knew that. John had left the building first, abandoning his insomniac partner.
“Who’s conducting the search? They’ll have to verify – ”
“The fire department’s first priority is to make sure it’s safe,” said Liberty. “Of course they’ll report their findings as quickly as possible. Anything I hear, you’ll know. John’s right, you should go home, there’s nothing you can do.”
May stared up at the building, suddenly unsure of himself.
Longbright watched the column of rusty smoke rising fast in the still grey air. She felt disconnected from the events surrounding her. It was the termination of a special partnership; their names had been inextricably linked, Bryant, May, Longbright. Now she had left and Bryant was gone, leaving May alone. She had spent so much time in their company that the detectives were more familiar than her closest relatives, like friendly monochrome faces in old films. They had been, and would always be, her family.
Longbright realized she was crying even before she registered the shout, as though time had folded back on itself. A fireman was calling from the blackened apex of the building. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, would not allow herself to hear it. As she ran towards the ruins with the fire officers at her heels, the familiar codes started passing through the rescue group.
A single body, an elderly white male, had been located in the wreckage. For Arthur Bryant and John May, an unorthodox alliance had come to a violent end. They were her colleagues, her mentors, her closest friends. She would not allow herself to believe that Bryant was dead.
An immolation had joined the end to the beginning, past and present blown together. John May had always sensed that a routine demise would not be enough for his partner. They had just closed a sad, cruel case, their last together. There were no more outstanding enemies. Bryant had finally started thinking about retirement as the unit headed for a period of radical change, sanctioned by new Home Office policies. He and May had been discussing them only the Friday before, during their customary evening walk to the river. May thought back to their conversation, trying to recall whether they had spoken of anything unusual. They had strolled to Waterloo Bridge at sunset, arguing, joking, at ease in each other’s company.
John and Arthur, inseparable, locked together by proximity to death, improbable friends for life.
? Full Dark House ?
2
CRIMINAL PAST
“You mean to tell me that amateurs are being invited to solve murders?” asked Arthur Bryant with some surprise. “Have a pear drop.”
“Is that all you’ve got?” May rattled the paper bag disappointedly. “They kill my mouth. A study published by the Scarman Centre had apparently found that trained investigators are no better than nonprofessionals at telling whether a suspected criminal is lying.” The centre was a leading crime-research institute based at Leicester University. Politicians took its findings very seriously.
“Surely the Home Office and the Association of Chief Police Officers won’t endorse the scheme?” Bryant squinted into the bag. “I thought there was some Winter Mixture left.”
“I don’t know where you get those sweets. I’m sure they don’t make them any more. HO’s already endorsed the plan. They reckon any respected person with common sense and an analytical mind can be recruited. Civilians are going to be given unlimited access to evidence and records. I thought you’d be pleased. You suggested the same thing years ago.”
“Well, the general public have a distinct advantage over us.” Plastic carrier bags floated around the traffic lights at the end of the Strand like predatory jellyfish. The hum of traffic around them was like the drone of bombers. The air was acrid with exhausts. Bryant leaned on his walking stick to catch his breath. The stick was a sore point; May had bought it for his partner’s birthday the previous year, but Bryant had been horrified by the suggestion that he was facing mobility difficulties. It had remained in his conservatory for several months, where it had supported a diseased nasturtium, but now the elderly detective found himself discreetly using it. “Civilians aren’t limited by knowledge of the law. I’ve been employing members of the public ever since the unit opened in nineteen thirty-nine.”
“Looks like HO has finally come around to your way of thinking,” May remarked. “They’ve got a new police liaison officer there, Sam Biddle.”
“No relation?”
“His grandson, I believe.”
“How odd. I was thinking about old Sidney Biddle only the other day. So sensible, solid and efficient. I wonder why we all hated him? Do you remember, I once tricked him into shaving his head by telling him that German bomber pilots could spot ginger people in the blackout. I was terrible in those days.”
“The grandson is forwarding candidates to us. We could do with more recruits like DuCaine. It’ll be a fresh start for the unit. I rang you last night to discuss the matter, but your mobile was switched off.”
“I think it broke when I dropped it. Now it keeps picking up old radio programmes. Is that possible? Anyway, there’s no point in having it turned on when I’m playing at the Freemason’s Arms.” They stepped through the scuffed gloom of the buildings hemming Waterloo Bridge. “I once took a call while I was going through the Gates of Hell, hit one of the pit-stickers and nearly broke his leg. The cheeses weigh about twelve pounds.”
“Am I supposed to have any idea what you’re talking about?”
May asked.
“Skittles,” the detective explained. “I’m on the team. We play in the basement of a pub in Hampstead. The discus is called a cheese.”
“Playing children’s games with a bunch of horrible old drunks isn’t my idea of fun.” He tended to forget that he was only three years younger than his partner.
“There aren’t many players left,” Bryant complained.
“I’m not surprised,” replied May. “Can’t you do something more productive with your evenings? I thought you were going to tackle your memoirs.”
“Oh, I’ve made a healthy start on the book.” Bryant paused at the centre of the bridge to regain his wind. The pale stone balustrades were dusted with orange shadows in the dying sunlight. Even here the air was musty with vans. There was a time when the stale damp of the river permeated one’s clothes. Now the smell only persisted at the shoreline and beneath the bridges. “They say there are fish in the river again. I heard another human torso was washed up by Blackfriars Bridge, but there was nothing about salmon. I’m looking up old contacts. It’s rather fun, you should try it. Go round and see that granddaughter of yours, get her out of the house.”
“April had a breakdown. She can’t bear crowds, can’t relax. The city gets her down.”
“You have to make the best of things, fight back, that’s what Londoners are supposed to be good at. You really should go and see her, encourage her to develop some outside interests.” Bryant looked for his pipe but only managed to find the stem. “I wonder what I’ve done with the rest of this,” he muttered. “I’ve just finished writing up our first case. Did I tell you I went back to the Palace to look over the files? They were still where I’d left them in the archive room, under tons of old photographs. The place is exactly as I remember it.”
“Surely not,” exclaimed May, amazed.
“Oh, theatres don’t change as fast as other buildings.”
“I thought some of the finest halls were destroyed in the sixties.”
“Indeed they were, music halls mostly, but the remaining sites are listed. I watched as they put a wrecking ball through the Deptford Hippodrome.”
“How many other files have you got tucked away?”
“You’d be surprised. That business with the tontine and the Bengal tiger, all documented. The runic curses that brought London to a standstill. The corpse covered in butterflies. I’ve got all our best cases, and a register of every useful fringe group in the capital.”
“You should upgrade your database. You’ve still got members of the Camden Town Coven listed as reliable contacts. And do I need to mention the Leicester Square Vampire?”
“Anyone can make a mistake,” said Bryant. “Look at that, a touch of old Shanghai in London.” He pointed as a fleet of bright yellow tricycles pedalled past, dragging bored-looking tourists around the sights. “Do you want to buy
