Bryant & May - Oranges and Lemons

by Christopher Fowler - Bryant

  May pumped Floris’s hand. ‘So you’re working for Leslie Faraday.’

  ‘Technically he works for us,’ Floris politely corrected. ‘Our department acts under the command of the Home Secretary. I’m here to make sure that protocol is followed.’

  ‘You’ve come to the wrong unit, then,’ said May. ‘We’re rubbish at rules. We tend to burn things down.’

  ‘I told him that,’ said Bryant.

  Sidney Hargreaves presented herself to May. ‘Hello. I’m working with Mr Land.’

  ‘She’s working for me,’ said Land. ‘An intern.’

  ‘You want to be a detective?’ The girl standing before May wore mismatched clothes in artful composition. He had never seen her before, yet she was entirely familiar to him. It was as if the unit had always been awaiting her arrival. He tried not to stare.

  ‘I’m more than that. A bee, perhaps,’ she said.

  He could not tell from her deadpan face whether she was joking. ‘A bee?’

  ‘There are up to a hundred thousand bees in a hive, with thousands of females making honey, hundreds of male drones doing nothing until we evict them and let them die, and just one queen.’

  Meera gave an involuntary bark of laughter.

  ‘Your apiary-based ambitions are duly noted, Miss Hargreaves,’ said Bryant.

  Land called back their attention. ‘Can I remind everyone on my payroll that we are now dealing with a murder case, and that you lot need to start getting some bloody results? Is anybody listening to me?’

  He looked around to find that the others had dispersed.

  ‘It’s good to have you here again,’ said Bryant, leading his partner back to their office.

  Land followed behind them. ‘It was me who made all this happen, you know. Me who got the unit back, even if it’s only for a week or so—’

  Bryant shut the door in his face.

  21

  Candle, Chopper

  ‘It’s not exactly like your old chair but it’s the nearest I could find,’ said Bryant, ushering May to his seat. ‘I’m not sure how poor old Raymond’s going to take it when we break the bad news to him.’

  ‘You mean the oranges and lemons part? I can already hear him.’ May gingerly lowered himself into his chair.

  ‘It’s a disaster.’

  May thought he was talking about the case until he saw Bryant pointing to his bookshelves. ‘Faraday’s gorillas completely wrecked my alphabetical order. It’s obvious that Jellyfish of the Cornish Coast should come before Dutch Chamberpots of the 18th Century, thematically speaking. And where’s my Encyclopaedia of Victorian Drainage gone? What? You’re giving me a funny look. Is your bullet hole hurting?’

  ‘You’re right, it’s good to be back,’ said May.

  ‘I was starting to think you’d never get here. I can’t prove it but I’m sure all three cases are related.’

  May was surprised. ‘Three?’

  ‘Cristian Albu, arson, suicide and the smell of oranges. Michael Claremont, publicly stabbed outside a church connected with the same fruit. Chakira Rahman, knifed on the steps at the song’s next site and pelted with farthings just to make sure that we get the point.’

  It seemed to May that as his partner became more enthused the years fell away from him until he seemed suspended in time, held aloft by his passionate curiosity.

  Bryant rapped at the scribbles on his desk. ‘The killings are planned, timed and rehearsed. This is beyond mere premeditation, it’s a battle plan!’

  ‘Presumably Rahman was followed from home,’ said May.

  ‘Yes, but her killer had to act somewhere near the church in order to fit the rhyme. It means he had access to her schedule, John. The same holds true for Claremont; the attacker knew that he was going to be alone at his flat on Sunday morning.’

  ‘But if Rahman was heading to Broadcasting House she could have gone up the other side of Trafalgar Square, then up Regent Street,’ May pointed out. ‘It’s probably faster.’

  ‘But nobody does, do they?’ Bryant pointed out. ‘It means crossing Piccadilly Circus. Most of us would go past St Martin-in-the-Fields and cut behind Leicester Square.’

  May thought for a moment, drawing swirls on his notepad. ‘Could Claremont and Rahman have known each other?’

  ‘Janice thinks it’s possible they met at a government function. Colin and Meera are looking for connections. I’ve been trying to see the broader picture. I keep coming back to the song.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  Bryant got to his feet and dug out his Spitfire. ‘The best known version of the “Oranges & Lemons” song has six calls to action. That leaves four more victims to be attacked in public places. It’s no longer about deciding whether Michael Claremont is a security risk. This is something bigger.’

  ‘You think that’s true?’ asked May. ‘Or is it how you’d like the case to be?’

  ‘You’re suggesting I want the unit to make a name for itself again? I do, but not this way. Claremont and Rahman both seem to have been forces for good in an increasingly ghastly world. Who would wish them dead?’

  ‘Someone who found them in the way, I suppose. While we’re coming up with crackpot theories, here’s mine. Many of the country’s oldest churches are falling down, ignored and virtually empty. Both attacks have drawn attention to them. What if he’s a religious extremist and is trying to say something about places of worship?’

  ‘I like your thinking,’ said Bryant. ‘Churches are physical expressions of faith, built to lift sinners above the corrupt mire of the capital. Why were so many constructed in London? Because in medieval times the church had total control over knowledge. The counsel of God was deemed far more important than the evidence before your eyes. What if these victims are sacrifices? The churches involved are ancient and built over temples of pagan worship.’

  The door opened. Sidney wandered in and stood before them. ‘Just to say I haven’t been given any structure?’

  Bryant studied her as if examining a particularly trying piece of modern art. ‘What?’

  She looked from one to the other. ‘Support structure? Like who can help me if I need support?’

  ‘First,’ said Bryant, holding up a finger, ‘knock before you come into this room, then think about the consequences of your action and don’t come in. B, don’t turn statements into questions. And third, along with Santa Claus, the ozone layer and Raymond Land’s love life, unit support does not exist. In your parlance: it is not a thing. Do you understand? Nod if yes.’

  Sidney rubbed at her nose. ‘That doesn’t make me very comfortable.’

  ‘I’m not here to make you comfortable. I’m here to make you vaguely afraid.’

  ‘Also your connectivity is problematic. I like your office.’

  ‘You’re not having it.’

  Bryant’s sarcasm bounced off her. ‘I’m very pleased to be working with you.’

  ‘We’re in a meeting. What do you want?’

  ‘I should sit in. I want to see how you do it.’

  ‘We are not a magic act,’ Bryant snapped, losing his patience.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Sidney replied, ‘but I don’t see how I can help until I fully understand.’

  ‘Nobody expects you to help, you’re on tea and envelopes.’

  She stared at him with a hardening of the features that could have snapped pencils.

  ‘And stop doing that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That accusing look. It makes you look deranged.’

  ‘You can’t say that to me.’

  ‘Young lady, everyone here lives with their own form of madness. Out there you may be treated differently but in this unit you are not special. Furthermore, I can say whatever I like because I have long since stopped caring what anyone thinks. I hope one day you discover the delightful sensation of not giving a monkey’s truss.’

  She stared at him for just the right amount of time before continuing. ‘A moment before I came in I overheard you
saying that the “Oranges & Lemons” song has six calls to action. It has eight. The candle to light you to bed, the chopper to chop off your head. Just because they don’t mention churches is no reason to discount them. Know what they suggest to me?’

  ‘Please do tell us, Miss Hargreaves.’

  She looked from one to the other. ‘That the killer is going to commit suicide after his task is completed. And he’ll do it at night.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘He wouldn’t need a candle to light him to bed if it was day.’ She closed the door quietly behind her.

  ‘She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?’ said Bryant. ‘Are all young people like that?’

  ‘Only to you,’ said May.

  ‘She’s making me feel old,’ said Meera. She was standing beneath a fritzing light in the first-floor corridor with Longbright. They were waiting for the coffee machine to strain out an espresso, something it had been reluctant to do since Dave One had reinstalled it.

  ‘It’s good that she has ambitions,’ said Longbright.

  ‘I don’t want it to turn into one of those situations where women can’t support each other because they’re too busy competing.’

  ‘No, that would be wrong,’ Longbright agreed.

  ‘And she’s obviously smart even if she’s … you know,’ Meera conceded.

  ‘You always feel threatened when someone new comes into the unit,’ said Longbright. ‘There’s no reason why we can’t all be friends.’

  ‘Even so,’ said Meera.

  Longbright turned to look at her. ‘Then what’s your problem?’

  ‘She’s got the old man wrapped around her little finger.’

  Longbright smiled to herself. The door opened between them, and Sidney came out of the detectives’ office.

  ‘How did it go in there?’ asked Longbright.

  ‘I like them.’ Sidney looked from one to the other, her face blank.

  ‘You mean they liked you,’ said Meera, folding her arms.

  ‘I very much doubt that. I thought I’d walked into a World War Two film.’ She stepped between them and studied the coffee machine. ‘You expect everything to be in black and white.’

  ‘Are you after a permanent position?’ asked Meera.

  ‘That depends. Mr Bryant gave me his case notes.’ She looked down at the manila folder in her hand. ‘Well, he’s given me tree shavings, which is weird. Apparently he doesn’t read screens?’

  ‘But I gave him those notes,’ Meera said.

  ‘Yes, and now he’s given them to me. Don’t feel bad.’

  Longbright tried to formulate a reply and failed.

  ‘Shakespeare,’ said Sidney. ‘You either go after the lead role or you end up in the background playing Randombantz and Palpatine.’

  ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,’ said Longbright.

  ‘Probably.’ Sidney smiled at Meera. ‘I don’t know anything about Shakespeare.’

  ‘Well, I must remember to tune in again next week to Let’s Talk Bollocks,’ said Meera. ‘We see through your little act, Little Miss Idiot-Savant who aced her exams and now thinks she can breeze into any job she pleases by waving her special mental health credentials.’

  ‘You’ve got me all wrong.’ She slapped the coffee machine and it sputtered into life, pouring a perfect espresso. ‘I failed my finals. That’s why I’m here.’

  She headed off with her coffee and her tree shavings.

  ‘We can’t stake out every neighbourhood mentioned in the rhyme,’ said Bryant, ransacking another bookshelf. His treasured volumes amounted to little more than a hodge-podge of bookshop clearances and charity-shop rejects, yet he treated them as if they belonged in the Great Library at Alexandria. He cast a baleful glare at his Special Reference Section. ‘This office has to be put back exactly how it was, with the books all in perfect order, then I can start thinking clearly. Where’s my goat’s head lampshade? And my plant?’

  ‘It was marijuana, Arthur.’

  ‘It was medicinal. According to Raymond, that fellow Floris is holding the unit’s purse strings. He may be a perfumed twerp with a ludicrously complicated beard but if we exploit him ruthlessly he can grease a few wheels for us. What I need most now is your marvellous common sense. I’m unmoored without it. What do we do?’

  May had never felt that he truly pulled his weight on the team – Arthur had once called him his capstan because ‘we can tie everything to you and none of it will float away’ – but today he could see how much his partner needed help.

  ‘First let’s give the Home Office what it wants,’ he suggested. ‘The file on Claremont’s mental health. There’s enough material in it to keep them busy for a while.’

  There was a knock at the door. Bryant opened it to find Meera standing with his plant in one hand and what appeared to be a furry dishcloth in the other. ‘Raymond wants you at a meeting in the operations room right now,’ she said, setting down the plant and turning to go.

  ‘Wait, what have you got there?’ asked Bryant. ‘Is there a cat inside that?’

  ‘He’s a rescue moggy.’

  ‘It smells horrible.’

  ‘He got into the kitchen bin,’ said Meera. ‘I left some pilchards in there. I thought he would cheer Raymond up, seeing as Crippen died.’

  ‘Does it have a name?’

  ‘Strangeways.’

  She set the cat down on the floor. It promptly fell over.

  Strangeways was black and white and looked as if he’d been in a wind tunnel, and had quite a few clumps of fur missing and one eye partially shut. When Meera scuffed his half-chewed ear he started making a rasping noise like a baby with croup.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ Bryant asked. ‘It’s got that squinty look on its face you only normally see on dead things, like it’s just returned from the grave. I don’t want another cat, especially one that looks like a zombie.’

  Meera turned to May. ‘It’s nice to see you back, sir.’

  ‘You’ve never called me sir,’ Bryant complained.

  ‘You might want to work out why that is,’ said Meera.

  Bryant turned to his partner. ‘It’s her, that girl Sidney. She’s upsetting everyone, spreading her post-millennial malaise through the unit.’

  ‘It might not be such a bad thing,’ said May, rising.

  Strangeways sneezed. Bryant decided to steer well clear of him. ‘And why would you name that thing after a prison?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s a he, not an it. Our last one was named after a murderer and changed sex,’ Meera pointed out. ‘Raymond says right now or you’re all fired again.’

  22

  Radical Alf

  ‘What is this?’ cried Raymond Land, banging on the whiteboard with his pointing stick.

  ‘It’s your wand,’ said Colin.

  ‘This, this.’ He slammed his hand over the words to ‘Oranges & Lemons’ that Janice Longbright had written out on Bryant’s instructions. ‘One attempted murder and one very public death, and you’re linking them together with a nursery rhyme? I cannot have our Home Office spy reporting this back to Faraday.’ He hastily checked to make sure that Tim Floris was not within hearing distance.

  Colin shifted around on his seat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something that looked like a hairy version of the facehugger from Alien scamper past. ‘Did I just see some kind of animal?’

  ‘We’ve got a new cat,’ said Meera.

  ‘What’s wrong with it? It was moving like its legs are on backwards.’

  ‘If I can have your attention, Mr Bimsley,’ called Land, tapping his stick on the board. ‘I do not want this theory bandied about. We are here to extrapolate rational explanations from irrational events, not make up new irrational ones.’

  Bryant and May seated themselves on chrome 1970s Indian restaurant chairs. ‘I take it you don’t think the deaths are in any way related to the rhyme,’ said Bryant. He removed some items from the voluminous pocket of his cardigan and set them down o
n the table before him.

  ‘No, and it’s not your job to link them without evidence,’ Land reminded him. ‘You don’t even have proof that the victims were linked, so don’t start adding fairy-tale elements.’ He saw what Bryant had set down. ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘The evidence,’ said Bryant, holding up an orange and a lemon. ‘Claremont was surrounded by them when he was attacked. It was a complicated little trick that made everyone think it was an accident.’

  He picked up the coins. ‘Five farthings, thrown on to the steps of St Martin’s beside Chakira Rahman’s body in order to deliberately create a link. She died from a lethal toxin on the blade that was used to stab her. If he keeps to this pattern he has to kill four more times.’

  ‘But for the love of God why?’ Land was desperately trying to understand. ‘What could he possibly hope to achieve?’

  ‘That’s rather the question, isn’t it, old sock? The rhyme’s rather vague.’

  ‘You think this is all a game, don’t you?’ Land scrubbed the lyrics from the whiteboard. ‘A storybook puzzle designed just for you to solve.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Raymondo, it’s not about the puzzle.’

  ‘You just said it was.’

  ‘The victims aren’t connected to the churches. They weren’t christened or married in them, although the Claremonts occasionally attended services at St Clement’s. The rhyme is simply being used to draw the public’s attention. The attacker understands how publicity works.’

  ‘And how does it work?’ asked Land.

  ‘By fixing on a colourful detail. When our Prime Minister says something spectacularly stupid it distracts us from the real issue. Most people in the country won’t have heard of Claremont, but they’ll remember the oranges and lemons. It’s misdirection. The attacks serve a murkier purpose.’

  ‘The trouble with you is—’

  ‘Don’t say it.’

  ‘—you hate the idea of murder lacking a motive. Most are driven by hatred and anger and nothing else.’

  ‘That doesn’t make them motiveless,’ Bryant said heatedly. ‘Killers strike because they feel inadequate and powerless. I agree most are inarticulate with rage. This one is articulate.’