‘caretaking’ duties within the AMIPs. This left the division with a single acting superintendent, Raymond Land; two sergeants, of whom Janice Longbright was one; and an inadequate foot-force.
Their second problem was one of time. The first seventy-two hours following a homicide were the most vital. At the end of three days, a strong sense was gained of whether the case would be solved quickly or not. This time had elapsed, in the cases of Max Jacob and William Whitstable, without any agreement on motive, opportunity, or circumstantial evidence. Little had been established beyond the fact that these were three cases of unlawful homicide, with malice a forethought. Now the detectives realized that they were in for a long haul. Consequently, they decided to divide chores according to each other’s specific talents.
Bryant was to question Bella Whitstable about her brothers, while May spent time with the forensic team appointed to the case. The properties of all three victims were now in the process of being searched and catalogued, and Jacob’s family was being questioned for the second time. Witness statements were correlated by Longbright, who added them to the growing paperwork at Mornington Crescent.
Faraday, the junior arts minister, had called twice to find out why no arrests had been made, and an expert from the National Gallery had sent a detailed report on the problems that would beset anyone attempting a restoration of the damaged Waterhouse painting.
Forensic information was starting to arrive on Major Peter Whitstable’s death, but no one could spare the time to match it to the rest of the investigation. Their personnel situation was scandalous, May reflected. Worse still, their detractors in the Met might well have arranged for it to become so.
Equally frustrating was the fact that it was impossible to find time to follow up this morning’s suggestion by the
¦
When he arrived at the morgue, May found Oswald Finch tabling results from his autopsy on William’s younger brother into the Grundig tape recorder that sat on his bench. The air in the white-tiled room was chilled and antiseptic, but could not hide the chemical smell that accompanied the clinical study of death.
“I’m glad you came back.” Finch rose to offer a thin, clammy hand. “How are you getting on with your snake man?”
“Not very well,” admitted May. “It would help if they could get a few readable fibres from him.” Forensics had searched all three corpses, but had failed to find any common substance matches. Quite the reverse, in fact; they had come up with hairs and skin flakes from several different people. It seemed obvious that the murders were linked, but so far they had found no way of proving it.
“Arthur thinks the methods of death are symbolic,” said May. “They’re intended to have a theatrical effect. Why else would anyone go to so much trouble?”
“Your partner always seems disappointed when he hears of anyone dying a natural death,” said Finch, crossing to the banks of steel drawers set in the far wall. “In Jacob’s case I suppose you could be looking at suicide. It’s possible that the wound was self-inflicted. It would explain why he calmly returned to his seat and continued reading the paper. Your bomb man could have been an Accidental. He might conceivably have triggered his own device by mistake. Something has cropped up that I thought you’d be interested in.” He unlocked a drawer and rolled it out, deftly unzipping the plastic bag in which the remains of Peter Whitstable were housed. “This one was more like an execution than an assault.”
“What do you mean?” May attempted to avoid looking at the dry, broad slashes on the major’s throat and the split wounds to his mouth.
“If the attack had resulted from an altercation, that is to say was motivated by sudden anger, I would have expected to find a fair bit of damage to the face, and defence marks. But you say no cries were heard outside the barber shop. His attacker could have armed himself with any number of sharp instruments, but he chose the razor. He was very fast, with powerful strokes through the vocal cords here, across the throat. This chap had no time to struggle. Swift and efficient. And then there’s this.”
He thumbed open the inside of the corpse’s upper arm and shone his pocket torch on the exposed flesh.
“As we’re dealing with a lifelong military man, I wasn’t surprised to find that he had a tattoo,” said Finch. “It’s the placing of it that’s odd. I’ve never seen one on the inside of an arm before. It’s only a few centimetres below the armpit. No one would ever see it.”
John May found himself looking at a familiar aquamarine smudge. The flickering flame symbol was the same as the one he had found on William Whitstable’s cane.
“Did you find this on either of the others?”
“No, only on the Major. Probably has military significance. There must be a way of finding out what it means.”
“Yes,” May agreed, all too aware that he could spare no one for the task. “If the newspapers are to be believed, we’re under attack from modern-day Nazis. The journalists are securing information faster than we are.”
¦
“I don’t know where to begin,” said Bella Whitstable, standing in the angled corridor of her brothers’ attic. “I doubt either of them could remember what had been stored up here.” Judging by her neat make-up and smart appearance, she had passed a good night. She certainly hadn’t sat up for hours crying.
“There are some ceremonial robes,” said Bryant, removing the mahogany box and unlocking it. “Perhaps you know what they represent.” He had a good idea himself, but he wanted confirmation.
“Oh, that’s easy,” said Bella, removing the blue silk gown and holding it to the light. “It’s William’s guild robe. Peter has one as well. Most of the men in our family do.”
“What kind of guild does this represent?” He peered into the box and removed an ermine-trimmed collar. He expected to find a heavy gold chain somewhere, and here it was at the bottom of the box.
“It’s part of the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths. We’re a craft guild family. That’s originally where the Whitstables made their money. Gold and silver. Our ancestors can be traced back to the foundation of the guild in 1339.”
Bryant knew a little about the ancient network of guilds that still operated a system of patronage, performing charitable works within the city. Their apprenticeship schools had once been open to all, but were about to become private. Kids from backgrounds such as his would no longer be welcome.
“Did William and Peter still keep up their contacts, attend meetings, that sort of thing?”
“I doubt it. Neither of them was particularly sociable. My brothers were always too suspicious of others to make many friends. It wasn’t much fun growing up with them.”
“So there’s no chance that their deaths might have resulted from some past transgression.” His fingers traced the stitched livery on the robe.
“I don’t think that’s very likely, Mr Bryant. Our business has always been rather bloodless. We’ve never had much trouble from competition.”
For a moment he’d had a vision of the ageing guild members quarrelling over a fraudulent deal, a distant betrayal. The arcane circumstances of the deaths somehow seemed to fit.
“I have to leave soon,” said Bella. “I’m meeting my Savoyards at seven.”
“I should come with you,” said Bryant. “You say this society is connected with Gilbert and Sullivan?”
“Indeed,” said Bella. “We’re attending the new production of
How could he have forgotten? Ken Russell’s new version of this work had received praise at its previews. Bryant had promised to buy himself a ticket, but the events of the last week had ended any thoughts of leisure.
“I’m sure we’ll be able to find you a spare seat,” Bella told the pleased detective.
¦
Fans were arriving beneath the illuminated globe of the English National Opera, London’s largest theatre. The purists still attended the Royal Opera House, but there was a sense of fun about the ENO. It was one of Bryant’s guilty pleasures to attend the productions here, although May would have hated finding himself in such a middle- aged audience. His partner welcomed the company of the young, and was always prepared to listen to their opinions.
