The Lonely Hour, page 11
He found more clues.
Dickinson had a niece he liked enough to buy Christmas gifts for, but he didn’t appear to bother with anyone else. He was involved in a legal dispute with his landlord over increased service charges. He spent more than he made and gambled online, but was trying to clear his mounting debts. He suffered from ADD, and his doctor had recently upgraded his medication to a stronger dose.
Banbury sat forward and glared angrily at his laptop. He punched open an app of his own devising that cross-checked social media contacts for familiar names. Information detonated across the screen, fine lines attaching names, places, habits, friends, jobs, bars, money. So much shared knowledge, all given such equal emphasis that none of it was of any use. Welcome to the information age, he thought. Maybe Mr Bryant is better off not understanding it.
And what was Mr Bryant thinking? After a smoke and ponder he returned to his office and began perusing the ancient volumes he kept behind his mountainously overflowing desk.
‘I know you prefer your research to remain untroubled by relevance, Arthur, but an hour ago you were setting alarm clocks for the staff,’ May pointed out, ‘and now you’re acting as if there’s no pressure—’
‘He went into that water like a man surprised,’ Bryant murmured. ‘How on earth do you creep up on someone when you’re both standing on a deserted bridge? My experiments on body movement—’
‘Yes, I know all about those. You threw Crippen out of the window.’
‘She was on a bungee rope. I wanted to measure the gravitational effect on her organs but she bit me. Have you spoken to Anjam Dutta? We need to keep searching the camera coverage of both embankments.’
‘Who’s going to pay for the extra hours?’ asked May. ‘We’ll never be able to sign it off once Raymond sees the preliminary report. He’ll say there’s no reasonable doubt.’
‘Exactly. And what is the one infallible fact we can absolutely guarantee with Raymondo’s decisions?’
‘They’re always wrong.’
‘Quod erat demonstrandum.’ Bryant pushed his book aside, took up his fountain pen and gave it a good shake, flicking ink on to the wall.
‘What are you two up to?’ Raymond Land was watching them from the door.
‘You can’t come in,’ said Bryant, pointing to a handwritten sign above the door that read ‘The Truncheonists’. ‘This is a private members’ club.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Land took a step into the room.
‘Ah, ah, ah.’ Bryant wagged a forefinger. ‘No entry without a club card. We can grant you temporary membership for a fiver.’
Land looked back at the sign. ‘That’s not even a real word.’
‘Mid-nineteenth-century slang for a policeman, actually. We could waive the normal club conditions and get you an overseas membership by using your ex-wife’s address.’
‘She’s Welsh.’
‘That counts as overseas.’ He checked a blank sheet of paper on his desk. ‘Oh dear, there’s a waiting list. I could fast-track you for a tenner.’
‘I’m not going to pay you to be fast-tracked into a club that doesn’t even exist,’ said Land. ‘I’m not a complete fool.’
‘Nothing in life is complete. I suppose you’re here to feague us.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ snapped Land.
‘It’s not supposed to mean anything, it does mean something,’ Bryant pointed out. ‘It’s a holophrastic term meaning to ginger up, derived from the practice of putting a live eel up a horse’s bottom to make him appear friskier and less worn out.’
Land stared piteously at his most senior detective, then turned to May. ‘Perhaps I’ll get some sense from you. There’s going to be an inquest on Cheema, and that means publicity. I’ve already had some reporter from Hard News on the phone, using the old line about presenting our point of view before they go to press. After the trouble we’ve stirred up lately we’ll have to be extra careful.’
May thought for a moment. ‘When you say we you mean me and him.’
‘So no talking to the press or anyone of dubious character, by which I mean no dowsers, clairvoyants, occultists, flat-earthers, members of the Green Party or people who think lizards have taken over parliament. Leslie Faraday will be watching and waiting for us to make a mistake.’
‘I promise you, Raymondo, there’ll be no mistakes,’ said Bryant solemnly. ‘You know how seriously I take my job. How could I not when it involves the final great mystery? “The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, Which hurts and is desired” – Antony and Cleopatra.’
‘Do you ever think you went into the wrong profession?’ Land asked. ‘You’d have made a halfway decent teacher.’
‘No,’ Bryant replied. ‘It’s the fatalism of the academic that makes a fine policeman, not the apathy of the educator. Before you absquatulate, indulge me for a moment.’
Land was about to answer in the negative but his detective continued.
‘If one malfeasant carried out both crimes, it’s not for his personal gratification because there are no corresponding occult elements in the second attack. He hasn’t left any obvious way of connecting the deaths apart from the unusual choice of the murder weapon. Why not?’
‘Because they aren’t bloody connected,’ Land replied as if it was painfully obvious to everyone.
‘But if they were. A young man is hung from a tree, another falls from a bridge. As far as we know, they’re strangers to each other. What if there are others who understand that the deaths are connected?’
Land’s eyes glazed. He tried to imagine such a scenario and failed. ‘You mean he wants someone to know what he’s up to, but not us? What would be the purpose of that?’
‘Gang members commit ferocious acts to scare their enemies,’ May pointed out reasonably.
‘But these don’t have any of the hallmarks of gang killings. The victims are too old for a start, and ethnically mismatched.’
‘Perhaps it’s one man against a gang. Like a vigilante tackling drug-dealers.’
‘But they’re a saree salesman and an office manager. What could they possibly have in common?’
‘That,’ said Bryant, ‘is what we have to discover.’
Land had had enough. He raised his hands. ‘Let’s just pop back into the real world for a moment, where people don’t turn their offices into clubs or insert eels into horses. I want one of you, preferably not Mr Bryant, to come back to me in the next half-hour with an actionable plan.’ He turned to leave, then stopped. ‘I don’t understand you two. Cheema must have been terrified just before he died, and you lark about as if this is some kind of big joke.’
‘Even undertakers enjoy their work,’ said Bryant. ‘You think they don’t make jokes? Of course they do, because they have to. If they didn’t the weight of inhumanity which all of us face in this world would come crashing down and destroy them utterly. Don’t you remember flash and trash nights at the old nick, when the London Fire Brigade used to come round and douse us with their hosepipes? Everyone used to get involved in water fights, even the local milkmen. It turned into a Norman Wisdom film some mornings. Don’t you remember?’
Land looked at him blankly. ‘No.’
‘Incredible.’ Bryant felt suddenly depressed. ‘It was how we stayed sane. I’ll bring you a plan in half an hour.’
14
ALONE
Patient’s name: Arthur St John Aloysius Montmorency Bryant
Unofficial evaluation on patient’s suitability for duty
Physician Dr Arnold Gillespie FRCP
Dear Raymond
Thank you for enquiring after my health. My foot is now out of plaster. The next time I get up in the night to fetch a glass of milk I’ll make sure I turn the lights on. I knew my wife had been taking her jeep engine to bits in the kitchen but I didn’t know she’d left it in the middle of the floor. I have been meaning to talk to her about the matter but her application for the Peace Corps has been turned down and she’s currently not to be trifled with.
You asked me how Mr Bryant is doing. If you remember, I had diagnosed transient ischaemia, mood swings and some cognitive impairment, but it seems that to a certain degree these symptoms were the result of the accidental poisoning he suffered, and have now abated. After that I subjected him to a series of complex questionnaires designed to provide us with an insight into his current mental status, but I’m afraid the results are confusing. He appears to have the personality of a fourteen-year-old boy combined with that of an octogenarian, but his thought processes are as unfathomable as those of, say, an octopus.
While he’s subject to all of the usual health failings of his age, what I understood least of all was how he maintains the mind of a much younger man. He has none of the signifiers we usually find present. However, I think I may have now found an answer. There’s a protein that keeps our neurons from dying, and it can be triggered by maintaining the close friendships that allow us active social engagement. In short, I think the intensity of his working relationship with Mr May is somehow keeping him from dotage.
This is of course a good thing; as far as patient welfare is concerned I am obliged to remain entirely unbiased, despite the fact that Mr Bryant persistently holds me up to ridicule. But it raises a further concern, because the staff member I have found with the most alarming markers is you. Perhaps you could make an appointment with my office to come in. Since your divorce you’ve been very
‘What a load of rubbish,’ said Raymond Land aloud, punching delete with his fist.
‘Knock knock.’
‘Yes, you’ve worn that particular joke out. Come in before I pay to have you killed,’ said Land testily.
Bryant took a huge pantomime step into the doorless room, then wandered over to the window. The blackened, bedraggled pigeon stared back at him with his cyclopean orange eye. ‘Oh, your little friend’s back. I thought you’d got rid of him.’
‘I hope you have your plan ready, I’m very busy.’
‘Are you? You don’t look it. It’d probably be a good idea to put a few bits of paper on your desk and close down your computer screen so that I can’t see that you’re still trying to fill in your online dating form. Fruit Salad?’ He produced some loose chews without their wrappers and picked off some pocket fluff before proffering them. ‘So, the plan. Given the unusual nature of Mr Cheema’s death I thought we could draw upon some experts in the field.’
‘If this is about getting permission to commandeer your usual circle of cranks, don’t bother,’ Land warned.
‘Heaven forfend, mon petit abruti. I shouldn’t really eat these, they get under my plate.’ He spat a sweet into Land’s bin. ‘You’re thigmotropic, I understand that.’
Land glared. ‘I have no idea what that means.’
‘It’s a directional growth movement that occurs as a sensory response to stimulus. You go where you’re sent. You do what is required of you, and I respect you for that. Obviously I don’t actually respect you, nobody does, but you know what I mean.’
‘No I don’t, actually,’ snapped Land, stabbing ineffectually at his keyboard. ‘Do you have anything else for me of a more practical nature?’
‘Rather. Luke Dickinson. Given that it was murder, I wonder how you want us to proceed.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re finally asking for advice, because I was beginning – wait a minute, what?’
‘I want to push for a verdict of murder.’
‘Based on what?’
‘A piece of new evidence has just come our way. This was found at the spot where Dickinson left the bridge.’ He dropped a clear plastic envelope on to the desk. Having been the butt of too many practical jokes in the past, Land chose not to examine it too closely.
‘Take a look,’ Bryant urged. ‘It was on the concrete ledge below the railing, just where he fell. If you care to incline your head a little further towards your desktop and focus, you’ll see that it’s a jacket button with a small scrap of blue material attached. Dickinson pulled it off just before executing his forward half-somersault.’
‘You mean you think he did.’
‘I know.’
‘No, you don’t know, you think.’
‘I know.’
‘No, you don’t know.’
‘No, I mean I know I think I know, because I know.’
‘I hate talking to you.’ Land pushed the bag away. ‘People lean over railings all the time. This could be from anyone.’
‘It matches the blue thread Giles found under Dickinson’s right index fingernail, and it’s not from his own jacket, which is replete with the correct amount of buttonage.’
Land waved him away. ‘Get it out of my sight. Come up with something more conclusive, otherwise I’ll instruct Giles to issue a Death By Misadventure.’
‘You can’t influence a coroner’s verdict,’ warned Bryant. ‘If there’s reasonable doubt …’
‘Then someone’s out there in a jacket with a button missing from it, and all you have to do is find him,’ said Land, returning his attention to his non-existent paperwork.
Bryant decided not to argue the point. It was half past five, and he was due in Covent Garden.
Script extract from Arthur Bryant’s ‘Peculiar London’ walking tour guide (Covent Garden, 1.5 hrs, alcohol not included)
Beer had once been highly recommended as a nutritional drink for London children, and anyone could brew and sell it if they paid two guineas for the licence fee. By 1638 the Lamb & Flag was already a public house in Covent Garden, although it had several other names. Its sign was an ancient reminder of the Knights Templar, the lamb representing Christ and the flag St George. The pub was wedged into a corner of Rose Street and hemmed by Lazenby Court, connected by a narrow, low-ceilinged passageway that left many a homebound drunk with a bruised forehead.
Here England’s first Poet Laureate, John Dryden, had been beaten up for writing an insulting satire about the king’s mistress. The fact that he was innocent of this act of anti-patriotism did not stop his attackers, and the assault became celebrated as the ‘Rose Alley Ambuscade’. There is still an air of ambush about the place; once inside the alleyway, there is no easy way to pass one another.
As he walked into Covent Garden through misty drizzle, tapping his walking stick and occasionally using it to ward off taxis, Bryant hoped his companion would put in an appearance this time. Larry Duggan had a history of unreliability, but Bryant owed him a debt of honour and had agreed to meet. He just hoped it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes.
He passed beneath the creaking, leaking pub sign and stepped inside, searching the packed saloon bar. Larry stood out from the crowd. The war photographer still looked as if he passed his mornings at the gym. His scarred features had long ago lost their ability to form a smile or show any kind of emotion. As solid as a railway sleeper, he kept his place at the bar and forced others to squeeze around him. His head almost touched the cabinets of glasses that hung from the bowed ceiling. ‘What are you drinking?’ he called.
‘I’ll have an Indian Pale Ale,’ Bryant shouted back, removing himself from the coils of his damp scarf. Larry was accompanied by his Staffordshire, Bully, who had legs like a Queen Anne table.
‘They used to call this pub the Bucket of Blood,’ said Bryant, raising his glass. ‘There was a boxing ring in the back. People are too squeamish to stand for that sort of thing nowadays. My old man used to say that a good punch up the bracket never hurt anyone. Of course, he was an idiot. What’s up?’
Larry glared into his pint before sinking a third of it. ‘Remember how we met at Bow Street Police Station?’
‘You helped me out,’ said Bryant. ‘The building’s been decommissioned now. It’s going to be a museum. I remember it had white lights outside instead of the traditional blue police lamps. Queen Victoria had asked for them to be changed because the blue lamps reminded her of the room in which Prince Albert had died, and the colour depressed her whenever she saw them on her way to the opera.’
‘When you’re the head of the British Empire you can do that,’ said Larry absently. ‘Are you still conducting guided tours around London?’
‘I haven’t had time lately,’ Bryant admitted. ‘I heard you lost your job. I’d been meaning to call you.’
‘Newspapers don’t need staff photographers any more.’ Larry’s hands made the pint glass look like a teacup. He set it down and wiped his lip. ‘Who wants to read about wars? We’re in the entertainment business now. Fallujah, Helmand, Syria: ask anyone on the street why they happened and you’ll get blank looks. We’ve been written off as a bunch of adrenaline junkies nobody needs.’
Bryant did not know what to say and was hardly in a position to give advice about making friends, so he sat back with fingers interlaced on the table and let Larry unburden himself. Finally he had to ask. ‘Why did you want to see me?’
Larry unfolded a square of paper and laid it on the table. ‘Your unit was namechecked in the Standard yesterday. It said a man was found hanging from a tree on Hampstead Heath and you’re heading the investigation. There was a suggestion that the victim was involved in some kind of ritual, and died in the middle of the night.’
‘That’s everything we released to the press. Why?’
‘Four o’clock in the morning. You know what they call that, don’t you? The lonely hour. It’s a military thing.’
‘Why would it be military?’
‘Four a.m. is the time when military police like to break down doors. It’s when people are at their most vulnerable.’
‘I didn’t know that. You think it could be significant?’
‘There was a guy in our regiment, a real loner. He didn’t get on with anyone. The Falklands have these high cliffs. One night he jumped on to the rocks and bashed his brains out. At least, that’s what we all thought he did. Later we heard he’d had a fight with a couple of local lads over an unpaid gambling debt. They broke into the camp and dragged him from his bed. Told him they were going to chuck him off the cliff. They only wanted to scare him, but in the fight he went over. Time of death, four a.m. Seems like we taught them how to do it.’
