White Corridor

contain her anger. “But if you did decide to trust someone,” he said, “you could tell me anything.”

“Thanks, Colin, but if it’s all the same to you I’d prefer to eat my own colon first.” Her head lowered almost to the page as she returned to studying witness statements.

Be as nasty as you like, he thought. My back is broad. And I’ll persevere until the day I find out what makes you tick.

Next door, April rose from her dead computer screen and walked to the window of her office. The sky was animated with roiling clouds, dark and volatile, filled with glimpses of amber and emerald. The streets around the tube station were almost deserted. Camden was one of the most crowded, dangerous and interesting boroughs in London; the rush hour lasted around the clock and the pavements were never free of life, but there was something different about today. Raymond Land had come around telling everyone they were on paid leave for a week, but she could not trust herself to go home. Having conquered her agoraphobia with her grandfather’s help, she was loath to allow it the opportunity of returning within the confines of her safe, small flat.

“Are you okay?” John May stuck his head around the door. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” April still felt like an interloper at the unit, despite her involvement in an investigation that had finally closed a decades-old cold case. She knew there had been suggestions of nepotism, that she had only secured the job because she was the granddaughter of the unit’s cofounder, but she was already winning the trust of her colleagues, and the work was fascinating.

In the filing cabinets opposite were secret details of cases no other unit in the country had the ability to unravel. The PCU had earned the right to handle the kind of investigations no-one in the Metropolitan Police force had the faintest interest in solving. They had captured demons and devils, phantoms and monsters; not real ones, of course, mostly deluded loners who believed themselves invulnerable to the law. Individuals who had stolen, blackmailed and killed for tenebrous, private purposes, to protect themselves, to hide truths, to destroy enemies. Murder, Arthur Bryant insisted, was invariably a squalid, sad business driven by poverty and desperation, yet the cases passed to the Peculiar Crimes Unit had often been marked by paradox and absurdity. Sometimes they were the dream cases other detectives fantasised about resolving, but Bryant and May chose their staff with care, employing novices who were knowledgeable social misfits, in the same way that computer companies sometimes hired the very hackers who had attacked their clients from behind bedroom doors.

“Arthur and I are taking a trip to Devon. You can come with us if you want. There’s plenty of room.”

“No, I’m still settling in here.”

“Will you be all right on your own?”

“I’ll be fine, I promise.” She gave him a reassuring smile. T have a lot of reading to catch up on. Someone needs to hold the fort. I’m working my way through Uncle Arthur’s journals.“

“Don’t believe everything you read in them,” May warned. “He has a habit of greatly exaggerating our successes.”

“And libelling everyone else. One police chief is described as ”a human leech with a mind genetically resembling old Stilton.“ I can’t imagine these accounts will ever see the light of day.”

“For God’s sake don’t tell him that. He thinks he has a bestseller on his hands. Remember to call me if you feel the slightest anxiety, won’t you?” He hovered awkwardly in the doorway. “I know I haven’t always been there for you in the past, but now that you know part of the reason why-‘

“It’s fine, Granddad,” April assured him. “You don’t have to say anything.”

But after her grandfather had left the office, his turn of phrase began to puzzle her. Part of the reason? He had finally been honest about her mother’s death, but was there more she had not yet learned about her blighted family?

7

PATHOLOGY

Oswald Finch was peering gimlet-eyed through the crack in the door like some grizzled old retainer considering whether to admit a tradesman into a mansion. Bryant wrinkled his nose at the sour reek of chemicals drifting through the gap. He looked up from his desk and gave a start.

“Good Lord, Oswald, you frightened the life out of me; it smells like something has died. Don’t lurk outside like some grotesque from Gormenghast. Come in and stop scaring people.”

The ancient pathologist creaked into the room and lowered himself gingerly onto a bentwood chair. “Piles,” he explained, grimacing into a tragedy mask. “I’m at the age where my diary is marked with more hospital appointments than social events. Of course, doctors can do miracles now. Do you know, I’ve hardly anything left that I started out with. Nothing is in its original place. The doctor who opens me up is in for a shock. My intestines lose several feet every year.”

“Well, I’d love to discuss the state of your internal organs all day, but as you can see I’m pretending to be busy.” Bryant ostentatiously flicked over one blank page to examine another. “What do you want?”

Finch sniffed noisily and looked around with disapproval. “The state of this place. A little order wouldn’t kill you. What’s in those petri dishes?” He pointed to a row of plastic bowls arranged on the windowsill.

“It’s rat excrement. I scraped some from the heel of that woman found dead beside the canal at York Way. The canal rats feed mostly on discarded junk food, but those samples contain grain. There’s not much loose grain in King’s Cross, so I guessed she was moved from somewhere else and dumped after dark. The rats had fed on a particular type of red split lentil used in Indian cooking. We tracked the ingredient to a factory in Hackney.”

“I still don’t understand,” Finch admitted. “What’s it doing on the windowsill?”

“Oh, Alma told me it was good for growing mustard cress. I love ham-and-cress sandwiches.”

“You are quite astonishingly disgusting. No wonder I never come up here from the morgue.”

“Too much paperwork, no doubt.”

“No, too many stairs. I was wondering if you’d heard anything about the equipment I was supposed to be getting. I’ve been promised new tanks, a small-parts dissection table fitted with a decent stainless steel drain and a second mobile instrument cart for seven months now, and the cover is still off my extractor fan. Plus, one of my refrigeration cabinets is on the blink. I suppose it was you who left several wine boxes and a tray of sausage rolls in there.”

“They’re for your send-off.”

“Ignoring the fact that it is unsanitary and illegal to keep foodstuffs in a refrigeration unit reserved for body parts, the sausages are past their sell-by date.”

“So are you, old bean. I thought you’d be pleased.” Bryant narrowed his watery eyes in suspicion. “You haven’t become a vegetarian, have you?”

The pathologist looked troubled. “I have the awful feeling that by retiring at this late stage in life, I may find myself with no purpose. I can’t just wither away in Hastings.”

“No choice, old sock. Your retirement’s been accepted and processed. You can sit on the pier and throw stones at the seagulls.”

“But I like seagulls.”

“After a few months of watching them you won’t. Just think of all the fun that lies ahead.” Bryant stapled some papers together and sniffed. “Personally I’ve always found Hastings to be positively suicide-inducing, but I won’t be living there. I’m sure you’ll discover some advantages; it’ll be as quiet as your morgue, and you won’t have me pulling hideous practical jokes on you anymore.”

Finch gloomily picked something unpleasant from his nails. “I suppose that’s true. I worked it out the other day. Over a period of more than forty years, you’ve played a mean-spirited trick on me at least once a week, which comes to well over two thousand japes, jokes, hoaxes, wind-ups and pranks played out with a straight face against my person, while I am trying to carry out the serious business of ascertaining causes of death to make your department look good. You tricked me into cutting up my credit cards over the phone, nurturing a rare mollusk that turned out to be a mildewed mango seed, calling my wife to accuse her of conducting a fictitious affair with a limbo dancer and telling my son that he’d been adopted following his rescue from a Satanist cult. You super-glued my office door shut, put gunpowder in my cigarette filters, sewed prawns into my jacket pockets, dropped a live eel