As soon as they were back in the car, Artimus dialled Dawn again. “I need another favour.” he said, peering at the details provided by Doctor Waites. “I need to know who this bank account belongs to.”
“I’ll search it now.” said Dawn, the tapping of her manicured fingers on her keyboard drifting through the cab.
In the years after the seven-seven bombings, laws that once protected the collection of basic information such as bank records had been relaxed. Neil was still not entirely comfortable with the reasoning behind the reduction of civil liberties taken, but he was happy the police’s hands had at least been unbound a little and that such searches could be taken almost instantly.
“That’s an off-shore account listed as belonging to a Noel Grayson.” said Dawn, only a few moments later. “It’s listed as part of a suite of accounts he holds in the Isle of Wight.” A rustle of paper accompanied the details, as Dawn spoke again. “Oh, and I’ve contacted both the Cambridge and Footlights presidents; neither Mister Grayson nor Missus Grayson were involved in amateur dramatics. The only record they have that is that Mister Grayson is listed as a lighting engineer for a couple of plays during his senior year, but he never acted.”
“Thank you very much dear. I promise that’s the last request for today.” said Artimus. “Obviously, other than to remind you to nudge John and make sure he gets me the answer he promised earlier.”
Hanging up, Artimus turned to Neil. “To the Cittie Mister Townsend. You and I need a clear-the-air chat and the opportunity to ruminate on what we have uncovered, and I refuse to have such a conversation without the availability of adequate libation.”
Neil did not really want to spend any more time with Artimus than he had to, but something in the offer, after everything transpired, seemed to provide the opportunity to remove at least some of the sour taste from his mouth this working relationship had produced.
With nothing else to do that evening, Neil decided to give the man a chance to explain himself.
By the time they arrived at the Cittie of Yorke, evening was drawing in; the lumbering throngs of those having to toil the Friday after Christmas making their way slowly from their places of work toward tube stations and bus stops alike.
Artimus strode up to the bar, just about everyone turning to say hello as he entered, and ordered three beers and another foul-looking cola. Paying the barman, he made his way to the booth where Neil first met him.
“So,” said Artimus, gulping the first beer down in seconds without spilling a drop, “get everything you need off your chest. What do you want to ask?”
Neil rolled his cola between his hands, trying to find the words to match his feelings. Failing in that endeavour, he asked the only question that seemed logical. “Why?”
Artimus nodded, downing half of his next beer. “Henry holds you in very high regard Neil. I suppose I have been harsh because I was testing the reasons for that. You may not have noticed, but I possess an inquisitive mind.”
Neil was at once happy that his superior thought of him so, and disgusted the assertion required him to be treated as a guinea pig for one of Artimus’ experiments. “And the gay thing?”
Artimus laughed. “Do you have any idea of the size of the rod that straightens your back Neil? When I first saw you, I was unsure if you had not left a hanger in your jacket, you were so uptight! Due to your abilities and the fact I could tell you held a keen mind, I realised the direct approach to your maladies would only be met defensively, thus getting me nowhere. I therefore decided to try a little cognitive torture therapy to see if I could loosen you up a little. I am quite pleased with my results.” Downing the last of his second pint, he pushed his empties to the end of the table, and started his third.
“Cognitive torture therapy? You’re a psychologist now too?”
“I’ve dabbled.” said Artimus, distantly. “And it did work Neil. Who would have thought yesterday that you would have attacked one of Henry’s oldest friends? You certainly were not thinking about your career prospects, or much to be brutally honest, when you pulled that ill-advised stunt.”
Neil drew a sharp breath. Artimus and Henry did know each other well. If Artimus said anything, it really could be the end of the road for his job.
“Do not dwell on things that are never going to happen Neil.” said Artimus, soothingly. “My lips are sealed, just like your anus.” Neil stared at Artimus, who began to chuckle again. “Lighten up Neil. You now know I mean no offence, so you can take it as intended.”
“Please stop.” said Neil, groaning.
“Safe word, detective. You’ll have to give me one. Alternatively, I can use the one you share with your lover.”
“Oh, come on!” said Neil, sitting back and folding his arms across his chest. “This is like a Carry-On movie.”
“I’m sorry, truly I am.” said Artimus, still giggling. “I will attempt to be more subtle in my probing from now on.” He finished his third beer, wolf whistling to grab the attention of the barman, who arrived at the table in short order. “Another two for me and perhaps… One for Detective Townsend?”
“No, really,” said Neil, refusing the offer, “I’m in the car.”
“Tish and piddle!” said Artimus, nodding to the barman. “It will be three Geoffrey, thank you.” He removed his wallet from his pocket, taking one of numerous twenty-pound notes from its interior and placing it on the table. “I will get my evening drivers to come over later. One can take me home, and the other can drive you back to your house in your car. Deal?”
Neil leant forward. “You have two drivers?”
“I have two evening drivers. Frederick, my head butler takes most of the driver duties during the day, so you could argue I have three.”
“Why?”
“I enjoy a drink, and I do not like to do it alone. That means I usually require at least two cars to get my associates home.” said Artimus, genuinely baffled by the comment. “Why else would I need them?”
Neil was dumbfounded; it was almost as if Artimus inhabited a different world. “You do know there are companies that provide things called taxis in these modern times, don’t you?”
“Are there?” said Artimus, playfully. “Perhaps I should acquire one of these taxi companies and make life simpler for everyone. Crane Cabs, what do think Neil, does it have a nice ring.”
“Sweet Jesus.” said Neil, trying to hold back a smirk. “Is this ever going to end?”
“Only if you push back firmly, or find a way to reach around the issue.” The barman returned with their drinks, and Artimus handed over the cash. “You can keep the change Geoffrey.” he said, much to the delight of the man. “You have to keep these people sweet Neil. Citizen Smith pays his staff very little, and there are not many bars like this where they are willing to do waiter service.”
“How have you still got any money left? Two drivers, a fleet of cars, butlers, gardeners, chefs, plus all these hefty tips, you must be burning your way through it at an alarming rate.”
“Burning my way through it? I could take four grand an hour outside onto my drive, set fire to it, watch it turn to dust, and repeat the feat continuously, and still not make a dent.” said Artimus, sounding upset with the fact. “Last year I made one hundred and fifty million pounds. Do you know how?”
“One hundred and fifty million!” said Neil, amazed by the figure. “I wouldn’t have a clue.”
“Here’s the frightening part Neil.” said Artimus, in a subdued tone. “Neither do I. All I know is money makes money. The more you have, the more you make. I am actually unaware exactly where the family fortune is tied up anymore; bonds, stocks, shares, business interests, loans… who knows? All I can say for certain is that once a year, seven accountants descend on Knowelsley Manor, sit in my guest dining hall, and sift through my paperwork. At the end of that week-long process, I am handed an update to my finances, usually at least sixty pages long, which proceeds to bore me half to death before I have concluded a first scan of the précis.”
“You have a guest dining hall?” It was not the most important question Neil could ask, but it blurted from him without thought.
“Oh yes.” said Artimus, in a considered growl, “You would not want any of the riff-raff you hold transient association with occupying your best rooms now, would you? Especially the drinkers. You have partaken of George’s exotic fragrances when we first met. Would you let a man like that bespatter an original George Hepplewhite regency high-back with his exudencies? I think not.”
Neil laughed, and Artimus joined in.
Neil could not help but think Artimus was doing his best to mend their relationship in the only way he knew how; his own special brand of mildly insulting humour. He was still angry, but every passing moment drained more of that feeling away.
“So, Neil,” said Artimus, leaning back, “let’s see if you have any thoughts on today.”
“Three conversations, two sets of tears, one fight, and a near-lynching?” said Neil, relaxing, “Which part would you like me to start with?”
“I meant,” said Artimus, a more serious tone descending, “where did our evidence trail lead us?”
“I’m not sure I know.”
“Come now, Mister Townsend. I have read your case files, seen the notes and details you put into them. I would not be surprised to find you have some form of autism, maybe even the stirrings of being a mnemonist. Do you use any tricks to have such good recall, or is your ability innate?”
Neil considered the comment. It was true that he could remember the minutia of moments, even from his distant past, it was one of the reasons he thought being a detective was a good choice of vocation. What he had not considered was that the trait was worthy of note. “I’m not sure I’m special in any way. I’ve always had a good memory.”
“A good memory? It is more than that Neil.” said Artimus, starting his fifth pint. “Remember, I have spoken with Henry about you. You memory is unique throughout the department, if not the whole of Scotland Yard.”
“Is it?” said Neil, surprised.
“For example,” said Artimus, gesticulating to make his point, “what colour were Doctor Waites’ socks?”
Neil thought back to their meeting, Doctor Waites sitting behind his desk for most of it. Had he even seen his socks? Trying hard and scrunching his eyes, he played back everything from his arrival at Hybrid Incorporated, starting with their first encounter. The memory ran through in his head like a video, stopping on a shot of him following Doctor Waites down the long corridor just before they entered the research suite. Just as he went to open the door, his trouser leg hitched up just enough to see the socks underneath. “Blue.” said Neil, confidently. “Blue woollen socks.”
“My Lord.” said Artimus, his beverage trembling slightly below his lip. “You have an eidetic memory?”
“I have a what?”
“Tell me,” said Artimus, sidestepping the question, “when I asked you to remember Doctor Waites, what did you see?”
“Doctor Waites.” said Neil, concerned by the way Artimus was looking at him.
“A still image, or played like a movie?”
“Like a movie.”
“Sound included?”
“Not for that memory, no; but you didn’t ask for what he said.”
“You can turn the sound on and off as you please? Like a mute function?”
“Sure. Can’t everyone?”
“No Neil. Nobody can do that.”
“Rubbish.” said Neil, laughing nervously. “How do other people remember things then?”
“Not like that! Let me explain. The brain is a database Neil. It functions almost exactly the same as any database on any server anywhere in the world. Sights and sounds are input to the database through the eyes and ears. The nerve impulses are first sifted, for want of a better term, by the thalamus, which passes the outputs to the relevant portions of the cerebral cortex for processing. Short-term memories are formed in the pre-frontal lobe from the outputs of the cortex, and then stored. After only a few minutes, seconds in most cases, the depth of information the pre-frontal lobe holds is split, based on a bio-algorithmic analysis, into a series of stubs, or indivisible pieces. Just like compressing a large document on your computer, an area of your brain called the hippocampus scans the pre-frontal lobe, breaks up a memory into things you have already experienced, and tags them. This much shorter sequence of tags is sent back where it came from with a series of relevant markers, like keys in a database, to allow for easy retrieval and to save space. In database terms, this last series of actions would be called indexing. That is why detectives are taught that interviews are time-critical. Tags become intermingled and memories corrupted, partly because the system is not perfect, but mainly because the memory does not actually exist anymore. They are rebuilt from these tags by the cortex only when they are needed. Therefore, they can never be what they once were. The human brain can only rebuild so much, and often the little details are lost forever in the compression.”
Neil did not know what to say. Not only was biology not a subject he ever studied, but computers were also not his thing. Most of that may as well have been in Dutch. “Very enlightening, thanks.” he said, with a light grimace.
“What I am trying to get across to you is that you have a unique ability caused by a quirk of genetics, probably a modification to the way your hippocampus functions, which allows you to take the uncompressed short-term memory and tag it directly, thus not losing any data. It probably also explains your inadequacies in social situations. Many people with memory quirks are incredibly sensitive to emotional stimuli, and almost all have trouble in forming bonds or working in social groups.”
“You think I’m socially inept?” said Neil, insulted.
“I have just told you that you have a genetic trait maybe one in a hundred million humans share, which most people would die to possess, and you think I am insulting you?”
“For all the long words Artimus, you’ve just told me I’m a social pariah. How would you feel?”
“Do you not feel like an outsider in social circumstances? Clumsy, ill at ease, always fumbling to find the right words? Did it never occur to you that when other people converse, they are not constantly reminded of every single detail of each other encounter they have ever shared with someone? People are social creatures because of the way their memories work. It is the parchment on which their lives are drawn. You, on the other hand, are cursed by your ability. Forever wondering why people are repeating themselves, or contradicting previous commentaries. It must be an incessant torture to your life.” said Artimus, peering deep into Neil’s eyes as if wishing to see the process in action. “It is why you could be a very astute investigator; maybe even better than myself. You have a gift Neil, a very powerful but ultimately self-harming gift.”
Neil felt uncomfortable, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest. “Great. My life reduced to being a mutant.”
“Call me Professor X.” said Artimus, shrugging. “So, impress me with you powers Neil. Use them to tell me what I was doing today, and what we learnt.”
Neil did not want to be thought of as a freak, nor a bumbling societal outcast, but he was also not one to refuse a challenge. He unfolded his arms, placing his elbows on the table, and allowing his mind to drift back to the conversations held.
Starting with Michael Grayson, he quickly skipped from key moment to key moment, until the final conversation with the group of scientists in Hybrid was finished. As the final image subsided and he opened his eyes, a broad smile drew across his face. “Damn it.” he said, smiling at Artimus. “I didn’t see that at the time.”
“Did not see what Neil?” said Artimus, pressing.
“Your primary assertion was lookalikes. You’ve been thinking that the bodies in the cellar were chosen and killed because they looked like the Graysons. That’s what all the questions about amateur dramatics were about. You are thinking actors were hired for some reason and then they were k
illed.”
“Could be.” said Artimus, impressed. “Although we should not discount the possibility the Grayson family are actually dead.”
Neil’s eyes widened. “The people who we interviewed were actors?”
“It cannot be discounted until we have both sets of genetic tests back; from the bodies and from the Graysons. Alanis is young enough to have had tests done for congenital disorders during her mother’s pregnancy and Dawn is also checking medical records for any gene samples we have on file for the parents that may give us a third comparison set.”
“And the conversation with Wordy?”
“Ah, yes. Well remembered.” said Artimus, calling the barman over again. “Lookalikes are difficult to find, especially convincing ones. They must be selected, and then paid. Mister Bardsley contacted the actor’s agencies of London for me to ascertain if any of them recognised the Grayson family. His phone call told me that he had been successful on four counts. It appears somebody went to those agencies twelve months or so ago with a picture and a request to hire actors who looked like those in it. The photo was of the Grayson family, all aged to look how they did in that cellar, about three years older than they are now. He is currently getting those agencies to scan records to see who was hired and when.”
“Is that why you said Hybrid was a front? Are they actors too?”
Artimus snorted his drink, coughing hard to clear the alcohol burning his nostrils. “Oh good grief no!” he said, still spluttering. “Why did I point out Doctor Waites’ pin badge?”
“Because it signified him as a mason.”
“True enough.” said Artimus, retrieving a handkerchief and wiping his mouth. “However, what was I really getting at? Why did I end our discourse with Doctor Waites as soon as I had uncovered that Noel Grayson was behind his brother’s hiring?”
“My thought was that you believed Noel Grayson is involved in this in some way. That’s why tracking down where Mister Grayson’s salary went was important. I’m not sure how Noel Grayson paying himself works though, and I didn’t have much time to think about it, because five minutes later…”
“You were nursing a bruised pair of clock-weights. I know, I was there.” said Artimus, tentatively sipping at his drink to ensure he was good to continue. “So, what can you surmise from that now?”
Neil thought, swigging his own drink and realising Artimus had now drunk six pints before he had even finished one. “I’m sorry,” he said eventually. “It makes no sense at all.”
“It does if you look at it correctly.” said Artimus, making a clicking sound as he thought how best to explain. “Imagine you are Noel Grayson. You work for one of the world’s largest and most successful investment banking companies. You have amassed quite a tidy fortune in your time, and yet your brother is struggling to make a living in pharmaceuticals. However, you are a mason, probably Most Worshipful Master of some lodge, and so have many contacts. When one of your masonic charges, Doctor Waites, asks if you can do anything to assist with his progression through a genetics start-up, what do you do? You know your brother’s field of expertise, you see an opportunity, and you get him a job. Because you are pulling all the strings, you give Doctor Waites your bank details, and then you pay your brother out of your own pocket, to a tune much higher than Hybrid can actually afford. In this modern era, standing orders can be modified to show they have come from any name you wish, so Noel Grayson was probably secure in the thought Mister Grayson was unlikely to notice. The house in Belsize Park was probably a gift from him. If you remember…” Artimus laughed, holding up a hand, “of course you do, my apologies. Mister Grayson looked agitated when I asked about his comfort whilst living at his brother’s. After speaking with Doctor Waites, I now believe Mister Grayson may realise he is being paid by his brother and the thought is not one he likes.”
“And suggesting that one of Mister Grayson’s colleagues was responsible for the deaths?”
“Now that was a reach.” said Artimus, contemplatively. “With both Michael and Noel looking increasingly unlikely as suspects, I had to try something. Call it intuition.”
Before Neil could respond, his phone starting buzzing in his pocket. Apologising for the interruption, he looked at the screen and then handed it to Artimus. “It’s Wordy. It’s going to be for you.”
“Aha!” said Artimus, answering the call. “Give me the good news Mister Bardsley.” However, as Artimus’ grin slowly dissipated to a scowl, it was clear the answer fell outside his expectation.
“Not what you wanted to hear?” said Neil, accepting the phone back.
“Nobody matching the pictures could be found by any of the agencies. No actors were hired.”
“So, where does that leave us?” asked Neil, taking another swig of his drink.
“Square one.” said Artimus, distantly. “Back at the very start, and as confused as we were before this day began.”
Chapter 16
Back with Internal Affairs
Out of Time Page 15
