Bryant & May 03; Seventy-Seven Clocks

The line went dead. Jerry replaced the receiver, puzzled. At least she had located the Bible’s owner. She considered informing Mr May, just in case there was any trouble, but decided against it. The voice had belonged to an old man. She could handle it. She rose from the armchair and rubbed warmth into her arms, wondering what on earth she was doing.

¦

Mayberry Grove was a cul-de-sac filled with solid Victorian red-brick houses hidden behind swathes of greenery; miniature castles built by confident men whose minds could not imagine the twilight of the empire. As Jerry approached the house she was surprised to find an unfriendly-looking police constable standing in the front garden.

“I’ve an appointment to see Mr Whitstable,” she said cheerfully, pushing back the wet gate. Having been given no information to the contrary, she was still guessing that the name was correct.

“Oh, yes? And who are you, then?” The constable was not that much older than she, but had already developed an antagonistic attitude.

“I spoke to Mr Whitstable last night. I’m returning something that belongs to him.”

“He can’t have visitors.” The constable rocked back on wide polished boots and gave the top of his walkie- talkie a wipe. “Give it to me and I’ll make sure that he gets it.”

“He told me I should give it to him myself.”

“Not possible, lovey.” He gave a dim smile and shifted his gaze away as if he had sighted something in the middle distance. Jerry was just about to argue when the front door burst open and there stood a florid-faced man in an ill-fitting checked suit and crooked tie. He seemed vaguely familiar, and was arguing with a second constable, who had appeared at his side from somewhere within the hall.

“I don’t give a damn what your superior officer says,” shouted Peter Whitstable. “It’s where I’ve been once a fortnight ever since the end of World War Two, and no blasted low-ranking officer is going to stop me now.”

“Then you must allow someone to accompany you,” reasoned the officer, trying to keep pace as they marched down the garden path. “It may not be safe for you to go out.”

“I am well aware of that,” snapped the Major, whirling on the young officer. “D’you think I should change my life for the sake of some cowardly assassin who can’t show his face in the light? Is that what my brother went to his death for? Is that the spirit that made this country great? Never, Sir! I shall face up to the foe with a strong heart and a…” He forgot what the other thing was, and switched metaphors, “…Spring in my step,” he finished vaguely, pushing the second constable from his guard duty at the gate. “And what’s more, I shall be back within the hour.” He slipped the latch and passed into the street.

“For God’s sake go after him, Kenworth,” said the first policeman. “If we lose him there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Where is he going?” asked Jerry, looking toward the rapidly retreating figure.

“For a haircut,” the officer replied, throwing his hands up helplessly. “The Major’s a possible murder target, and he has to go to the Strand just for a bloody haircut.”

¦

Jerry caught up with the Major in an alleyway leading into Haverstock Hill. The younger constable was trailing a hundred yards or so behind them, pausing only to listen to the crackle from his handset. Peter Whitstable reached the main road and turned in the direction of Belsize Park. Jerry hung back, dipping into the doorway of a chemist’s as the Major looked back at the corner. So the man they were following was being kept under surveillance because his brother had been killed? A second death, separate from Jacob’s? This was too bizarre to be ignored. Major Whitstable’s life couldn’t really be in danger, otherwise the police would have put him in protective custody, wouldn’t they? What if the old man wasn’t going to his barber at all? What if he was about to give them all the slip? Perhaps the police had deliberately let him out to see where he would head.

Perhaps they were just incompetent.

Because now the Major had sidled between the stalled traffic on the hill and was heading into another of the still-misty alleys on the far side of the road. Jerry glanced back, and saw that the constable had missed the move. It was a good job one of them had been watching. As the traffic lights flicked to amber, universal British driving code for ‘pedal to the metal’, she darted between revving engines to the opposite pavement and ran into the alley. All she saw was the usual collection of effete Hampstead stores selling Provence potpourris and patchwork cats. No barbershop.

At the end of the passage she could hear the throb of a taxicab, and she ran forward just in time to see the Major’s ample rear disappearing into the vehicle. By the time she had reached the kerb, the cab had pulled away, U-turning past her as it headed down the hill. She passed the befuddled constable, who was shouting into his squawking handset.

Where would someone like the Major still be able to have his hair cut in such a severe military style? She was trying to think of as many places as possible when she remembered the constable’s complaint: his charge insisted on visiting the Strand. There was only one place he could possibly be heading for. Jerry flagged down an empty cab and leaned in at the window.

“The Savoy, please. As quickly as possible.”

“Right you are, love.”

In less than ten minutes they were pulling up beneath the shining metal letters of the hotel entrance. The steel canopy on the front of the building always reminded her of a Rolls-Royce grille. The barber shop within was timeless and traditional, just right for a man of the Major’s appearance.

Inside, the foyer was already crowded with newly arrived delegates for the Common Market conference, due to start in Whitehall this morning. Jerry made her way through the groups, ignoring Nicholas’s puzzled look as she headed upstairs to the barber shop. There, within a gentlemen’s world of white-tiled walls, stainless-steel fittings, and chrome-trimmed leather shaving chairs, she knew there was a chance of locating her quarry. And perhaps he could be persuaded to explain the link between a Victorian Bible and a dead lawyer.

¦

One question had occupied Peter Whitstable’s mind since the police had informed him that his brother was dead. How could it have happened? How? These days, of course, they had many enemies. That was only to be expected. The world was changing so quickly. There was no time left for chivalry or honour. The war had seen to that. What was the point of trying to do the decent thing when your adversaries seized the moment to steal a march on you? He had always loved his brother dearly, but the sad fact was that poor William had lost touch with the modern world.

As the taxi left the Aldwych he saw the homeless wrapped in cartons of corrugated cardboard and thought, My God, there are people actually sleeping in the streets again. What had their high ideals done for these people, and the thousands like them who arrived at the stations looking for a city that would somehow work miracles? In a hundred years, nothing had changed. The city’s underclass comprised men and women of good intent, people who had been systematically robbed of their ideas and their self-worth as they were forced to the gutter by their masters.

Major Whitstable’s eyes were blinded by tears as the cab turned into Savoy Street. He kept his head turned from the driver as he paid the fare. Bad morale for the servants, he thought from habit, then remembered; there were no more servants. We are all equal now. Try telling that to the kids in the shop doorways, he thought as he walked through the congested foyer of the hotel. The damaged, the disenfranchised, the teen runaways – the other people – were just blank faces to the well-heeled guests here. How dare they look in on a world to which they had no claim? We are all equal now, he thought bitterly, if you don’t count the judges and landowners and politicians and diplomats. If you don’t count families like ours.

He ascended the curving stairway and opened the glass door at the top. The smell of fresh soap and hot towels restored his humour a little. Surprisingly for a Monday morning there were no other customers, and even Maurice seemed absent. A barber he had never seen before was honing an open razor on an umber leather strap.

“Good morning, Major,” said the man cheerily. On second glance, perhaps he had seen him before. The brilliantined hair combed across the tanned bald patch and the tiny waxed moustache were certainly familiar, but this chap seemed to be wearing make-up. The barber’s face was painted an unsubtle shade of chalk, and the colour ended at his brown neck. How odd.