Bryant & May - Oranges and Lemons

by Christopher Fowler - Bryant

  I set out to write down her account, filling exercise pads with as many details as she would admit to me.

  When my mother finally chose to tell me everything about how I was conceived, she believed her confession would begin a healing process and our lives would slowly improve.

  Instead, things got much worse.

  Part Four

  * * *

  THE BELLS OF SHOREDITCH

  How do you like London? How d’you like the town?

  How d’you like the Strand now Temple Bar’s pulled down?

  How d’you like the La-Di-Da, the toothpick and the crutch?

  How did you get those trousers on, and do they hurt you much?

  Nelly Power, singer, 1880

  32

  Chasing Ghosts

  ‘They’re looking at it the wrong way,’ said Sidney, standing before the whiteboard with her arms folded.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She waved her hand across the whiteboard. ‘All this stuff about the nursery rhyme.’

  It was 7.30 a.m. on Friday 12 April, and Tim Floris was the only other person in the unit. He had seen Sidney Hargreaves approaching the building; she was hard to miss in her red leather jacket and black leggings. Rain slashed the windows of the operations room, giving them a welcome spring-clean, but water was running from the sills across the floorboards, so the pair of them had to lay down towels and lift all the cables and connectors off the ground.

  ‘It’s taking them in the wrong direction. They should dump it and start at the other end.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She sat on the edge of a desk facing him. ‘The victims are the cause. They’ve been targeted because of something they’ve done.’

  ‘They’re called victims because they’re innocent,’ Floris pointed out. He tried not to touch his beard but his fingers had a habit of straying to it.

  ‘They were all born within two years of each other, Tim. Suppose they met somewhere before but not professionally? Maybe as students?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem likely, given that they’re from different parts of the country.’

  ‘They are now, but what if they weren’t back then?’

  ‘I’m an observer,’ Floris reminded her, ‘and you’re an intern. We can’t take the investigation in a different direction without their approval, and you won’t get that without proof.’

  ‘Then I’ll find it,’ she said. ‘I may need your help. Do you have to put everything in your reports to Faraday?’

  One look in his eyes told her he would do anything she suggested.

  An hour later, Janice Longbright stood before the same whiteboard and studied Bryant’s diagrams carefully, following lines, triangles, circles and three-dimensional boxes filled with tiny indecipherable scribble. She might as well have been staring at Egyptian hieroglyphics.

  ‘Bloody hopeless,’ she said aloud, wandering to the window.

  The weather was like London itself, secretive in its intentions. Thunder trundled over the rooftops of the shops on Caledonian Road. In the street below, an elderly woman carrying a red and blue laundry bag was sprayed to her kneecaps with charcoal-coloured water displaced by a bus. A tramp had passed out beneath the window of the newsagent’s, underneath a poster of the Seychelles that said, ‘What are you waiting for?’

  Janice needed a holiday, a proper one with beaches and outdoor restaurants overlooking the sea, but she was broke. She couldn’t spend much more time peering out at one of the world’s ugliest neighbourhoods without going mad. Sometimes when she got home, she moved through exotic cities on Google Street View, knowing that she would never go there. She had spent so much time doing this lately that it came as a surprise to go out on to a real street and see that the roads did not have white arrows on them.

  What am I waiting for? she wondered, looking back at the poster, but Arthur had already answered her question, breezily telling her that she had a one in 45,057,474 chance of winning the National Lottery.

  With an inward sigh she turned her attention back to the whiteboard. The nursery rhyme at its centre had three of its verses crossed through.

  ‘When I grow rich,’ say the bells of Shoreditch. The tabloid hacks had been starved of new details and had resorted to fantasy, but even their attention had suddenly evaporated this morning after receiving news that the police had foiled a major terrorism attempt. A van full of explosives had been discovered near Waterloo Station, timed to go off in the rush hour, but the timer had malfunctioned, with the result that the Oranges & Lemons Killer had been unceremoniously booted from the front pages.

  She turned her attention back to Bryant’s mad little drawings.

  ‘Staring at them won’t make them go away,’ said John May, standing in the doorway.

  ‘I wish it would,’ said Longbright. ‘Shoreditch is too big an area to cover. It’s spread across two boroughs. There are hundreds of bars, restaurants and businesses. I can’t find the staff to police it. Why is it we always get the personnel we need after an event, never before?’

  ‘You can’t investigate what hasn’t happened yet. “When I grow rich,”’ May repeated. ‘Where do the rich hang out in Shoreditch?’

  ‘There are half a dozen high-end hotels there now. God, to think that we used to patrol it in pairs for safety. Is that supposed to be the church in Shoreditch?’ She pointed to Bryant’s mysterious rendering.

  May took a closer look. ‘St Leonard’s.’

  ‘What does it say underneath? You’d think I’d be able to read his writing after all this time.’

  ‘The trick is to imagine it the other way up. It says twelve bells, Tudor actors buried here, parish stocks and whipping post still in porch. That’s all.’

  ‘Nobody’s been attacked inside a church.’

  ‘Who have we got over there?’

  ‘Colin and Meera, plus a couple of beat coppers keeping an eye out, and a patrol car passing every hour. The Met get more coverage for a robbery.’

  ‘Then let’s get a drone,’ said May. ‘Try Dan.’

  Longbright called Banbury in. ‘Can you put something in the air above St Leonard’s Church?’

  ‘You do know they’re technically illegal.’ Banbury came in eating a bowl of Shredded Wheat. The school run forced him to skip breakfast at home, but he got no sympathy because no one else in the unit could relate to the idea of having children. ‘It’s a pity because I’ve got a fantastic program for one, beta of course and full of bugs. It doesn’t meet any of the regs but one day I hope we might—’

  Janice cut in. ‘Is the drone here?’

  ‘I couldn’t sanction that. It would be totally—’

  ‘We just want to sneak it up there for a few minutes and have a look around,’ said May. ‘Is it in working order?’

  ‘You have to understand that it’s bespoke specialist equipment—’

  ‘Meaning you cobbled it together from bits of old kit.’

  ‘I’ll have to make a lot of adjustments, then charge it.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘I can probably get it there by late afternoon.’

  ‘That’ll have to do. We’re heading over there now,’ said May. ‘Bring it as soon as you can. I’ll take full responsibility. Sidney needs to stay here. Where is Floris?’

  ‘He went to Raymond’s office.’ Dan gave up on his breakfast. ‘We really should keep him informed.’

  ‘You’re right, of course we should.’

  They slipped past Land’s room and made a run for it.

  Script extract from Arthur Bryant’s ‘Peculiar London’ walking tour guide. (Meet at Shoreditch Town Hall, stay close to me at all times and try not to look like tourists.)

  This ancient, ill-used parish extends from Norton Folgate to Old Street, and from part of Finsbury to Bethnal Green. Originally it was a village on the old Roman northern road called Old Street by the Saxons.

  There’s a lovely romantic story about its name involving the mistress
of Edward IV. It’s not true. Shoreditch is appropriately named after a shithole, Soersditch, or Sewer Ditch. It wasn’t even in London until the late nineteenth century. However, it was the home of London’s first theatre, and the spot where Romeo and Juliet was first performed, although the audience must have had to narrow their eyes a bit to imagine themselves in fair Verona.

  The area was dominated by St Leonard’s, the Tudor actors’ church of London. Its burial register lists Henry VIII’s court jester and one Thomas Cam, who died aged 207. Actors always exaggerate. Having so many dodgy theatricals in one neighbourhood gave Shoreditch its first creative edge. People came here for saucy entertainment, and still do. It’s had many famous residents: Richard Burbage, Christopher Marlowe, Barbara Windsor and the singing bus driver Matt Monro.

  Sadly Shoreditch declined from noble origins into poverty and prostitution. In the late twentieth century it aligned itself with neighbouring Hoxton to become ‘vibrant’, meaning it fills up with bare-ankled media plankton who can be tricked into purchasing Japanese bubble tea, bad graffiti art and hot dogs from vans that ironically reference Brazilian favelas. Shoreditch is now visited by tourists looking for the creative edge and finding only mouse mats and fridge magnets. There are still pockets of originality here, though. Last year I got a haircut on Brick Lane that was so original I had to wear a hat just to look out of a window.

  In Shoreditch a day of surveillance crawled past without incident until late afternoon, when the streets suddenly filled with drinkers. They arrived in small groups that coalesced around hole-in-the-wall bars and cafés, and soon spilled beyond the kerbs. What were they celebrating? The end of the week, someone’s promotion, a birthday, the awarding of a contract – who needed an excuse? The kerbs quickly filled up with empty bottles and street-food containers.

  Dan Banbury had joined Colin armed with pieces of his drone. In an effort to fix its steering issues he wedged part of the guidance system into place using pieces from a Kinder Egg toy.

  Colin Bimsley’s walkie-talkie crackled. ‘Colin, are you receiving me? Over.’

  ‘Blimey, Meera, you don’t have to shout, it’s not The Dam Busters.’

  ‘I do have to shout actually because this lot has already started and it’s only six o’clock. At least you got a quiet corner. There are ten bars in a row here and the office workers are drinking for England.’ She moved away from a couple locked in an agitated embrace. ‘Jeez, get a room.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘There’s a couple next to me who are already rat-arsed. I don’t think he’s kissing her. It looks like he’s trying to fish her tongue out of her mouth with his teeth. They haven’t noticed it’s raining.’

  ‘Is it?’ Colin was positioned in an alley beside Hackney Town Hall. He took a look across the main road. The far side was faintly eroded as if seen through kettle steam, the rain being damp enough to flatten your hair but not enough to make your shoulders wet. ‘It sounds mad over there.’

  ‘Is there football on or something?’ Meera shouted. ‘Can you hear them singing in the background? The gentleman on my other side just puked his Singapore noodles over a drain, which he managed to miss. Looks like he didn’t chew the prawns.’

  ‘Don’t, Meera, I’m starving. Do you want to grab some noodles?’

  ‘Not sure. He’s got some hanging out of his nose that are putting me off. Hang on – that’s it, mate, get it up while it’s fresh on your stomach. All over his shoes. Nice, not even a thank-you.’ There were cheers and hoots in the background. ‘Have you seen anything over there yet?’

  ‘I would have told you if I had.’ Conscious that he was a plain-clothes officer speaking into his shoulder, Colin stepped back to allow three girls dressed as pink rabbits to pass. ‘I’ve seen a lot of weird stuff in the past hour, but no one who looks like a murderer. Actually, I don’t know who I’m looking for. How do you tell a killer from just another sketchy geezer? Dan’s arrived with his Flymo – we’re going to send it up for a test run in a minute.’

  ‘I was planning to fit it with a facial recognition system,’ said Dan, proudly eyeing the bulky black dragonfly in his arms, ‘but you haven’t got a face that needs recognizing.’

  ‘’Fraid not,’ said Colin. ‘We’re chasing ghosts.’

  ‘Are you still there?’ asked Meera.

  ‘There’s nothing going on over this way,’ Colin told her. ‘We’ll head in your direction. Can you ask that bloke where he got his noodles from?’

  Dan sent the drone up but found it tricky negotiating the busy Shoreditch streets with the control box held before him. After stepping off the kerb and nearly vanishing under a lorry, he was grabbed by Colin’s meaty fist and guided through the busy side streets. The drone tilted and flew on ahead, checking the pavements. The whine of its rotors was lost beneath the neighbourhood’s high-decibel turmoil.

  ‘If it spots a likely suspect, what are we going to do?’ Colin asked.

  ‘I’m hoping you’ll figure that part out,’ said Dan, studying the screen so intently that he fell over an outside table.

  ‘I can’t arrest someone on the grounds of looking dodgy.’

  ‘We have to find him first,’ Banbury reminded him, disentangling himself from a pair of metal chairs. The drinkers did not appear to mind that he had just prostrated himself in their midst, scattering plastic glasses. Indeed, they barely noticed. It was the ideal place to get away with murder.

  33

  Bad Luck

  Considering Shoreditch had been so heavily bombed during the war it seemed nothing short of miraculous that St Leonard’s Church had survived at all. It had been built in an unfashionably delicate style once much disliked for its overt femininity. Set back from one of the busiest roads in East London, it was now ignored by virtually everyone who passed by.

  The first thing that struck Janice about the building was its slender multi-tiered spire. Attached to one of the railings was a black-painted panel of wood that read, mysteriously, ‘Oranges & Lemons letters’. The building was covered in scaffolding, but funding had been only partly raised for its never-ending refurbishment. There were clock faces everywhere, on the Tuscan portico and inside, gilded, beneath the organ.

  ‘I had a chat with the vicar,’ Janice told John May as they stood on the steps, the tentative rain sheening their coats. ‘He’s trying to find new ways of funding the repairs. The crypt contains some ornate tombs but it’s falling apart.’

  May walked back to the gates and looked out. ‘Four major roads, a railway bridge and hundreds of venues to cover. If he strikes, he’ll make it look like an accident or a suicide again. How do we fight that?’

  ‘This was always a trouble spot,’ said Longbright. ‘My mother used to patrol here. She said the locals were all on the cadge or on the grift.’

  ‘No disrespect, Janice, but your mother had a low opinion of everyone. Where are the others?’

  Longbright checked her phone. ‘Colin’s outside a motorcycle club called the Bike Shed by Hackney Town Hall. Meera’s at the top of Shoreditch High Street. We can’t cover all the routes. We should have had more officers here yesterday.’

  The streets beyond were becoming busier. They could hear the hubbub rising from between the buildings, a great weight of humanity, no single voice discernible but part of a murmuring sound wall, underscored by the distant bass thump of outdoor speakers.

  May wondered how someone could attack on these crowded pavements without being caught. Londoners had a long history of working together in times of danger. They would happily throw themselves at criminals and rugby-tackle them down so long as their best mate held their pint.

  May and Longbright followed a path around the church, through unkempt, litter-strewn flowerbeds. ‘We should have someone stationed at Silicon Roundabout,’ he said. The sarcastic nickname had been assigned to a cluster of tech start-ups stacked around Old Street tube station.

  ‘You can’t see the church from there. It wouldn’t have a link
to the rhyme.’

  ‘I was thinking about the “grow rich” part. Every one of these backstreets is packed out at night but there’s nowhere that’s especially wealthy.’

  ‘The art galleries in Hoxton Square,’ Janice suggested.

  ‘They’re not within sight of the church. We need more information, otherwise we’re just wasting our time here.’

  A cry came from across the road, from an antique shop that was possibly a bar, given the number of customers who were outside holding wine glasses. The screech resolved itself into laughter; in the shop window two girls were posing with an enormous gold-painted bison head.

  ‘Perhaps Arthur will come up with something.’

  ‘I doubt it this time. When I left him he was going to talk to someone about bookshops and poetry.’

  ‘But it seems to help, doesn’t it?’ said Longbright. ‘I mean, he goes off on these odd meetings and comes back with ideas. I know it’s unscientific …’

  ‘Unscientific? We’re the homeopaths of law enforcement. It’s why we’re a laughing stock.’

  ‘So you’d rather he stopped?’

  ‘God no, of course not. He’s brilliant at it. He gets results. But there must be a reason why he’s the only person I’ve ever known to use such a system.’

  Janice uprighted a fallen plant pot. ‘John, he’s the only one old enough to remember that such a system ever existed. When he goes, it’s gone. It’s unusable in anyone else’s hands.’

  ‘OK,’ said May, ‘what do you want to do?’