Bryant & May 06 - The Victoria Vanishes

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘He also started drinking heavily.’

  ‘So, after his mother was taken ill for the first time, he kidnapped a girl and kept her locked up in the basement of a boozer, staying with her, talking to her. Agreed so far?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘After his trial and incarceration Pellew supposedly underwent rehabilitation, and had frequent assessments. Somehow, we still don’t know how, he managed to secure an early release. But unbeknown to the doctors, his desire to re-create the small comforts of the past had twisted into something darker. He knew that if he kidnapped another girl, the authorities would come for him and take her away, so it seems he decided on a new method of fulfilling his dreams. He could keep these women with him for ever by fatally drugging them. They would simply fall asleep by his side in a place that made him happy. No sexual assault, no violence, just the everlasting companionship he craved, and found he could create by taking lives.’

  ‘You think the women he picked reminded him of his mother?’

  ‘I wondered about that. But it would make everything so psychologically neat, wouldn’t it? Even the phoney birthmark makes sense because the argument would be that he was using it as a mask, a way of proving that even though he had deliberately made himself unattractive, he could draw a woman to his side. What he was really doing, though, was marking himself out to us. Pellew could be regarded either as a tragic figure doomed to re-create the only moments of happiness he had ever had, or as an arrogant grotesque preying on the lonely and vulnerable. With the exception of Jasmina Sherwin, he only selected women with maternal instincts.’

  ‘Either way, Raymond is right to close the case,’ said May.

  ‘Except for one fact that unravels this neatly bow-tied little package. Three of these gentle, harmless ladies knew each other. So the notion of a lonely, embittered, mentally ill man wandering from pub to pub looking for random victims is suddenly thrown out, because his acts are carefully premeditated.’

  ‘Unless it’s sheer coincidence. Look at the make-up of city pubs and you’ll find workers from the same professions, many of whom know each other.’

  ‘A fair point. You can talk to someone in a pub and yet hardly acknowledge them in another environment. So many overlapping circles.’

  ‘I should produce a set of Venn diagrams.’

  ‘Please don’t.’ Bryant exhaled a wreath of blue smoke around his head.

  ‘And what if one victim led to the next? He makes friends with Kellerman, and she leads him to Curtis, who leads him to Wynley and then Roquesby. Was any one of them aware of what had happened to the others? Presumably not, or they’d have steered clear of doing the same thing, standing around alone in a pub. Although no one’s ever really alone in a pub, are they? That’s the attraction.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I’m not at all happy,’ said Bryant firmly. ‘And I won’t let Raymond shut the case until I am. I want to see the psychiatric evaluations that got Pellew released from the Broadhampton. I want to know how those women came to be in that photograph, and why their employment records were falsified over the same periods. We have to go back and take another look at the pubs. Why did I see a Victorian public house that never even existed under that name? Most of all, we need to find out how on earth an outpatient under observation was able to lay his hands on such highly toxic drugs.’

  ‘That’s going to take time,’ said May, ‘and Land wants this wrapped up fast.’

  ‘Then he’ll have to wait.’

  ‘But if no one else is attacked—’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Bryant stubbornly. ‘We’ve missed something essential.’

  ‘Not to the outcome of the case, Arthur, only to your personal satisfaction. You know we don’t always get every last detail correct. It would be like suggesting we’ve solved the mysteries of human nature. It’s not simply a matter of genomes, there are social variables and—’

  ‘I know it’s not an exact science, John, but there’s something here that simply. Does. Not. Make. Sense.’ He thumped his walking stick on the pavement for emphasis.

  ‘Then tell me, what do you think that is?’

  Bryant punched him in the chest with a mittened hand. ‘What have I always told you? The kind of crimes that reach our little unit can best be appreciated and resolved through a consideration of the laws of paradox. Pellew himself led us to him, then fled when we arrived. Why? Although he wanted – needed – us to catch him, why did he run to his death on a busy motorway?’

  ‘He was trying to get away and made a mistake.’

  ‘No. You saw him hesitate and look back. He knew that we couldn’t be allowed to take him alive. If we did, he would find himself charged and interrogated, and he couldn’t afford to let that happen.’

  ‘Why in God’s name not?’ asked May, mystified.

  ‘Because under interrogation he would incriminate someone else,’ said Bryant, looking out into the incoming mist.

  ‘But Arthur, there isn’t anyone else. He operated alone, acting for the private gratification that he alone could receive.’

  ‘So it would seem. And we are presented with the textbook apparatus to understand his motivation. In fact, there’s little left for us to do beyond conducting a few scientific matches and placing the case in archive. The Broadhampton’s medical faculty will be at great pains to justify their decision to release Pellew into the community. Everyone walks away with their hands clean.’

  A police launch passed beneath them, a white arrow cleaving sepia waters.

  ‘And there’s something else,’ added Bryant. ‘I thought about the drawing Bimsley found on the floor of Pellew’s makeshift hiding place at the Angerstein Hotel, a scrappy rendering of a bird with a long tail, sitting on a tree stump. Bimsley gave it to me when I visited him at the hospital.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘It only took me a few moments to come up with the pub name – the Magpie and Stump, opposite the Old Bailey. But I was a little slower in making the connection. Pellew left us a more deliberate clue than any of his clumsy earlier attempts. What does the name Thomas Spence mean to you?’

  ‘The Cato Street Conspiracy,’ said May. ‘Spence was a former schoolteacher who believed that if all the land of Britain was shared out equally, every man, woman and child would get seven acres each.’

  ‘Very good, you know your history. Did you also know that he founded the Society of Spencean Philanthropists? They believed that instead of a centralized governing body, Britain should be run by small groups based in public houses. I made a list . . . hang on.’ He rooted out another of his scraps of paper and squinted at the huge lettering on it. ‘The Spenceans met at the Nag’s Head in Carnaby Market, the Carlisle in Shoreditch, the Mulberry Tree in Moorfields, the Cock in Soho, the White Lion in Camden and a host of other pubs. In rented rooms in Cato Street, they hatched plans to assassinate a group of government ministers attending a dinner party in Grosvenor Square. They were caught by police and tried at the Old Bailey, while their supporters watched from the windows of the Magpie and Stump public house. Some of the accused were executed, some transported. So, we get a second “seven” after the Seven Stars pub, a third with the Seven Bells – the former name of the Old Bell pub – and on top of the other keywords Pellew has given us, we must now add “conspiracy”.’

  Bryant balled the paper and tossed it down into the fast-flowing river. ‘Look at the view we take so much for granted. Politicians are fond of telling us how much cleaner the Thames is now, how you can catch dace and sole in its reaches once again. Everyone wants to believe in appearances. What was the Thames ever but a gigantic sewer, somewhere to empty the waste of a wealthy nation? The steamships churned up so much shit that the fine people crossing this bridge died of cholera. You can burnish a city’s image, but you never really change its nature. There’s something hidden and corrupt running beneath it, there always is, and this time it’s not just the acted-out fantasies of a lost soul.’

  ‘Oh really,’ May c
omplained. ‘You’re saying you see some kind of city-wide conspiracy at work?’

  ‘Most definitely.’ Bryant nodded with vigour. ‘And I intend to discover exactly what it is.’

  ‘If you’re wrong, our reputations will be ruined once and for all.’

  ‘Given the nature of my suspicions, I pray I’m wrong,’ said Bryant gloomily.

  34

  * * *

  GAZUMPED

  Raymond Land was perched uncomfortably on the cracked red-leather seat of a nineteenth-century tapestry-backed chair in Leslie Faraday’s office, nervously waiting for the minister to return.

  As he toyed with a loose thread, he wondered whether he would be able to curry favour from the case’s fast conclusion. His superiors would see that the PCU could compete with the Met in terms of efficiency, and as he was acting head of the division he would surely be commended for resolving a situation that might well have caused a national panic. The monotonous regularity with which the HO attempted to shut down the unit would be ended, and its officers would finally be allowed to continue in an atmosphere of mutual respect.

  He looked down and realized that the tapestry thread was wrapped around his fingers. Peering over at the back of the chair, he saw to his horror that he had unravelled a substantial portion of the ancient design. The shepherdess now had no head, and two of her sheep had partially evaporated.

  Faraday waddled into the room rubbing his hands. ‘Ah, there you are, Land,’ he boomed cheerfully. ‘I’m having Deirdre rustle us up some tea. You’re white with two sugars, if memory serves.’ Faraday’s memory always served. Indeed, it was his singular talent, and all that kept him from being booted from his fine Whitehall office into the gutter. Faraday was as slow as treacle, but remembered where all the financial corpses were buried, and therefore it was expedient to keep him where ministers with more competence and cunning could keep an eye on him. ‘I must say you’ve done jolly well to put this frightful business to bed. I thought it would be a good idea to tell – ’

  A chill breeze trembled through Land’s heart. He suddenly knew who Faraday had told.

  ‘ – Mr Kasavian,’ said Faraday, holding open the door. ‘He wanted a word with you himself.’

  This could not be good. Whenever the cadaverous Home Office security supervisor became involved in their affairs, babies cried, women cowered, innocence was punished and blame was wrongly apportioned. As he entered the room, Land fancied he heard the distant sound of noosed bodies falling through trapdoors. Certainly the sun went in, draining all warmth from the room.

  Oskar Kasavian did not smile so much as bare his lower teeth. As Land rose and held out his hand, he realized that his palm was still filled with material from the damaged chair. Like a shamed schoolboy, he let it drop on to the floor behind him.

  ‘I understand our public houses are once more safe enough for the populace to become drunk in,’ said Kasavian, waving Land back into his seat. ‘Although it would have been preferable to bring the malefactor to justice rather than spreading him all over the A102.’

  ‘My officers risked a great deal trying to prevent the flight of a mentally unstable man,’ Land explained.

  ‘Quite understood.’ Kasavian examined his nails as though checking for evidence that could link him with murder. ‘Trying circumstances for everyone involved, and I look forward to reading your full report. But I am here about another matter entirely. The Peculiar Crimes Unit currently occupies the site at 1B Hampstead Road, does it not?’ Kasavian opened a folder and produced a photocopied map of the area, with the footprint of Mornington Crescent station marked in shaded lines.

  Land was thrown. He leaned forward, peering at the proffered document. ‘That is correct.’

  Kasavian tapped a long hard fingernail on his front tooth. It made a sound like water dripping from a corpse on to an upturned tin bucket. ‘You see, the thing is, there has been a rather unfortunate oversight. Probably no more than a clerical error, but an error all the same. Your lease – ’

  ‘ – extended to 2017. I signed the documents myself,’ said Land hastily.

  ‘Indeed you did, but for some reason I can hardly begin to fathom, the document was never notarized by the Land Registrar. Which means that the lease was never officially extended.’ Kasavian had employed his legal team for over a month, searching for some loophole by which to remove the PCU from his sight. The unratified lease had fallen into his etiolated hands like disinterred treasure.

  ‘Then surely it is simply a matter of presenting the lease once more,’ said Land hopefully.

  ‘Would that things were so simple.’ Kasavian wrung his hands together so tightly that Land expected to see drops of blood fall from them. ‘With the lapse of the lease, all existing documentation between the former leaseholder and the Crown Estate, which owns the site, is voided.’

  ‘Can’t we draw up new documents based on the previous arrangement?’ asked Land, already knowing the answer.

  Kasavian gave him a dry, hooded look that suggested he could not be bothered to come up with any more excuses. ‘The unit is required to vacate the premises at noon on Monday.’

  ‘But tomorrow’s Saturday,’ squeaked Land. ‘Where are we to be rehoused?’

  ‘Alas, we do not have the facility for rehousing such a government unit at present.’

  ‘Then what are you suggesting we do?’

  Faraday pretended to spot something of great interest outside the window, which was unlikely as he was facing a brick wall in Horseferry Road. ‘Mr Kasavian has kindly agreed to place all members of staff on partially paid leave until the situation can be sorted out,’ he said.

  ‘We hope to find new premises for you within three to four months. Meanwhile, we will be offering a generous “opt-out” scheme to your staff, for those members who feel unable to continue with the unit.’

  ‘Do you know how many times the Home Office has tried to disband the PCU and failed?’ said Land hotly. ‘Without us, this type of crime would go undetected and unsolved.’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ said Kasavian. ‘The unit has clearly had its fans in the Home Office, but many members of the old guard are reaching retirement age and handing over the reins. There are reasons why you never made superintendent, Land, just as there are now reasons to assume that the Metropolitan Police Force could handle this kind of work with greater cost-efficiency.’

  ‘So that’s what it comes down to?’ asked Land. ‘Money?’

  ‘It’s a matter of security. It may have escaped your notice, but the capital is on a permanent severe terrorism alert. There is no room for your little cottage industry detection unit. You’re an anachronism, an unacceptable security risk, you’ve admitted so yourself.’

  ‘That was in the past, before—’

  ‘Before your detectives won you over? Ask yourself, Land, what has changed? The answer is nothing, and that’s the problem.’

  ‘Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?’ Land pleaded. He glanced back at Faraday, who had just noticed that his tapestry chair was ruined.

  ‘It’s too late for that,’ said Kasavian. ‘I’m afraid the building has already been sold. Tomorrow is your very last day at Mornington Crescent. You’d better go and tell your staff to pack up their belongings.’ His smile was as mirthless as any carnival huckster’s. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t do anything as drastic as changing the locks. I remember only too well what happened the last time we tried that. We’re all civilized adults, Mr Land, I’m sure we can reach an amicable agreement.’

  ‘You mean you’d like us to reach a compromise on the terms of moving out?’ said Land hopefully.

  ‘Good God, no,’ said Kasavian. ‘It’s merely an expression. There’s nothing you can do now except go.’

  35

  * * *

  INTERPRETATION

  A pair of disembodied legs sealed in black fishnet tights and crimson satin garters was balanced gracefully on a mound of red plastic poppies. Nearby, a to
rso clad in a basque with lavender rhinestones set in its staves glittered menacingly.

  DS Janice Longbright peered into the window of a shop called ‘Yield to the Night’ and sighed at the clothes she could not afford. She was tired of being broke and unloved. Checking her watch, she realized that she was running late. Carol Wynley’s partner was awaiting her arrival in the flat beside the shop.

  Shad Thomson had suffered a stroke in his late fifties, three years earlier, and the apartment he shared with Carol Wynley had been adapted to allow his motorized wheelchair to pass easily from room to room. Although she was unsure how much help she should offer her host, Longbright suggested making tea for them both, and he comfortably acquiesced.

  ‘I suppose I got lazy living with Carol,’ he told her. ‘It’s surprisingly easy to let someone do everything for you.’

  ‘You must miss her a great deal,’ Longbright said.

  ‘I’ll never know anyone else like her,’ he replied. ‘She knew me before the stroke, so she remembered a different person, the one who was still on his feet, racing around town taking meetings, hitting deadlines, thinking that work was so damned important. No one will ever see me like that again. Carol was the last person to really know me. I’m someone else now. I can never go back.’

  ‘How long were you together?’

  ‘Seven years. I met her in a pub, the Seven Stars in Carey Street. I remember it had some kind of connection with Holland. She had worked for a law firm in Amsterdam, and we got talking about the history of the place. I’m a journalist. At least it’s a job I can still do like this.’