Bryant & May - Oranges and Lemons

by Christopher Fowler - Bryant

  ‘He’s wearing an earpiece,’ Janice explained to Sidney.

  ‘We have an address for the driver, a flat in South London. He’s not answering. Someone has to go around there.’

  ‘Let me go with Colin,’ Meera suggested. ‘I’ll take the Kawasaki; it’ll be faster at this time of the evening. We know what to do.’

  The Royal Woolwich Dockyards had been opened by Henry VIII, and for centuries after the area remained resolutely military. Even though the Royal Arsenal’s football team had decamped to North London, the town, centred on a rambling market, was rough-hewn and rowdy, beset by squaddies looking for a laugh and a beer. Woolwich had once been distinguished by the great brick wall of the dockyard that loomed over the town, but that barrier had fallen to the wrecking ball, opening up the wide riverside, and with gentrification had come a kind of windswept bareness. Now salvaged chunks of military hardware formed a decorative motif, war fetishized as commercial opportunity. From here to the sea, the southern side of the Thames was ugly and bad-tempered.

  Mohammed Alkesh lived in a prefabricated 1970s block of flats in serious need of repair. Colin had trouble finding a porter who would let them in. The young Bangladeshi sat behind an acid-etched sheet of wired glass and still looked apprehensive even after he had seen their ID.

  They showed him screengrabs of Alkesh. ‘He was here last night,’ said the boy, ‘except that’s not his name around here.’

  ‘Do you know what it is?’

  ‘Something like Dex or Jax? I heard him on the balcony on his phone. I can take you up.’

  He led them along a corridor that smelled of dope and stale burgers, and unlocked a scuffed door with his master keys.

  Meera went first. ‘Did you ever talk to him?’

  ‘Not much. He’s an illegal.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘You just know. All their stuff fits into one bag.’

  ‘Did he have a vehicle, a pale-blue van?’

  ‘No, man, he has nothing. Sometimes another guy lends him a car, a bashed-up Fiat. It’s parked outside.’

  ‘How does he seem to you?’

  ‘Kind of invisible. Skinny, with a busy haircut – I don’t know what. I see guys like him everywhere. He has nothing. No stuff, no family.’

  ‘No furniture,’ said Colin, looking around the bare white-walled flat that smelled of bleach and damp carpet.

  ‘I never seen inside,’ said the boy. ‘Where does he sleep?’

  Meera found a single mattress stored upright in a cupboard. ‘How long has he been here?’

  ‘A few weeks. It’s a sublet. I don’t know who owns it. Not my business. Illegals. Close the door as you go.’

  ‘You don’t want to wait for us?’ asked Meera.

  ‘You see anything worth stealing in here?’ The boy gave a shrug and trudged back to his booth.

  ‘So, nothing for Dan,’ said Meera as they came out of the living room. The slamming-back of the bedroom door caught them by surprise. Someone small with ragged black hair went hurtling past them.

  In the corridor Meera saw the fire-escape door swinging and ran for the stairs. Colin stayed close behind but stretched out his fingertips to touch the walls, unable to judge the width of the gloomy staircase.

  The boy unlocked the silver Fiat as he was sprinting towards it and launched himself inside. Colin was running towards the vehicle when it pulled away in a blast of blue smoke. Meera was already starting her motorcycle.

  ‘Could he make himself look more guilty?’ she called as Colin climbed on to the Kawasaki behind her.

  ‘You can take him, Meera, just don’t smash up half of London this time.’ Colin pushed himself back into the pillion seat as they took off in pursuit.

  The Fiat led them into a shabby high street filled with the kind of shops once associated with rustbelt America: burger joint, nail bar, tattoo parlour, chicken shop, every fifth property empty. There was nothing of this part of old South London left.

  ‘Do you want local back-up?’ Colin called.

  ‘No time.’ Meera cut in hard behind the Fiat, watching the traffic up ahead. She would be able to overtake him before they reached the red lights.

  ‘Get ready to drag him out,’ she called. ‘Are you wearing a stab vest?’

  ‘No, they make my nipples itch. I’ll stay out of his reach.’

  As Meera braked and pulled in behind the Fiat Colin got ready to run for the car, but the lights changed and they were off again.

  Grimy Edwardian terraces gave way to unadorned council blocks separated from each other like prisoners ordered to stand apart. The threadbare bushes and trees dividing Bevan House from Chamberlain House turned to indiscriminate brambles that overran fences and substations.

  The Fiat flashed through patches of light and shade, pulling ahead every time Meera accelerated.

  ‘Where the hell are we?’ Colin asked, looking around.

  ‘I can’t get ahead of him,’ Meera shouted back.

  ‘You have to do something. If he’s going to make a move it’ll be now.’

  ‘Hang on to me. This could be more tricky than—’

  15

  Generationally Challenged

  ‘The car in front suddenly drops down on to a slip road and vanishes,’ said Colin, talking through a bite of fried-egg sandwich. ‘Meera swings the bike as sharp as she can but he’s gone. They find the Fiat torched on some wasteland near Dartford at two o’clock this morning.’

  ‘It still doesn’t explain how you got that,’ said Niven, pointing to the plaster stuck across the bridge of Colin’s nose.

  At 8.00 a.m. the Ladykillers Café was already crowded with staff from the railway stations and publishing houses of King’s Cross. What Niven, the proprietor, lacked in stature he made up for in volume, but for once Colin realized it might not be a good idea to confide in him fully. Mr Bryant was notorious for his indiscretion, but even he would think twice about sharing details of the investigation with the owner of a packed café.

  ‘This?’ He touched the plaster gingerly. ‘Meera cut across an emergency access lane but there was a concrete traffic calmer on it. She braked so suddenly my mobile hit me in the face.’

  ‘While you were holding it.’ Niven screwed the lid back on a jar of peach-gin marmalade. ‘What’s the point of pretending you can protect us when you can’t even protect yourself?’

  ‘Give me a cheese and chutney on white for Mr Bryant before I arrest you for being irritating,’ Colin said. ‘I have to get a move on.’

  Colin pushed the remains of the sandwich into his mouth and tapped his card on the reader as he left. At least the unit’s main entrance now had a front door, even if it was only chipboard and the lock didn’t work. He and Meera had argued after losing the Fiat and she had gone home to her own flat, more angry with herself than with him.

  ‘Here you go, Mr B., quartz cheddar and pickle, don’t pay me in old money again.’ Colin threw Bryant the greaseproof paper packet.

  ‘I wasn’t going to pay you at all,’ said Bryant as the sandwich bounced past him. He had not looked up from the document he was reading. Although his old office had been returned to its former glory, he’d found himself unable to settle without his partner, and had temporarily set up in the operations room.

  ‘It’s no use, I can’t work like this.’ Bryant sneezed and blew sawdust everywhere. ‘Why is John lying around at home doing nothing? Why can’t he heal faster?’ He twisted around in his chair to face Floris. The young official looked as if he had spent the night in an airtight container. ‘I can feel your gaze dropping upon me as the gentle rain from heaven, Mr Floris.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The Merchant of Venice. You’re staring.’

  Floris ran a finger through the air. ‘I’m interested in your dynamic.’

  ‘My dynamic what?’

  ‘The way you operate together. You seem to have very little in common beyond the fact that none of you are married or have active socia
l lives. Mr Land accepted the Home Office’s terms without negotiation. He must have known you would all agree to return here.’

  ‘Are you suggesting we have nowhere else to go? There are plenty of other things we could be doing. Are you serious about filing reports on us?’

  ‘I already sent the first one.’ Floris tapped at his tablet. ‘I copied you in out of politeness.’

  ‘I read it, that’s why I’m asking. We had someone in here who used jargon once before. That didn’t end well. I don’t know what interface means when you use it as a verb but it sounds rude.’

  Floris smiled blandly. ‘Mr Bryant, people of my generation prefer to share and communicate.’

  ‘Well, people of my generation – the ones who still know where they are – prefer to get on with their work.’

  ‘I appreciate the difficulty,’ said Floris. ‘I’m not too thrilled about being here either.’ He checked himself. ‘Perhaps that’s unfair. Perhaps our divergent methodologies can be bridged.’

  ‘Perhaps you should say perhaps less often.’

  Floris had adorned his desk with a framed photograph of Faraday’s liaison team at a formal dinner that ostentatiously included Floris and the Home Secretary himself. Bryant wondered what kind of man would choose photos of office colleagues over family and friends. Perhaps nobody loved him. Good.

  The detective was unwrapping his sandwich just as the door opened and Sidney Hargreaves came in, pulling up a chair and turning it backwards to sit astride it.

  ‘Ah, Miss Hargreaves, how may I offend you today?’

  ‘It’s the millennials who take offence.’ Sidney took the document he was reading from his hands and cast her eye over it. ‘I’m Generation Z.’

  ‘So apart from a short attention span and no working knowledge of Are You Being Served?, what can you bring to the table?’ Bryant asked, snatching back the document.

  ‘I want to be a detective.’ She returned his gaze with a placid frankness.

  ‘So do a great many others.’ Bryant blew his nose violently.

  ‘But I want to be you.’

  He observed her over the top of his handkerchief. ‘I really don’t think you do. Not with my bowels.’

  ‘You were my case study at college,’ said Sidney. ‘I covered every PCU investigation I could find on file. The ones that weren’t still sealed pro bono publico, anyway. You frighten them.’

  ‘I’m sorry, whom do I frighten?’

  ‘Your superiors in the Special Operations Directorate. I talked to them. They’re scared that your methods are too unique.’

  ‘A tautology, young lady.’

  ‘They could mutate and cause chaos. Law is control. Perhaps we should discuss this another time.’

  Bryant realized he had at last met someone who was completely unknowable. She stared and stared with her china-blue eyes like a rare artefact revealed in torchlight and he had no idea who or what she was.

  ‘We’re all still here, you know,’ said Longbright, sticking her head around the door and passing him her phone. ‘Dan wants to speak to you.’

  ‘Are you checking on the vehicles?’ Bryant bellowed.

  ‘You don’t have to shout,’ said Banbury. ‘Your mystery driver parked his Fiat on some wasteland behind a kebab shop. Nice neighbourhood, the kind of place where you can torch a vehicle and nobody notices. There was nothing left of it. I’m with the fruit van now, in Westminster. I have something interesting for you.’

  Bryant listened and waited. ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘I’d better bring it in and show you in front of our observer. Otherwise Mr Floris will think we’re hiding information.’

  ‘Good plan. Get back here.’

  As he rang off, John May rang in. ‘Arthur, I’ve hit a wall with Peter English. All enquiries have to go through a senior security officer with prior approval of the Home Office. English has a reputation for destroying anyone who tries to humiliate him.’

  ‘Humiliation isn’t against the law, John. Sounds like he’s used to getting his own way.’

  ‘One of his companies created a program that aggregates algorithms to detect false news. The program proved inaccurate and the investors lost fortunes, so they’re pretty disgruntled. It may be a way in to him.’

  ‘You really think he’s involved in this?’

  ‘It’s hard to know, working like this. I need to get out there.’

  There was a creak of wood. Bryant could tell his partner was supine. ‘How are you feeling? Are you getting any exercise?’

  ‘I’m controlling the pain. I can’t help much with just a phone and a laptop. I’m useless. How’s the new blood?’

  ‘They’re very nice, if you don’t mind interactifacing with generationally challenged pod people so young their mothers are still lactating. You need to get back here and help me deal with them; I have absolutely no idea what they’re on about.’

  ‘We are still in the room with you,’ said Sidney.

  May rang off and went to answer the door. His new neighbour Jenny had brought him a spaghetti Bolognese. ‘I come bearing convenience products,’ she said cheerfully, inviting herself inside. ‘It says “artisanal” on the lid so maybe they’ve put some bits of grass in it. Are you working?’

  ‘Just notes,’ he said, closing the lid of the laptop. Recent experience had taught him to be wary of sharing any information, no matter how innocent.

  ‘So’ – she tapped the packets – ‘spag bol, soup, juice, some kind of pie-thing and some veggie bits. That should keep you going.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you but I have food in the freezer.’

  ‘I dare say you do, but you can also accept a friendly helping hand.’

  ‘I’m not very good at that.’ He sat back on the edge of his bed. ‘Let me give you the money—’

  ‘I’ll take a coffee. Incredibly, I do know how to use a Nespresso machine.’ She headed for the tiny kitchen. ‘Do you cook?’

  ‘I haven’t for a while.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Maybe six, seven years.’

  ‘So, the whole time you’ve been here.’

  He hobbled behind her, feeling ancient. ‘How would you know that?’

  ‘You told me, remember? Plus I talked to the caretaker. He has the dirt on everyone. I treat cookery like a sport: push up the temperature, get into a sweat, wear yourself out – the perfect end to a day spent hunched over a screen. How long are you going to be away from your job?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’m seeing the doctor again next week.’

  She turned on the coffee machine and wandered into the living room. ‘You’ve got no books.’

  ‘I download them.’

  ‘Lots of lovely tech, though. I have the same headphones. I have a headphone fetish. Seven pairs and counting.’

  She prowled around the flat peering closely at everything. He was glad he had put away the more unusual prototypes Dan Banbury had made for him.

  ‘Watching for details,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Your video games – they must make you notice small things.’

  She apologized. ‘It comes with the job. I know it looks like I’m being nosy. Where’s your – legal practice, did you say? Is your office far from here?’

  ‘Not far.’

  ‘How long have you been with them?’

  ‘A while now.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘You don’t give out much information, do you?’

  ‘I’m a bit out of practice, conversationally.’

  ‘Throw me out when you’ve had enough.’ She poured coffee like a barista. ‘I talk too much. It’s because I can’t talk at work.’ She tapped her ear. ‘I wear the headphones all day long. I’m deprived of normal conversation. Not that I work with many normal people. They tend to conform to stereotype. Good at powering up to fight next-level bosses, not so hot on banter.’ She laughed. ‘You don’t seem to have a TV.’

  He knew that from an outsider�
�s viewpoint the flat must appear devoid of creature comforts. ‘I have a tablet,’ he said. ‘I don’t amuse myself. I’m usually thinking about work.’

  ‘But you must have friends outside of work.’

  God, she wanted to know a lot. Was this how all normal people were? During investigations he interviewed them with unfailing kindness and consideration, but they really only existed to answer his questions. People were never comfortable with police officers. The innocent worked so hard to make themselves appear guilty.

  ‘Your work makes you sound very mysterious.’

  ‘I’m not that interesting,’ he said. ‘Tell me about you.’

  She ran out a second coffee and tasted it. ‘I moved south after Sheffield University. I have a son named Caden, a great kid, almost a teenager. You’re not married, obviously. Any children?’

  Her questions flagged themselves up like warnings and he found himself unable to answer her. He had spent too many years as a perpetual bachelor, refusing responsibility, determined not to act his now-considerable age, but the shooting had shifted everything. Things had to change. He felt much as Tom Jones must have done when he decided to stop dyeing his hair.

  ‘You’re miles away,’ she said cheerfully.

  ‘My wife is dead,’ he blurted out. ‘She had a breakdown and never recovered.’

  Jenny was momentarily nonplussed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I’m not very good company. My chest is rather sore.’

  ‘You won’t be feeling social if you’re on these.’ She picked up a packet of tablets and read the label. ‘They’re very strong. I’m intruding on your privacy. Call me if you need anything. I don’t mind when.’

  She drained her coffee and waved fingers at him, heading out.

  He sank back into his sofa feeling relief that she had gone. He was suspicious of her for being so kind and curious about his life.

  No more than three or four people had ever set foot inside his flat. After a lifetime in the force the young, gregarious John May had turned into a taciturn senior, institutionalized by work, uncomfortable with outsiders, discomfited when left alone. He no longer believed in the seven ages of man but in two states only: looking forward and looking back. Somehow the most important part, the time that fell between them, eluded him entirely.