Bryant & May - Oranges and Lemons

by Christopher Fowler - Bryant

  ‘What else?’

  Sidney looked blank. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘That’s it? I’m guessing your friend didn’t train with police observers. What time was this?’

  ‘He doesn’t know.’

  ‘Did the judge come to the door? Were they friendly? Angry?’

  ‘He doesn’t know anything else, he just saw this lame guy.’

  ‘When did the man leave?’

  ‘He doesn’t know, he was a bit off his face.’ For the first time Sidney look rattled. ‘He’d smoked a couple of joints. But he’s sure about the limping man.’

  ‘This – this – is what we’re up against,’ said Bryant. ‘Hopeless witnesses. He confuses everything and slips away before anyone’s sure of what’s happened.’

  ‘That’s why I’ve been looking at the victims,’ said Longbright. ‘They have no work or social connections to one another, so do they have anything in common? Chakira Rahman, hugely admired, a champion for diversity in media, leaves behind two young girls, the loves of her life. Kenneth Tremain, another dedicated family man, outspoken but with a reputation for fairness, his wife and son left devastated. We need to spend time with their families and friends.’

  ‘Fine,’ said May, ‘but be aware – he knows what we’re going to do because this is a race and he’s still ahead of us.’

  Strangeways squinted at the litter tray he’d inherited and deliberately micturated in the opposite corner before falling asleep on Meera’s jacket, clawing at it in his dreams. He was disagreeable even when unconscious, snoring, shedding and producing prodigious amounts of mucus.

  By late afternoon most of the staff had decamped to the operations room because it was the only place with fully functioning lighting. Bryant was wrapped inside a vast orange woollen scarf and fingerless mittens like a Dickensian bookkeeper, and sat with his pug nose half an inch from his laptop screen. He had somehow managed to push its luminescence up so high that his screensaver – Géricault’s The Raft of the Medusa – had turned his face green. May was still smarting from the meeting with Peter English, and was searching through press files looking for anything that might incriminate the entrepreneur.

  It was the worst possible time for Maggie Armitage to turn up, bustling in and shaking water from a red lacquered Japanese parasol. ‘Sorry, it’s chucking it down out there,’ she said, unfurling herself from a waterproof ‘Monsieur Hulot’ raincoat and a saggy-sleeved yellow cardigan. ‘Your new pet just hissed at me. He looks like he’s been flattened in a mangle. What is he?’

  ‘A cat.’

  ‘He might have been in a former life. I meant his breed.’

  ‘I don’t think he has one,’ said May without looking up. ‘He’s called Strangeways, apparently.’

  ‘Yes, I think I’ve just seen a couple of them.’ She searched for somewhere to hang her dripping coat. ‘Arthur, you’re not answering your phone.’

  ‘Ah, er, no, it got paint on it,’ said Bryant, pushing aside his laptop with relief.

  ‘Can’t John fix it?’

  ‘It’s stuck to the window frame,’ said May wearily. ‘Don’t go there.’

  ‘I need you to come with me, Arthur.’ Maggie tugged at his sleeve. ‘We have to talk about the end of the world.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said May, typing his notes in. ‘Go and discuss the coming apocalypse and leave the boring old investigating stuff to us.’

  ‘Top plan,’ Bryant agreed, grabbing his umbrella. ‘I could do with some tea and a bun.’

  ‘Incredible,’ said May to himself, shaking his silver mane as he watched them go.

  ‘There’s a build-up occurring,’ Maggie explained as she pushed open the door to the Ladykillers Café. ‘The signs are everywhere.’ She approached the counter. ‘Do you have liquorice tea? Kombucha? Arrowroot? Thistle?’

  Niven regarded her with a jaundiced eye. ‘No.’

  ‘Just builders’ then, preferably Yorkshire Gold. And something sweet.’

  ‘Anything in particular?’ Niven asked, hand on hip. ‘Spiced nettle and cranberry scorpion cake with walnut top-notes, or will you settle for a doughnut?’

  ‘You’re a caution, aren’t you?’ She turned to Bryant. ‘I need to explain my thinking. I suppose it’s because of the Dutch. Everyone knows three things about them. They’re incredibly tall, have the worst cuisine in Europe and support voluntary euthanasia.’

  ‘I was thinking windmills, tulips and saucy ladies, but go on,’ Bryant replied.

  ‘My friend Madame Tizia in Rotterdam is a Grand Order white witch like me. She researches social panics – everything from satanic abuse and false memory syndrome to anti-vaxxers. She calls to all the white witches on spring evenings.’

  An image of bonfires being lit at dusk sprang into Bryant’s mind. He hadn’t considered that the witches might have something similar to the twilight bark. It seemed picturesque, if impractical.

  ‘Does she do it telepathically?’ he asked.

  ‘No, through WitchNet. According to Tizia’s data, human entropy has entered its terminal stage. The sixth extinction is now unstoppable, the global emergency is accelerating and technology is ending the information age. The predictions of H. G. Wells have come true. We still worship tribal deities and revert to superstition at the earliest opportunity.’

  ‘Well, that’s cheerful,’ said Bryant, carrying his tea to a table. ‘I hope your friend remembers to leave us a solution before she sticks her head in an oven.’

  ‘These deaths you’re looking into – I’m sorry, I read that horrible piece on the Hard News site about how useless you all are – they’re worsening the situation for witches in the UK. Our members meet in the nation’s church halls and conference centres, and they’re already reporting a change in public attitudes.’

  ‘Really? What kind of change?’

  ‘My fellow witches feel they’re being targeted for their beliefs.’

  ‘I thought that was part of their job description. Sorry to be obtuse but what does that have to do with the victims in this case?’

  Maggie leaned forward, keeping her voice low. ‘There’s a secret organization funded by billionaires that’s socially engineering the country.’

  Bryant leaned forward too. ‘If it’s secret how do you know about it?’

  ‘They send us warnings. They’re getting rid of everyone who’s a threat.’

  ‘Why are you whispering?’ Bryant had a hard time imagining that a group of garlanded Wiccans singing folk songs and making seaweed tea could be a threat to anyone.

  ‘We tried chanting but we’re not strong enough to stop them. We need help to start a counter-revolution.’

  ‘Maggie, you mustn’t believe everything you read, otherwise you’ll start thinking aliens are sending you messages through the fireplace.’

  ‘I used to think that, but then I realized that the woman next door was a radio-cab controller.’ She dug into a red plastic shopping bag. Bryant tried to read what was written on the side. ‘It’s recyclable,’ she explained. ‘Destroyed by sunlight in three days. I’ve had this one for over two years. Says a lot about the weather in London. Ah, here.’ She whacked a sheaf of dog-eared papers on the table. ‘I printed it all out so that nobody can steal the data.’

  ‘You printed out a file your friend copied from a website,’ said Bryant. ‘Even I know that’s daft.’ Against his better judgement and only because she was avidly watching him, he flicked through the misspelled pages. ‘I’ll look into it,’ he promised.

  ‘I suppose King Lud was the country’s first one,’ she said, absently biting into a doughnut.

  Bryant thought he must have zoned out of the conversation for a moment. ‘The first what?’

  ‘Social engineer,’ she replied as if it was obvious. ‘He named this the City of Lud over seventy years before the birth of Christ. He was an evil man in favour of culling the population and keeping strangers out.’

  ‘That was because of the plague,’ said Bryant with im
patience. ‘Not because he didn’t like some people.’

  ‘He wanted to remove everyone of “impure race”. Maybe this new group is planning to replace those they assassinate with their own candidates. You know, replicants. From you know where.’ She raised a glittery fingernail at the ceiling.

  ‘The first floor?’

  ‘No, Alpha Centauri.’

  As much as he often admired her lateral thinking, Bryant feared that the white witch’s somersault from King Lud to Invasion of the Body Snatchers would take them to UFOs, lately her pet subject.

  ‘I’ve got enough on my plate without intergalactic conspiracies,’ he warned her, handing back the pages. ‘Maggie, I’ve always shown a lot of patience with you, but you’ve been duped by a fake-news site.’

  The look of surprise on Maggie’s face touched him. ‘But how are people supposed to know that?’ she asked, bewildered.

  That, thought Bryant, is what we’re all wondering.

  Raymond Land highlighted a paragraph in his report and moved it to the top of the page but it promptly vanished, along with the rest of his document. Fifteen minutes later he was still trying to get it back when he became aware that Floris was prevaricating in his doorway. There was a look of indecisiveness on his face that probably captivated the emotionally susceptible but was utterly wasted on Land.

  ‘Are you just going to hover about there or come in?’

  ‘You’ve no door,’ Floris said.

  ‘Yes, I know. For a brief, blissful period there was one, but it was taken away again. What do you want?’

  Floris cautiously approached and peered over the edge of Land’s screen. ‘Are you having trouble?’

  ‘No, I often sit staring at a blank screen. Your colleague Mr Faraday wants a daily report. I’ve lost it.’

  Floris reached over and tapped a couple of keys. The missing paragraph reappeared, which only annoyed Land more. ‘Do you tell your bosses everything that goes on here?’ he asked.

  ‘Almost everything. They’re not my bosses, Mr Land. As I explained, I report to the Home Secretary. You only see me in with Mr Faraday and his team because I’m seconded there until the investigation can be resolved.’

  ‘Because I know how it looks to outsiders,’ said Land. ‘They stick their heads around where the door should be and think there’s nothing going on and it’s all a bit of a joke in here, but they’re wrong. This is the nerve centre of a major homicide investigation. Only because the SCC initially turned it down, admittedly, but Faraday thinks we’re incompetent. That lumbering diplodocus thinks we’re incompetent. He’s the one who was caught making racist jokes about Muslim women. Every time I enter his office I have to remind myself that it’s not 1975. I even wrote him a document entitled “Understanding the modern PCU”,’ Land added with some pride. ‘I included it in your introductory briefing.’

  ‘Yes, I know, TLDR.fn1 At the end of the week I have to submit an overview on the investigation. I can run it by you, although I won’t be able to let you edit it.’

  Land hated this young man’s glib, patronizing tone. He hated his perfect beard, his shaved side-parting and his immaculately pressed white shirt. How could he have climbed the governmental food chain so quickly? There could only be one answer: family connections. Land had gone to a second-rate grammar school where he had been beaten up for his pocket money, and every hammering had stamped resentment into his heart.

  ‘You don’t have to run it by me,’ he said. ‘We have nothing to hide.’ He suddenly wondered if Bryant had moved his marijuana plant back into his office.

  ‘Fine,’ said Floris with a disarming smile. ‘If you have any further questions about our working relationship during this investigation please feel free to share them with me.’

  I wouldn’t share a Pret sandwich with you, matey, Land thought, because Faraday will know I’ve opted for a crayfish and rocket before I’ve finished eating it. ‘Of course I’d be delighted to “share”,’ he said aloud, realizing he had put inverted commas around the verb.

  ‘I’ve been informed that the HO’s legal department has been fielding calls from Peter English’s office this afternoon,’ said Floris. ‘Mr May’s attempt to interview him in connection with the case did not go well, and Simpson’s reported some kind of theft.’

  ‘Were they just having a moan or are they planning to take action?’ Land impatiently stabbed at his keyboard. ‘I mean English’s lot, not the restaurant.’

  ‘They’re demanding that both Mr Bryant and Mr May take the new PPCC test by the end of the week.’

  Land blanched. He knew that the Met’s new Police Psychometric Core Competency tests had to be conducted online without preparation, and checked for verbal reasoning skills, critical analysis and emotional awareness. John might be able to scrape through but Bryant wouldn’t pass even if they wired his hearing aid to accept incoming advice from Stephen Fry.

  ‘And if they don’t take the test?’

  ‘Mr English’s lawyer, Edgar Digby, is going to file a harassment charge against them on behalf of his client.’

  ‘All right. Fine, I’ll arrange it,’ snapped Land. He knew that Floris would have grown up with regular online evaluations and regarded them as entirely normal. ‘They’ll need to be printed out, though.’

  A look of puzzlement crossed Floris’s tender face.

  ‘Mr Bryant prefers a fountain pen,’ he ended, feeling as if he had just signed the unit’s death warrant.

  31

  Making a Murderer

  So we come to the Event, and I’m sure you who understand the nature of men can already tell what came to pass. It is an old, old story, appropriately biblical.

  After the handsome young sixth-former had ignored my mother in the street while he was out with his parents, he called on her to apologize. He admitted that he was embarrassed, and knew it was wrong.

  She did not accept his apology. She was all too aware that her reception into his gilded circle only went as far as childhood games. She would never be allowed to cross the boundary of her street because although she was attractive she looked and sounded common. Perhaps that’s too harsh. She was different. Wrong for him. She would be examined by his parents and instantly dismissed.

  The boys were not bohemians, they did not set out to break down borders. Whatever their pretensions, they were really just suburban children anxious to fit in. And so they were duly slotted in, he to the middle class, she to a level below him marked ‘Not good enough’.

  Yet the boy was persistent. She turned sixteen and he continued to call, and one day she agreed to go out with him. She offered to come to his house, but he said his parents would not understand and he would rather collect her.

  Her grandmother picked out a dress and paid for it, then sent her to a hairdresser.

  He called for her on a warm July evening, and they set off along the street, and climbed through the old railings to St George’s Church, just to stop there briefly for old times’ sake.

  The others were there waiting for her. One even complained that she was late. The girl who hid behind them all was there too, not willing to condone or condemn, and at some point she slipped away. My mother soon found out why.

  ‘Remember how we used to play Oranges & Lemons?’ he asked, handing her a bottle of rum. The others looked apprehensive. The evening took a sinister turn.

  She remembered the boys’ eyes, bright with excitement. They had started drinking as soon as the light faded. The songs and games were harder-edged than she remembered. Rougher. To each winner went the rum bottle, and then it went to each loser.

  They played another game. He sang ‘Oranges & Lemons’ and she had to fill in the name of each church. If the questions had been about TV shows or pop songs she could have answered. She didn’t know the names of churches. Each time she hesitated the rum bottle passed her way. She was laughing with the rest of them. They broke out joints, and soon no one could stop laughing.

  It had been a little after 7.00 p.m.
when she arrived in the ruins of the church. They let her leave at some time past nine, perhaps a quarter past. Her dress was not torn. Her face was not dirty. There were no marks or bruises on her skin. They had held her down gently and with great care, always checking to see that she was comfortable, but stifling her pleas to be released. It was a game that got out of hand, that’s all.

  Were they scared that she would tell someone? It seemed not to have crossed their minds. My mother was raised to be devoutly Church of England, so silent shame came more naturally than confession.

  One of the questions that has stayed with me the longest is: Why did she not tell anyone?

  Of course the silence couldn’t last indefinitely. As summer turned to autumn she began to show with me. By then the boys had gone, moving smoothly from their schools to art colleges and universities, scattering across the country.

  I assume her grandmother was shocked. My mother was uncomfortable with that part of her story. I imagine an alternative narrative where, after arguments and tears, she stayed at home and helped around the house, and in return her grandmother took care of her until I was born into a loving, understanding household.

  That was not what happened.

  Her grandmother called the police, who questioned my mother and eventually dragged a garbled story from her. They were at a loss to understand why she had said nothing at the time. They were especially interested in the part where she explained that she had been given copious amounts of alcohol and a joint. They made it quite clear that they suspected her complicity, but promised to investigate and arrest the young men who were responsible.

  Of course, by this time the boys had long gone. The matter was further complicated by my mother’s continued refusal to give up any names or descriptions. This is the part I have never been able to comprehend. I can only think that as a practising Christian she was not prepared to destroy their lives even though they had sinned against her. I am baffled, but can see no other explanation. Part of every heart is hidden.

  According to my mother nothing came of the investigation, but shortly before she was due to give birth a complete stranger came running up to her in the street and punched her in the stomach. That’s how I was born, delivered screaming on to a Greenwich backstreet, my soft-boned right thigh damaged in the attack. Whether or not it was connected to the boys no one ever found out. I think of her story as a book with some pages missing, and others containing only half-remembered truths.