you.”
“I didn’t take them; he burned them. It was like, one page, okay? He did it for her.” His voice was toneless.
“You mean Oswald Finch burned his own notes? Why would he do that?”
“You don’t need to know. It has nothing to do with your investigation.”
“I understand why you asked him, to protect her,” said Longbright. “I know that. You didn’t want her drug use to come out on the report that would be sent to her parents.”
“She hated her parents, but she felt like she’d hurt them enough. She said there was no point in kicking them beyond the grave, asked me to clean up behind her if anything bad ever happened, like she was expecting it.”
“Where can I find her former boyfriend?”
“Why do you need to know?” asked Owen wearily.
“I have to eliminate him from the investigation.”
“Well, you can do that, all right. He’s dead and buried, in-nit. Gone forever.”
“When did it happen?”
“Eight months ago. That’s why she took his name off her arm.”
“What happened? How did he die?”
Owen gave her a crooked smile. “It was a knife wound.”
“Who did it?”
“Nobody you know.”
Getting answers from the boy was like pulling teeth once more. In the peculiar manner of most of the kids living around this estate, he had answered her questions without explaining a single thing. Longbright checked her watch and saw that it was three-fifteen p.m., which left just one and three quarter hours before the slow-motion car crash of the unit’s destruction concluded. More frustrated than angry, she rose and left Mills to his grief and his photographs.
Crossing the sleet-slick paths of the estate, she tried to shake the feeling that she had been tricked. Somehow, Mills had told her everything she needed to know while simultaneously hiding the truth in plain sight.
44
A grey veil of rain descended over the grime-crusted gas lamps of Old Montague Street, where the ‘light of heaven’ brought safety to the pavements Saucy Jack had walked only fifty years earlier.
The rolling amber fogs that dripped down walls and slicked the cobbles were pierced with fiery mantles that burned until the break of dawn, when daylight dissipated the miasma. Another fifty years passed, and now the wrecking balls swung into row after row of mean terraced houses with a chink and clatter of brick and mortar, tearing down Durward Street, Buck’s Row, Hanbury Street, blasting so much brightness into the dark canyons that no shred of London’s shape-shifting history remained. Now there was only the roar and glare of the approaching future…
Arthur Bryant awoke with a start, wondering where he was.
In 1930, his father had photographed the spot where ‘Polly’ Nichols had fallen with her throat slit open from ear to ear. He had kept the little sepia print of the dingy kerbstone in his trouser pocket, using it to frighten young Arthur whenever he was bad. Reeking sourly of stout, his father had staggered from The Ten Bells in Commercial Street, the public house where Mary Kelly had ordered her final drink, and collapsed into the road, where he was found dead by his terrified son…
Why had Bryant dreamed of such a thing now? Nothing in the past could truly be repaired. Remembrance of his father only came when the cold hand of his own mortality pressed upon him. Disoriented, he shivered and tightened the collar of his coat.
He knew it was dangerous to fall asleep, but increasingly his body was defending itself by pulling the plug on his consciousness. A freezing draught was coming from somewhere behind him. Freshly fallen snow had darkened the windscreen of the van, cocooning the cabin. It was like being trapped inside an icy pillowcase.
Bryant checked his watch and realised that his partner had been gone for over an hour. May had called to say he was returning… surely he should have arrived by now?
He twisted in his seat and pulled back the curtain to see if Madeline was awake. The rear door had been opened; he could see snow drifting through the gap. There was no sign of mother or child, and several props had been overturned. The remains of a plaster vase lay smashed on the floor of the van, and a Hieronymus Bosch backdrop had split where it had fallen, imps and devils let loose to spread chaos in corners.
The clearing sky placed Madeline in danger. Johann could act without fear of guilt, for his corridor to the eyes of God would open again, and he would once more attempt to show defiance before his Maker. Bryant’s muscles protested as he opened the door of the cabin and eased himself out.
The wind took his breath away. He bundled his scarf around his head and set off for the rear of the truck, but even this small distance proved hard going.
The chaotic scuffle of footprints beneath the open rear door was difficult to read, but two clear shoe sizes indicated that mother and son were now outside and exposed. The tracks were fresh and deep; they could not have gone far, especially if they were being dragged unwillingly. Bryant returned to the cabin and pulled a page of his battered old map book from the dashboard. Their hunter would have to be taking them to the shelter of another vehicle, unless he was planning to leave them to die in the snow. Bryant punched Maggie Armitage’s number with a frozen digit, and found that his partner had already left her.
Bryant glanced back through the stranded traffic and realised that a massive block of snow had cascaded across the road, just beyond the bend. No wonder May had not come back; he’d been buried beneath the fall, or at least had been stranded on the wrong side of the valley.
“The silly old fool,” he muttered beneath his breath. Pulling his coat tighter around him, Bryant started to follow the prints leading away from the van. They cut away from the road, through crystalline bushes that glittered like chandeliers, in the direction of the hill and the railway line where the other stranded travellers had headed at the start of the storm.
He squinted at the page from the map book and tried to determine how closely the barred line of the railway twisted past the motorway, but it was difficult to read in the glare of the snow. If they reached the tracks, he would not be able to follow them further. With a sinking heart, he realised that the line ran across the steepest point of the hill. He knew he would not have the stamina needed to follow it for so long. At least the deep snow now kept him upright as he walked; in London he would have needed his stick.
Reaching a sheltered hollow formed by some thorny gorse, he checked his mobile for a signal, then returned Longbright’s call with numb fingers.
The DS sounded desperate. “I’m sorry, Arthur, I didn’t want to bother you again, but we’re no nearer to closing up the Finch investigation, and I’m almost out of time.”
Bryant forced his mind to switch tracks, something he never had much trouble doing. “Have you found out anything from Mills since I last spoke to you?”
“I talked to him again, but every time I got close he shut up on me. And we wanted to get DNA tests done on skin flakes found in Bayham Street, but there isn’t any time-‘
“I’m not talking about forensic evidence, but something you’ve missed. I told you, the answer lies with Mills. Did you remember to do what I asked? Did you talk to him about his family?”
“It was as you said. He’s the oldest of six. I think the others look to him for guidance. The parents met Lilith, but his siblings didn’t. Why did you want to know?”
“Omissions,” said Bryant. “Of course he has no desire to bare his private life to anyone he perceives to be in a position of authority, and who can blame him? It will always be your job to fill in the gaps. I take it you didn’t find
