Bryant & May - Oranges and Lemons

by Christopher Fowler - Bryant

  ‘Then concentrate on the parts you’re good at and leave the rest to me,’ said May.

  Bryant looked pointedly at his partner’s damaged chest. ‘Do you think you’re up to it?’

  ‘Arthur, if you can do it, I can too.’

  He sipped his coffee, breathing steam from beneath his umbrella. ‘What is that supposed to mean? I’m in the pink.’

  May gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘I presume you remember thinking that the war was still on? We all assumed you had Alzheimer’s and it turned out you’d poisoned yourself.’

  Bryant held up a forefinger. ‘One time. I made one mistake.’

  ‘You got strangled in the British Library and had the unit quarantined.’

  ‘Pfft. Those are just facts.’

  A truck thundered past, spraying rain-mist over them. May turned to face his partner. ‘Suppose an Oranges & Lemons killer doesn’t exist and Peter English is outsourcing hits on his enemies? He’s halfway through, with three more to go, and then, “Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.” But whose head?’

  Bryant set down his pipe to reach into his coat pocket, which was playing a horrendously off-key theremin version of ‘Bow, bow, ye lower middle classes’ from Iolanthe. He read the text message. ‘It appears your request to meet Peter English has been processed after all. He’s expecting to meet you in an hour’s time.’

  29

  Rattling the Cage

  The two Daves had managed to find the missing leg of the unit chief’s desk and glue it back on, and even Stumpy the one-legged pigeon was back on Land’s windowsill eyeing him malevolently. In order to feel as if everything had completely returned to normal Land needed something to go spectacularly wrong, and at two o’clock in the afternoon it did so.

  He stared at his phone in horror.

  ‘We’re posting the piece on our site in one hour,’ Paula Lambert told him. ‘I wondered if you’d like to comment.’

  ‘Where are you getting your information?’

  ‘You know our sources are protected, Raymond. Your extremely minimal press release suggests that Justice Kenneth Tremain committed suicide, but we’re hearing that he was murdered. Why are you hiding the truth?’

  ‘How could you possibly have heard that? Let me put you on hold for a moment.’ After trying Bryant’s number and getting no answer, he called Longbright. ‘Janice – where are you? It sounds like you’re in a pub. Oh, you are. The press think we deliberately falsified the briefing on Tremain. We’ll be accused of a cover-up prior to an Old Bailey trial. It’ll look like we’re working for Peter bloody English. Try and find out where they’re getting their intelligence.’ He switched calls to Paula. ‘Obviously we can only give you the information we have at the time.’

  ‘So you’re changing your story now? It will throw suspicion on the participants in a major fraud case,’ Lambert warned. ‘We’ll also be running a sidebar pointing out that the detectives in charge are searching through a compendium of nursery rhymes for a solution.’

  Land was outraged. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘A path of inquiry only, because of the locations, and one that was quickly dismissed.’ The pigeon stared at him with one orange eye as if to say, She’ll never believe you. ‘We have other avenues of exploration. We’ll be addressing your speculations very shortly.’ I wonder if it’s too late to get back to the Isle of Wight before then, he thought.

  He could hear Paula tapping a pen against her teeth. ‘Are you going to tell us he was murdered?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait to find out,’ said Land. ‘You only have to report the news, not manufacture it. I’m trying to keep this unit together, Paula, and you’re not helping.’

  ‘It’s not our job to help.’

  ‘It’s not your job to hinder, either. Our past success rate speaks for itself.’

  ‘The past is the beginning of this conversation, Raymond. That’s how far back people’s minds go. Nobody wants to hear about your greatest hits. They’ll think a couple of old men in charge of a major case derailed a criminal trial.’

  Land could feel his face heating with anger. ‘If you print that we’ll stop feeding you information.’

  ‘Let me know how your avenues of exploration work out,’ said Paula, ringing off.

  Janice Longbright was in the Sutton Arms, a scuffed artisanal public house in Smithfield that had been redecorated via another selectively remembered past. The elegantly curved frontage gave way to an interior of early Victorian wall plates, plant pots and newly galvanized metal workshop stools. Sitting on one of the latter was Monica Greenwood, her red hair arranged in a chignon, her charcoal suit fresh from its dry-cleaning bag.

  ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’ Monica held out her hand. ‘You came to the Conspirators’ Club one night.’

  ‘That was a memorable evening,’ said Janice, sitting beside her.

  Monica ordered coffees for them. ‘Our numbers have swelled since the whole fake-news thing. We have a lot of fun arguing about whether that Facebook fellow is a robot. The club is going through a bit of an existential crisis at the moment.’

  ‘Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘Last week’s lecture was about President Eisenhower destabilizing the Congo by ordering the CIA to murder its prime minister, but some of our members have started to adopt a rather alarming new stance.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They’re saying, who cares? It’s a fact of life that America and Russia fix overseas elections. The hot new idea is “existential history” – that things are changing so rapidly the only way to deal with them is by confronting each issue afresh, carrying over no baggage from the past. It sort of makes sense. Most wars of attrition are based on historical antipathies. I think I preferred it when the talks were about the Loch Ness Monster.’

  ‘We wondered if the group has started talking about the Oranges & Lemons deaths,’ said Longbright.

  ‘Not yet but I’m sure they’ll come up at the next meeting, just as I’m sure that the speakers will suddenly start linking the deaths to Kurt Cobain, brainwashing and the moon landings. God, they love those moon landings.’

  ‘You have a degree in understanding the neurological reasons for conspiracy theories – did I get that right?’ asked Longbright. ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘There’s a unified-theory approach to conspiracies that says they’re all interconnected, and in one sense it’s true. All leaders desire power over others. First of all I’d decide if you’re looking for a group or one person.’

  ‘Which would you choose?’

  ‘It’s a loner’s plan. Complicated and risky, but easy to adapt.’

  ‘We have footage from several sites,’ said Longbright. ‘There’s no single face common to all. You don’t think they could be exactly what they look like: accidents and suicides?’

  ‘I’m sure you already have forensic evidence proving they’re not.’ Monica sipped her coffee and smiled. ‘But then I’m a paid-up member of a conspiracy society.’

  John May had been summoned to Simpson’s in the Strand, one of the most venerable restaurants in London. After nearly two centuries it was still serving marbled sirloins of beef and crimson saddles of mutton from silver-domed trolleys. The great wood-panelled room smelled of gravy, cabbage and something mustier, a hint of school dormitories remembered from forty years away.

  The maître d’ led May across the herringbone parquet floor to where Peter English was already seated, watching the ritual pouring of a pre-prandial gin. The businessman had perhaps not intentionally modelled himself on John Bull but the effect was the same. His red waistcoat, anachronistic enough to stick in the memory, was straining at its buttons even before his meal. Indeed, he appeared to have been stuffed into his clothes with great difficulty. The corporate stewards of Great Britain are not known for their fine grooming. Like old country houses far past their best they are usually in need of repointing and a d
amp course. English was no exception. He never reached the state of being hungover because he never entirely stopped drinking, and from bedroom to boardroom he did nothing for himself when there was someone else available to do it at a cheaper rate.

  Accompanying English was a familiar face, Edgar Digby, a sunlight-deprived lawyer who had crossed swords with the unit several times in the past. English gave a desultory wave at the seat opposite.

  ‘It’s not been the same since they tarted up the menu,’ he said to no one in particular, least of all the selectively deaf waiter who was pouring his cocktail. ‘The Victorians used to play chess in this room. That’s why the food comes around on trolleys, so the players wouldn’t be interrupted. Now it’s full of foreigners trying to work out which end of a fork to pick up. Do you want a drink? I suppose you’re on duty.’ He poured May a water. ‘This is—’

  ‘I know Mr Digby,’ said May. ‘You’ve come up in the world, Edgar. Not representing petty criminals any more?’

  ‘No,’ said Digby drily, ‘I’m representing Mr English.’

  ‘I’m seeing you because I gained the clear impression that you weren’t going to go away,’ said English.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said May. ‘A brief chat may suffice to clear the matter up. I understand you and Michael Claremont were not the best of friends.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think we’re going to do this, are we?’ English asked Digby. ‘Interrogations at the luncheon table, really?’ He turned his full gaze on May. ‘Mr Claremont got a little too big for his Oxford toecaps. Condemnant quod non intellegunt. We clashed, ideologically speaking. If I found anyone in the House who fully agreed with me I wouldn’t trust them.’

  Arthur always tells me that only the unintelligent feel the need to quote Latin, May thought. ‘Did you also know Chakira Rahman?’

  ‘We crossed swords once or twice. I did the same with Kenneth Tremain.’ He swirled his gin. ‘Does that make me a suspect? My aides can fully account for my time. I have a penthouse at Potters Fields overlooking the Tower of London, and that’s where I’ve been most nights with my staff. Of course I go out to eat – I own a restaurant on Piccadilly, although I had to fire the chef for being too damned French.’

  ‘I can’t imagine a person like yourself becoming physically involved in anything violent,’ said May, ‘but you must appreciate that many wealthy men and women have employed the services of someone else to handle unpleasant tasks.’

  ‘Are you seriously suggesting that I hired a hit man? The Speaker of the House is still alive, isn’t he? Have you tried talking to him?’

  May felt as if he was being cornered by a predator. ‘He can’t be interviewed while his condition is being controlled by barbiturates.’

  He glanced up and saw with horror that a tramp had wandered into the restaurant, and that the tramp was, on closer inspection, his partner. Bryant had his hands in the pockets of his immense brown overcoat and was openly inspecting everyone’s meals as he passed between the tables. He was trailing toilet paper from his left heel. The maître d’ led him over like a butler taking out a rat.

  May could see with awful clarity what was about to occur. Bryant, his restless personality expanding in the confined, hushed space, would detonate the meeting. Don’t do it, Arthur, he silently begged.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Bryant, patting English on the shoulder. ‘I see you’ve brought along your familiar. I always wondered what it was like in here. How’s the grub? The other tables all seem to be having school dinners. I suppose the sight of overcooked meat is enough to conjure happy memories of public-school spankings.’

  ‘I don’t entirely understand why you are here,’ said English, furious but showing only polite contempt.

  ‘You get both of us, Mr English. VIP treatment.’ He dragged a chair over from another table and squeezed himself between them. ‘I suppose my partner was explaining that you have something in common with the victims.’ He pulled the toilet paper off his boot and daintily placed it on a side plate.

  ‘You need to reconsider the tone you’re taking with my client,’ said Digby.

  ‘Read the children’s menu for a while, Edgar,’ Bryant suggested. He waved at an ancient waiter. ‘Can I get a decent cup of tea, sonny? A proper enamel stripper, no cat’s piss.’

  ‘I agreed to meet your partner in order to clear the air,’ said English, lowering his voice. The Archbishop of Canterbury was seated two tables over. ‘I was explaining that I’ve never had any direct contact with your victims.’

  ‘But your paths crossed. You could have been summoned to court today if the judge hadn’t left his frontal lobe in a flowerbed.’

  ‘My corporate law team would have been there, not me.’ English stabbed his finger on the tablecloth. ‘There is no connection between us. Why would there be?’

  May tried to think of something that would draw attention away from his partner, who was now scraping his boot with a fork.

  ‘You’re intending to enter politics, aren’t you?’ Bryant replied without looking up. ‘I imagine the fraud case couldn’t have come at a worse time.’

  ‘It’s a suit involving a distant subsidiary,’ snapped English. ‘I have bigger fish to fry.’

  ‘Ah yes, your independent party.’ Bryant turned over a silver mustard pot to examine its hallmark.

  ‘I want to make this country feel respected again. As I walked here today I hardly heard a word spoken that I could understand.’

  ‘Well, the English are notoriously bad at languages.’ Bryant started to wipe up spilled mustard. ‘You should have paid more attention at school.’

  ‘You think this is funny, do you?’ English was seething now. ‘I’m a suspect because I disagreed with them? Why not add everyone I’ve ever argued with to that list? Some of them must be dead by now but I don’t suppose that’ll stop you. I know all about your unit, Mr Bryant. A bunch of woolly-minded liberals living in the London bubble, not giving a tinker’s cuss for the working people of Britain. Some people have had enough of it. They want to go back to how things were.’

  ‘How far back?’ Bryant asked congenially. ‘Tudor England? I suppose the downside to that would be a life expectancy of thirty-five years, so you’d have hit room temperature quite a while ago. Let’s be honest, it’s not the British people who want to go back, it’s you. Back to a misremembered past cobbled together from old films and children’s books where you once felt safe with Nanny. That’s not why you’re on our list. You’re there because we have phone tapes of your clash with Mr Claremont and because Mr Tremain was about to question your business practices.’

  ‘These killings of yours’ – English aimed a forefinger at the pair as if personally holding them responsible – ‘are the result of your unit’s ineptitude. And when another death occurs you will once again have blood on your hands. You’re the people that my party will go after first.’ He pointed his stubby finger at Bryant. ‘Especially you.’

  ‘I thought that went rather well,’ said Bryant when they reached street level a few minutes later. ‘We rattled his cage a bit.’

  ‘I didn’t know we had phone recordings.’ May opened his umbrella and looked for a taxi.

  ‘We don’t. Please admire my ability to spontaneously lie. There’s nothing like a bit of brinkmanship to pep things up. Do you think he did it?’

  ‘No,’ said May reluctantly. ‘There’s too much at stake for him. He’s rich and unpleasant but I’m sure he has subtler methods of revenge at his disposal, most involving phone calls to the press.’

  ‘Unless that’s what he wants us to think.’ Bryant wiped a yellow streak from his coat pocket.

  ‘Did you just steal the mustard pot?’ asked May.

  ‘Might have,’ said Bryant. ‘At least we’ve managed to upset him. The gloves are off now.’

  30

  Misinformation

  ‘Every step forward feels like two bloody great steps back,’ fumed Raymond Land. Janice was the only member of staff within ea
rshot, but she had stopped listening. ‘It just gets messier and more confusing. I hope they take it all away from us, just take it – just – leave us in bloody peace and – and—’

  ‘Raymond, breathe into a paper bag,’ Longbright suggested, grabbing Sidney as she passed. ‘Did you hear back from John?’

  Sidney looked at her blankly. ‘I already told you.’

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, I sent you an email.’

  ‘I haven’t had time to look at them. Just tell me.’

  ‘You mean FaceTime you?’

  ‘No, I mean actually physically tell me.’

  ‘But you already have the email.’ She turned to find the detectives returning. ‘You don’t have to read it now, they’re here. Hey, I know what happened.’

  ‘I’m Mr Bryant to you. Let me get my coat off.’ Bryant set down his stick, his hat, his scarf, his overcoat and the silver mustard pot from Simpson’s. ‘Come into our office.’

  He ushered her and Longbright in but held up his hand when Land tried to follow them. ‘I’m sorry, you’d be exceeding the room’s weight limit. You’ve got quite porky lately.’

  ‘I should probably sit in on this,’ called Tim Floris.

  ‘All right, you can come in, you’re thin,’ Bryant agreed, waving him through. Land stepped forward but Bryant shut the door in his face.

  Longbright was offered the only spare chair by Sidney, which made her feel old. Sidney turned to address the room. ‘OK, so this girl I know is seeing a guy on and off who does podcasts from a studio on the same floor as Judge Tremain. He was working late last night and says he saw the killer going up to Tremain’s door. He gave me a description.’

  ‘What does he look like?’ asked May.

  ‘He has a woolly blue hat and a navy Puffa jacket and was hunched over, and there’s something wrong with his leg.’