Lithuanian botanist experimenting on rare plants with, er, horticultural grafting techniques. I’ll get rid of that for you.”
“You’re telling me the Leicester Square Vampire is an experimenting Lithuanian botanist?” Davenport rose and walked to the door, vaguely troubled. “Do you think I’m completely stupid? I’ve been fielding hourly calls from Albert Friedrich, Capistrania
Bryant stuffed the plant into the top drawer of his desk. “I think that went quite well, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t, frankly. Have you come to any conclusions?”
“Well, there’s a madman on the loose, obviously. Someone who hated Capistrania enough to have her mutilated, who had Charles Senechal killed in full view of his peers, who slashed a young man to death just because he was close to a member of the cast. We’ll test the bike for prints when it turns up but I don’t suppose we’ll get anything.”
“He was wearing gloves.”
“Then there’s the Greek aspect of all this. Which reminds me, we need to find out who gave Zachary Darvell the flower.”
“What flower?”
“The silk carnation. Stan Lowe says he’d never seen the boy wearing a buttonhole before. Not his usual style. Don’t those gypsy women in Piccadilly press them on you as you pass? I’m sure they’re not made of silk these days, though, unless someone’s cutting up parachutes. And then there’s the business with the flute.”
“You’ve completely lost me,” said May, exasperated.
“Anton Varisich halted the orchestra when the accident occurred, but his first flute released a high-pitched note of alarm. Except of course he couldn’t have, because two of the woodwinds, of which the flautist was one, had failed to turn up that morning – so who played the note?”
“Arthur, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’d like to tell you,” said Bryant, “but I think I’d better make sure I’m right first. While I’m doing that, you might pause to wonder why Davenport’s so anxious to keep this out of the newspapers.”
“I imagine he doesn’t want the unit made to look foolish.”
“Nobody knows about the unit,” said Bryant. He raised his voice. “Come in, Mr Biddle. Don’t hover outside.”
Sidney Biddle looked defiant. “I wasn’t listening,” he said at once, thereby confirming he was. “I was coming to see you.” He warily ventured into the cluttered sepia office.
Bryant threw his partner a questioning look. “Oh? What’s on your mind?” Biddle’s tie was knotted so tightly under his collar that it appeared to be choking him.
May stretched back in his chair. “Why don’t you take a seat, Sidney?” he prompted.
The young man twisted awkwardly round to look at each of the detectives in turn. “I want to transfer out of the unit, Mr Bryant.”
“You’ve only just got here. Can we ask why?”
Biddle looked uncomfortable. “I don’t believe I’m suited to this kind of operation.”
“Could you be more specific?” asked May, sensing what was coming.
“Mr May, my aim was to get inside the Home Office end of the London force, reach the important stuff, and I thought I’d hack it by working for an SIO. I knew Serious Crimes only handled murder cases. I was told how different this unit was to anything else currently available. I didn’t realize working practices would be so – not how things are supposed to be.”
May peered at him in what he hoped was a manner of surprise. “Would you care to give me an example?”
“Even the most basic procedures aren’t followed. Take custody of evidence.” Biddle began to grow heated. “I was taught to maintain continuous control over crime-scene evidence from signing and dating of possession to court introduction, keeping copious notes throughout the process. Mr Bryant walks into Dr Runcorn’s lab and pokes about, and takes whatever he likes out of the property room. Half the time he doesn’t even secure it as he leaves. When I remind him of protocol, he shouts at me, or he laughs.”
“So this is about Mr Bryant,” said May solemnly.
“Yes, sir. I was always warned that we would have to work reactively on suspects, eliminate or associate them according to the likelihood of their involvement in a crime. Mr Bryant doesn’t do that, sir. He doesn’t share information, and he starts with the unlikeliest scenario. He won’t cold-type fingerprints or correlate his data with colleagues. He starts writing up reports before he even receives blood-typing results. Mr Finch should have run epithelial cell checks on the lift doors, the globe cable and the balcony seat backs by now, but Mr Bryant doesn’t even seem interested. It’s like he thinks he’s above the law.”
“I understand your concerns. You must bear in mind that no fingerprints other than the victims’ have been found at any of the three crime scenes. Still, sometimes Mr Bryant fails to respect the fact that criminology is a modern science.”
Bryant was keeping quiet. He had known this moment was coming, had seen it in the boy’s disillusioned eyes.
“I’m sure Mr Bryant does not consider himself above the law,” May continued. “His mind just takes him off the beaten track.”
“Think about why this case came to us,” suggested Bryant, relishing Biddle’s discomfort. “Does it appear to involve any of the elements present in your college case histories? Domestic violence, burglary, spousal assault, alcohol-related crime, pick-pocketing, grand larceny?”
“No, sir.”
“You see, Biddle, our cases get prioritized for the wrong reasons: they have a higher profile, meaning there’s an influential relative somewhere in the background, or there’s a more complex political element involved, or they’re a publicity risk, or they’re against the public mood. Most importantly, they’re cases that can cause damage to public morale during a time of conflict. Thanks to Hitler, we are no longer living in a world that cares about the death of someone because they were loved in the past. It cares only if that death can do damage to the future. It’s a grim truth, Sidney. Like Orpheus leaving Hades, we are rushing headlong into the light of a terrible new world.
“There is a way of providing accountability, though. You get a grant from the Home Office to run an autonomous unit like this, one that siphons off the publicly embarrassing cases during wartime and takes the heat, and you head it up with men whose operations run so contrary to traditional methodology that once in a while they produce the goods. That’s what everyone’s baying for now, the press, the state, they’re only interested in culpability. Take a look at the witch-hunting that’s going on out there, most of it whipped up by rumour and conjecture. We lump everyone we don’t like in with the Germans, most of whom are probably as decent as you or me, and God help you if you disagree, because you’ll be tarred and feathered along with them.” Bryant fumbled about in his waistcoat for some matches. “Tell me, Sidney, are you aware of the recent troubles in Greece?”
“Greece?” Biddle looked thrown. “No, sir.”
“Last week some British soldiers got into a fight on a border checkpoint that they had no right to be on in the first place. It ended up with a local man being tortured and killed. The man was a Greek national suspected of collaborating with the Italians. When that happened, his family was shipped off and his private property was seized. The victim was probably innocent, but he was travelling without the right papers, and had bribed our boys to let him through. The British ambassador to Greece extradited the men, and the blame for the death was placed on an extremist Turkish national group. There have been quite a few violent incidents in Greece inspired by Turkish national activity, and relations between the two countries are poor. Meanwhile, we have a British building programme going on in Istanbul. Is this starting to make sense to you?”
Biddle stared furiously at his hands. “No, it isn’t.”
“Let me spell it out. The
