“We have to put out a call and bring Whitstable in. He can’t get far dressed like that.”
“Or perhaps a large Courvoisier,” continued Bryant. “He said he had to make it known that their ranks were broken. And what was all that about nature bursting the bonds of art?”
“I don’t know. It sounded like a quote. That’s your department.”
“It doesn’t ring any bells, but my memory isn’t what it was.”
“Let’s hope your investigative powers are intact. We have our work cut out for us.”
¦
On Friday morning, Bryant moved the last of his possessions to the new unit above Mornington Crescent station. As most of his friends were operating double shifts to cope with the criminal fraternity’s run-up to Christmas, there was no time for a farewell drink, party, or presentation from grateful colleagues. Bryant left the office with a parcel of belongings under his arm, feeling more like a prisoner leaving his cell than a transferring officer of the law.
“You’ve an interview with the junior arts minister at ten,” said May as his partner entered the new PCU for the first time. “We’ll have to move some of this stuff if you’re going to base yourself here.” He clambered between the enormous typewriters that still lined the hallways of the unit.
“Just find me a quiet corner to sit,” said Bryant. “All I need for the moment is a notepad and a telephone.”
“You’ll require your own electric typewriter.” May indicated the IBM on his desk, knowing full well that although Bryant had attended a typing course, he steadfastly refused to operate any technical equipment more complex than a fountain pen.
“I hardly think so, John. I blew up the last one.” Bryant removed his overcoat and began to peel off a variety of woollen layers. “If I’d known it was electric, I’d have been more careful about where I set my soup. Why is it so cold in here?”
“We haven’t managed to connect the central heating yet. I’ll get you a bar radiator.”
“How Dickensian. Right, I’ll settle here.” Bryant slapped the back of a chair and sat, staring straight ahead, his hands in front of him.
“Wait a minute, this is my office,” began May, alarmed.
“You said we could share. You obviously have the best street view, and you can work various bits of electric gadgetry for me on the rare occasions I require their services.”
“But Arthur, I like to spread things around. You’re too tidy for me. You alphabetize your toxicology manuals.”
“I’ll have to put up with your vile habits, too. Cleaning your nails while thinking aloud, I know what you’re like. It’ll be good for you to have someone in here to bounce ideas off.”
May regretted his offer. He knew that after a few weeks he’d be wanting to bounce more tangible items off his partner. Bryant was searching around for a wall socket. “I hope you don’t object to music?”
“Not the Mendelssohn,” groaned May. “It must be worn out by now.”
“It helps me to think. Perhaps you could find me a three-pin plug. Do we have anyone assisting us?”
He had obviously acclimatized himself to the office. There was nothing for May to do but accept it. “An old friend,” he replied. “Janice Longbright. She’s sitting outside.”
“I thought she went off to get married?”
“It fell through again. Ian asked her to choose between a husband and a career. Better not say anything about it.”
Bryant straightened the huge knot in his tie and stuck his head outside the door. “Janice? What are you doing here? I thought you were going to live in a big country house and have lots of babies.”
“No, I was going to live in a one-bedroom flat with a Labrador and a man who’s never home before ten. I thought I’d get more regular meals if I came back to work.” The sergeant gave him a bone-cracking hug which left lipstick on his collar. “Your ten o’clock appointment is already here. I thought you’d probably want to get settled in, so I told him you were in a meeting. Said you’d be free for just a few minutes.”
Bryant smiled approvingly. Just as her mother had been before her, Janice Longbright was the kind of female officer he loved: strong, decisive, and not easily prone to emotion. Inevitably, her personal life had been subordinated to her work. His admiration for her had grown with the passing years, although he was careful not to show it.
“The arts wallah? Let him in, will you?” He grabbed May by the sleeve as he attempted to slip out of the office. “I’d like you to sit in on this, John.”
“We’re sharing the room, not individual cases. I’m down for witness interviews on the Max Jacob death this morning.”
“You don’t need to be there for that, do you? Just give me twenty minutes. Have you had the pleasure of Mr Faraday before?”
“I don’t think so.”
“The government’s most pedantic civil servant, which is saying something, a professional junior-status minister, but curiously useful for all that. In a brief and unillustrious career he’s been shunted all over Whitehall. First he was minister of snow, and managed to bring the roadgritters out on strike. Then he was appointed minister of sport, and sparked off a race riot by inviting a white South African paramilitary leader to a Brixton Jail cricket match – ”
“Then how is he useful?”
“Simple. He never forgets anything.”
A pudgy young man with slicked sandy hair appeared before them. Shaking his hand was like removing wet laundry from a washing machine. His brown suit was expensive but badly cut, so that his trouser bottoms were accordioned over his shoes. It would have been hard to imagine a man less interested in any branch of the arts.
“Leslie Faraday,” announced the minister. “We met two years ago, didn’t we, Mr Bryant? August seventh, I think it was, nice and sunny but it clouded over in the afternoon. I read about you in the paper last year, cracking secret codes in a multiple-murder case. The
Sweat was beading on Faraday’s pale forehead despite the chill in the room.
“What can we do for you, Mr Faraday?” asked Bryant, anxious to short-circuit the minister’s recollections.
“It’s about this vandalized picture, the Watermark thing. I know it was painted by an Englishman but the Aussies seem to own it now and they’re bloody furious, and not because it was worth a bob or two. To tell the truth, this is a relatively new field for me. I don’t go much for your modern arty-farty types. It’s not painting, it’s exhibitionism. They’re very good at building thirty-foot-high plaster models of their private parts but ask them to paint a decent duck in flight and see where it gets you. The trouble with artists is they’re not businessmen. What’s so awful about giving the public what they want? We don’t all have to like The Beatles.”
May seated himself on a corner of the desk and watched, fascinated, as Faraday dabbed at his leaking brow with a handkerchief.
“The Waterhouse painting,” prompted Bryant, as the tea arrived.
“Yes, it seems that there’s rather a lot at stake here,” explained the minister. “Is that tea mine? Nice and hot, jolly good. As you know, the paintings were loaned against the wishes of the Australian government, whose talks concerning the return of aboriginal artefacts from the Museum of Mankind have stalemated. Her Majesty’s Government isn’t prepared to negotiate for their return because a precedent would be set, and we already have our hands full with the Greeks. Certain aboriginal items were placed on display years ago as part of what has become a highly disputed permanent exhibition. Just some old mud masks, nothing to get excited about. I remember seeing them on a school field trip. Rained all day, although it brightened in the evening as I recall. This chap Carreras is bellyaching and threatening to boycott the Common Market conference. Now, I understand that the painting can’t be restored, but the next best thing is to find the culprit as quickly as possible.”
“We already know who he is,” said May.
“You do?” Faraday grew visibly agitated. “Then why on earth hasn’t he been arrested?”
“I am hopeful that he will be within the next few hours.”
