“Perhaps the murderer tried to get the needle in once, and Jacob struggled so much that he had to jab it in again.”
“But he’d been rendered unconscious before the administration of the poison.”
May raised his hands in exasperation. “Then maybe the killer wanted it to look like a snake had attacked his victim.”
“Why would he do that?” asked Bryant doggedly. “Snakes aren’t exactly a common sight in England.”
“As for the rest of the findings, take a look at the headlines. The press seems to know as much as we do. The guard on Peter Whitstable will keep the journalists at bay for the time being.” May frowned in annoyance. “Why do you want the window open, anyway? It’s freezing outside.”
“I didn’t want it open,” replied Bryant testily. “I wanted the option of having it open. There are about twenty layers of paint on the frame. It’s like seaside rock.” He pointed at the crate blocking May’s path to his desk. “That’s the last one I have to unpack.”
May knew that his partner would not settle to a comfortable work pace until he had made the new office his own in some way. He reached down into the opened crate and pulled up a bony brown object inlaid with silver. Turquoise gems returned sight to its eyeless sockets. “Where on earth did you get this?” he asked, turning it over in his hand.
“A friend of mine brought it back from Tibet,” explained Bryant. “It’s an engraved human skull. So long as the Chinese government is systematically destroying Tibetan culture, it stays on the shelf to remind me of the evil and injustice in the world.”
“You only have to take a look at the overnight crime figures to be reminded of that,” said May, holding the skull at arm’s length. “It smells terrible.”
“I don’t think they emptied out the brain cavity properly.”
May watched his partner as he carefully unwrapped a china figurine, a woman dancing in a delicate green dress, and placed it on his desk. It was strange being part of a team again. Arthur wasn’t looking so steady on his feet these days. He seemed to be ageing at a faster rate than everyone else.
“Who’s interviewing the brother, you or I?”
“I’ll take Peter Whitstable,” said Bryant. “He’s a major, fully decorated and highly respected. Let’s hope he’s capable of providing an explanation for his sibling’s behaviour. They’re all inbred, you know. Old families never strayed far from the family seat to marry. You can always tell; their eyes are too close together and they like folk music.”
Sergeant Longbright entered the room with a small plastic bag in one hand. Her shift had finished four hours late, at three a.m. Thick make-up hid the crescents beneath her eyes.
“I’m sorry you were pulled in on your day off, Janice,” said May. “Raymond Land is worried that this investigation will get too much of a public profile. He’s canceled all leave for the foreseeable future.”
“That’s okay, I was only sleeping.” If she was annoyed, she had no intention of showing it. She dropped the bag on May’s desk and displayed its tag. “Land came by a few minutes ago and left this for you.” She sniffed the air. “What’s that awful smell?”
“You’ll have to talk to Mr Bryant about that. Wasn’t there a message with it?” May held the bag to the light. Tiny metal shards glittered within, like crystal formations.
“He said he’d call once you’d had a chance to examine it.”
“Is Land based here full time?” asked Bryant.
“I’m afraid so, old bean. He has the office right at the end of the hall.” Raymond Land was a reasonably talented forensic scientist, but his meticulous manner and air of superiority did little to endear him to his colleagues. He was particularly irritated by Bryant, whose elliptical, unorthodox approach to investigations infuriated him. Land had been chasing promotion for some time, and had been appointed acting head of the PCU, a position he had most definitely not wanted.
May unzipped the plastic bag and carefully shook out its contents. He separated the curving slivers of gold with his forefinger. “What do you make of this, Arthur?”
Bryant searched in his drawer for a magnifier and approached the metal splinters. “Looks like old gold. Victorian, I should say. Much purer than the stuff you buy these days. Quite red, and very soft. There are some markings…” He slid one of the pieces beneath the magnifier and turned up the light. “Roman numerals. Calibrations of some kind? I’ve seen something like this before.”
“Could be pieces of a pendant,” suggested May.
“No, it’s something more technical. One of these fragments isn’t gold. Looks like good-quality silver.” He turned the metal over in his hand. “There’s a tiny hinge on one side. It’s the lid of an enamel container.” The telephone rang. “That’ll be Land. He’s been sitting at his desk timing you.”
“Well, John, what do you think?” asked Land, speaking too loudly into the mouthpiece.
“I’m not sure. Where did you get it?”
“Finch removed the pieces from your man, the exploded Whitstable. They weren’t inside his stomach to begin with; the force of the blast drove them in. I assume it’s part of the bomb casing.”
“Tell him it’s not,” said Bryant in a loud stage whisper. He held one of the gold shards between his thumb and forefinger. “Give me the phone.”
May passed the receiver over.
“Hello?” Bryant shouted back. “This is from a small gold clock. The kind made for a presentation.”
“That’s ridiculous,” replied Land. “You don’t build a bomb out of precious metals.”
“Why not? Craftsmen of the nineteenth century inlaid everything with elaborate metalwork.”
“It’s 1973, Bryant,” snapped Land.
“I’m aware of that. Still, I’d like you to spectrum-test the shards for chemical residue.”
“I really don’t see what use – ”
“No, but I do,” said Bryant rudely. “If you would be so kind.” He hung up.
“I won’t have many friends left around here by the time you’ve finished,” said May. “Let’s find out if Peter Whitstable has anything more to say.” They had taken a statement from the Major immediately after his brother’s death, but he had been too upset to be of help to them. Now it was time for some answers.
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
9
Losing Light
Nearly a week had passed since she had witnessed the murder, but Jerry could still feel death on her hands. She turned them over in the light, trying to remember where the blood had stippled the whorls of her fingertips, attempting to recall the exact spot on the carpet where the old man had taken his final breath.
“I wonder how the police knew it was foul play,” she said aloud, studying the brown leather armchair from her place behind the reception desk.
“It wasn’t any such thing,” said Nicholas. Jerry’s obsession was beginning to bore him. It was bad enough that he had been forced to take a Saturday shift with her, but with Common Market delegates arriving in force, everyone was working overtime. “The police don’t have any idea what happened. There was an expose of their incompetence in the
“It wouldn’t work though, would it? There’s been too much publicity already. The truth will have to come out eventually.” With the fallout from Watergate engulfing the presidency on the other side of the Atlantic, everyone was looking for conspiracies.
“I suppose it will, so long as you’re alive to talk about it,” said Nicholas. “There’s another batch of delegates being greeted at twelve-thirty. Leaders of emerging nations. A lot of unusual headgear, the national anthem played on logs, that sort of thing. You’ll have to check them in by yourself because I’ll be off duty by then.” He smoothed a long curl of blond hair back in place and returned to his bookkeeping.
“If it wasn’t murder,” she persisted, “why haven’t they taken the police seal off Jacob’s room?”
“They have.” Nicholas looked up from his paperwork, exasperated. “We’re putting someone in there today.”
