryant failed to catch, lived in a first-floor apartment of such minimalist design that he thought they must have been recently burgled. Thieves had made off with most of the furniture, leaving bare floors of black slate and tall, clear vases of calla lilies perched starkly against hard white surfaces. In a thin blue tank running the length of one wall, a single angelfish hovered listlessly. Bryant and Banbury were ushered in, but there appeared to be nowhere to sit. Channing wore a white leotard with a black shift over the top, and looked as if she had got dressed twice. She was as elegant as an ostrich, minus the exuberance of plumage, and clearly adored her partner, who was giraffe-tall, and moved with the same loping gait.
“We teach modern dance, you understand,” Channing explained. “We were warming up at the window, doing some gentle stretches – ”
“ – very gentle stretches – ” confirmed the partner unnecessarily.
“ – and watching the storm break. There were quite a few flashes of lightning, but far away, in the direction of Lambeth.”
“ – Lambeth. Then we saw the flash inside,” said her partner, whipping her long head in the direction of the gym opposite. “A lightning flash, and we – ”
“ – we saw him.”
“You saw Danny Martell?” asked Bryant.
“We know he works out there because fans sometimes wait – ”
“ – they wait outside the door of the gym. They call his catchphrase up at the windows.”
“We’ve had to get your officers out on numerous occasions, but you never do anything.”
“ – do anything at all.”
Bryant didn’t notice their sudden accusatory tone. He was too busy wondering how anyone could live in a lounge without seats. “And you saw him in the room, working out?”
“We weren’t looking,” said Channing hastily, “but a man that size is hard to miss. He blew up after his wife left him.”
“ – blew right up,” her partner agreed. “Poor diet.”
“We saw the lightning flash inside the room. It looked as if it came from the ceiling, a thin blue streak.”
“Or perhaps through the window,” added her partner. “But it hit him.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Most definitely,” said Channing. “He screamed and fell forward. That’s when I called the police.”
“You didn’t think of going over to see what had happened.”
“No, we have a history with that gym – ”
“ – an unpleasant history.”
“It would be a great help if only one of you spoke at a time,” snapped Bryant, who hated couples completing each other’s sentences.
Channing looked at her partner and silently acknowledged an agreement to take over the story. “We went to the window, to see what was happening, and – ”
Channing’s partner opened her mouth. Everyone held their breath. Bryant shot her a filthy look. She shut it again. Channing continued. “ – and we saw this man leaving the building. He was closing the main door behind him.”
“Why did you notice him particularly?” asked Banbury.
“He was a tall man. But it was the way he was dressed; you couldn’t help noticing. At first I thought he was a motorcycle courier. You know, a black leather suit, tight-fitting, big black boots. But he was wearing a black half-mask that stopped at his cheekbones, and above that he was wearing a black hat, but quite small, like a futuristic version of a traditional highwayman. We once did a modern-dress production of The Beggar’s Opera, with Macheath wearing something similar. And he had a little pigtail, like they used to, at the back. It put me in mind of that dreadful poem.”
“Have you seen any pictures of him in the press?” asked Bryant.
“No, we don’t buy newspapers; they’re full of lies. Why?”
“Did you see where he went?”
“He looked around, then ran off in the direction of Farringdon Road.”
One of the busiest thoroughfares in central London, thought Bryant. Somebody else must have seen him.
“If you think of anything else – ” Banbury began, closing his notepad.
“Well, of course we did, because of being dance teachers.” Channing’s partner could not resist speaking out. “It was the way he moved. Great strides, unnatural and awkward, as if walking hurt him. You see it in dancers all the time when their muscles are healing.”
Bryant moved to the window and looked down into the shining yellow puddles below. In his mind’s eye, he saw the Highwayman turn from the deep grey shadows of the building’s archway and lope away towards the lights. Almost as if he wanted to draw attention to himself.
“Good job they were looking out the window, sir,” Banbury consoled as they walked back towards Bryant’s Mini Cooper.
“They had no choice. There was nothing to look at in the flat.”
“There was a fish. I’ve always wanted a pet.”
“Fish aren’t pets, Banbury, they’re ornaments. Why didn’t he leave a calling card this time, that’s what I want to know.”
“If he did, we haven’t found it,” Banbury agreed.
“Why not? He wants us to acknowledge him. Why not make sure by leaving the card again?”
“You don’t think it was some kind of freak side effect of the storm?”
“Lightning has some unusual properties, Banbury, but I’m fairly sure it doesn’t come through the windows and strike people indoors,” Bryant snapped back. “Although my mother used to make us cover the mirrors and lay our cutlery flat during thunderstorms. I want that gym taken apart brick by brick. The Highwayman must have gained admittance to the room somehow, in which case he’ll have left entry or exit marks. You of all people should know that.”
Banbury was already shaking his head. “I only had time for a quick look, but unless I’m missing some kind of secret passage, I really don’t see how he could have effected an entry. Apart from anything else, Danny Martell would have seen him; he had an unobstructed view of the door from his seat on the machine. If he’d felt threatened, he would have got up, and we know he didn’t do that.”
“What are you suggesting?” asked Bryant. “That we’re dealing with some kind of supernatural agent who walks through walls, the living embodiment of a lousy half-remembered poem that’s come down to earth for the sole purpose of exacting bloody vengeance on min
or celebrities?”
“I didn’t say that, sir,” Banbury pointed out. “You did.”
Outside the apartment building, Bryant lit his pipe and leaned against the cool glazed bricks, looking across the street to the gymnasium. If the Highwayman was so determined to make it appear that no killer had been at the scene, why was he prepared to show himself to witnesses? Bryant’s fascination with crimes of paradox was well documented, but even by the peculiar cases of his own past, this was outstanding.
Something else was here, though; the death sites were public areas associated with wealth and security, not squalid back alleys. There was a sense of voluptuous harm, visited upon random strangers by a dispassionate, cruel mentality. The feeling was shocking because it was so alien. Long ago, Bryant had developed a psychic sensitivity to London’s buildings and landscapes, but rarely had he experienced the impression of such a malevolent personality. It tainted the atmosphere and left behind a darkly spreading stain…
The grey dome of St Paul’s rose beyond the low office buildings. The screeching of seagulls reminded him of the river’s nearness. Something tugged at his memory, the faint impression of an earlier case, its detail fading now like a footprint in soft sand. Puzzled by this half-recollection, he crossed the street and walked to the building’s doorway.
There, at the base of the steps, a scratched V in the stonework, with another, inverted, on top of it. With a little imagination, the symbol could be interpreted as a tricorn hat atop a raised collar. The markings were fresh.
The Highwayman had left another calling card.
∨ Ten Second Staircase ∧
17
Renegade Minds
They met in the middle of the bridge.
What had once been undertaken as an evening constitutional had now assumed talismanic value, a requirement of their continued survival. Throughout the passing decades, the pair had walked beside the surging sepia waters of the Thames to the bridge’s centre, and now the habit was unbreakable. They reserved their secret histories for this moment, their private doubts, their hidden knowledge. It was one of the few places where Bryant was still legitimately allowed to smoke his pipe and where May could steal a few puffs on a forbidden cigar. They usually walked at sunset, but early on Wednesday morning the bridge proved to be a convenient meeting place before their return to the unit. A thin dawn mist spiralled from the river, its tendrils clinging to the stanchions of the bridge, sharpening the air with the brackish tang of mud and mildew.
“God, what a business,” said May, passing over a cardboard coffee cup. “We have to keep a united front on this, Arthur. It will sink us otherwise.”
“You pessimist,” said Bryant, sniffing his coffee. “Has this got sugar in?” He leaned on the cold stone balustrade and marvelled at the rising dark outlines of the city. “Look how it’s changing.”
“You always say that,” May countered. “You love St Paul’s, the Gherkin, County Hall, the Royal Festival Hall, and the London Eye. You hate the mayor’s building and Charing Cross Station. I know exactly what you’re about to say because you always say the same thing.”
Bryant was affronted. “I’m sorry to be so predictable. Habit and familiarity provide me with comfort. What’s wrong with that?”
“You’re going to get out those strange boiled sweets now, aren’t you? The ones nobody sells anymore. What will it be today, Cola Cubes, Rhubarb and Custard, Chocolate Logs, Flying Saucers?” He turned to face his astonished partner. “Come on, what have you got?”
Bryant looked sheepish as he unwrapped a crumpled paper bag, revealing strings of red licorice. “Fireman’s Hose,” he said apologetically. “Do you want one?”
“No, I bloody don’t.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Bryant’s trilby had folded down his ears, and his scarf was pulled up to his nose. He looked like a superannuated schoolboy who’d been held back for half a century. Nobody would take him seriously looking like this. May sighed, turning back to the balustrade.
Before them, a pair of police launches were fighting the tide, heading towards the pier at Greenwich. “Look at us. How absurd we are. All these years spent bullying bureaucrats for budgets, working ridiculous hours, losing friends, having no social life, leaving no trace of our efforts. All the stress, all the pain, and we’re no further forward than the day we met each other.”
“That’s not fair.” Bryant dunked a rubbery length of hose in his coffee and sucked on it ruminatively. “Think of the destinies we’ve altered. The lives we’ve saved. The weight of knowledge we’ve accumulated.”
“You understand less now about the criminal mind than when you started,” said May. “You’re always complaining that life is speeding up around you, yet you make absolutely no effort to change.”
“What is this about?” asked Bryant suspiciously.
“Nothing – I’m just frustrated, that’s all.”
“We’re still investigating. We haven’t been beaten yet. You don’t fool me. Something’s happened.”
“It’s our ambitious new Home Office liaison officer,” replied May. “Leslie Faraday has ordered psychiatric evaluation reports on us. He’s gathering background material as ammunition.”
“When did you hear that?”
“I found an e-mail waiting for me from Rufus when I got in last night.”
“Faraday won’t find anything of interest. Why are you so worried?”
“Perhaps you don’t understand the gravity of our situation. He’s looking for a way to shut us down, and he wants it done as quickly as possible.”
“You don’t know that for a fact.”
“You have no friends in the Met, Arthur. I do, and they keep me informed. You forget some of the things Faraday could uncover. We freed thirty illegal immigrants last month. We hid their trail and falsified the case’s documentation. Do I need to remind you that you also placed a minor in a position of danger, allowing him to be lowered into a sewer with a registered sex offender?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds bad,” Bryant admitted.
“That’s how Faraday will put it. Wait until he discovers how many cold cases we have on our files.”
“That’s part of our remit, John. Half of those investigations were already cold when they came to us.”
“If he reopens any of them, he’s going to find more than just procedural anomalies. We’ve broken rules. We’ve faked reports. We’ve buried evidence.”
“Only for the benefit of the victims, John, and to ensure that justice is done. Truth and fairness are more important than procedure. ‘A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds’ – Ralph Waldo Emerson.”
“But when a policeman disobeys the law he becomes the worst kind of criminal in its eyes. We won’t just lose the unit. We could both go to jail. We’ve been behaving like renegades for too long.”
Arthur selected another strand of licorice and chewed it. “This morbidity doesn’t become you, John. I’m usually the negative one. Put it out of your mind. You know how the system works: If we get this right, everything else will be swept under the carpet. We never make mistakes; when we break the law, it’s absolutely deliberate.” He beamed hopefully, his bleached false teeth expanding what he’d intended as a life-affirming smile into something both innocent and creepy.
“There’s something else you should know. The rumours are starting up again. April has only just joined the unit. I don’t want her to hear them. I can’t have that conversation with her right now.”
“She’ll be fine. You always said we were a family, didn’t you? We’ll look out for each other and ride it out. Come on, concentrate on the case. I can’t do it without you.”
May shook his head. “I’m not sure I can walk into the briefing room and face everyone this morning.”
“You have to see it as a challenge. Two very public deaths, linked by sightings of a horseman.” His scary smile grew wider.
“They’re linked by more than that,” said May.
Bryant could see that he was holding something back. “Have you found something out?” he asked.
“There’s another link. I couldn’t sleep after reading the e-mail, so I started looking for Saralla White’s ex-husband, the executive whose sex life she first exposed. It only took a few minutes to locate him; he’d left a trail through dozens of Web sites. His name is Leo Carey. He was working at Bell and Lockhead in the city, handling public relations for their corporate clients, but was fired because his wife’s exposure of their private life destroyed his credibility with clients. Guess what he does for a living now?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“He’s Danny Martell’s publicist. I got hold of his mobile number and rang him. He told me he’d met up with Martell on the night of his death. Even better – they had a fight.” He raised his fist. “A proper punch-up.”
Bryant’s smile grew so broad his teeth nearly slipped out. “You’re joking.”
“It set me thinking. PR agents jealously guard their contacts, but their circles overlap. I’m pretty sure both victims have a number of colleagues in common. We just haven’t uncovered them yet.”
“What did they fight about?”
“You can ask him that yourself,” said May, checking his watch. “What time do you make it?”
Bryant squinted at his ancient Timex. “Twenty past.”
“Twenty past seven?”
“Not entirely sure, old bean. My hour hand appears to have fallen off.”
“They’re holding him for us at Albany Street. I said we’d get there as soon as we could. Did you remember to pay your congestion charge this morning?”
“Don’t be ridiculous; I wouldn’t know how to. I’ve never paid for Victor.” His rust-bucket hippie-era Mini Cooper was hardly worth more than a month’s CC fees. “I keep a length of reflective tape in the glove box, pop it over the plates this side of the cameras, and take it off on the other side. I don’t feel guilty for doing so; the unit should be exempt. We’ve one staff car amongst eight, and I’m certainly not going to wait at a bus stop to get to a crime scene.”
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