arches in London.”
“You realize this could be an entirely separate attack,” said Land. “Have you considered that, or are you just shoehorning it into your current investigation?”
“It seems unlikely that the Whitstables are being targeted from more than one direction. Daisy’s kidnap must be connected. Her dry clothes suggest she was dropped off under the arch, so that she could be found alive.” May shifted to avoid the fountains of smoke funneling from Land’s flaring nostrils.
“I’ve had nothing from you or your partner in two days,” Land reminded him. “Instead of constructive reports all I get is a list of complaints, first from the Whitstables about your unhelpful attitude and the non-advancement of the case, and then from that whingeing twerp of an arts minister who just wants us to shove the whole thing in a file marked
May had seen the look on Raymond’s face before, a look of panic under pressure that could only bring more trouble. He was begging for something to release to the media, but how could they help him? They had nothing so far that would stand up as substantive evidence.
Earlier that morning, Bryant had hesitantly described his discovery at the V&A. May could imagine Land’s reaction when he informed him that their only suspect was a man who had been dead for nearly a hundred years.
“Bloody cold out,” said Bryant, suddenly breezing in behind his superior. “Oh, hello, Raymond, what are the barbarians doing at the gates of Rome?”
“What?” asked Land, momentarily non-plussed.
“Journalists.” Bryant waved his hand at the window. “They’re everywhere, bullying receipts out of taxi drivers, crawling all over the place shouting their heads off.”
“Daisy’s been found, Arthur,” said May quietly. “She’s alive, barely. They took her into St Thomas’s a few hours ago.” He recounted the preliminary findings of the admitting doctor.
“I need to know if you have anything for me,” said Land. “Whatever I tell the press can’t be worse than what they’re capable of making up. I can’t afford to alienate them any further.”
“It’s a little late to worry about that now,” said Bryant. “They’ve been accusing us of incompetence for the past fortnight. I suppose John must have mentioned our new lead.”
“I’ve been explaining that we’re following a new line of inquiry,” said May, signaling silence to his partner, “but that we’re not quite ready to present it.”
“What line of inquiry is this?” asked Land, confused. “If you’re keeping anything back from me – ” Just then the office door reopened and the two workmen entered armed with cans and buckets. Land turned to glare at them. “Christ on a bike, do they have to be here all the time?”
“We do if you want these offices finished,” said the older of the two workmen. “We pack up on Friday for ten days. It’s Christmas, mate. Do you know how many layers of paint we’ve still got to strip off before we can do your sills?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Land, grinding out his cigarette and rising.
“At least we’re making good use of our time,” said the younger workman. “Leave it to the working classes to handle all the shitty jobs. At least we’ve got a sense of duty.”
“Yeah,” agreed his mate. “Try catching a few criminals instead of telling taxpayers where they can’t park.”
“I can’t delay speaking to the Home Office any longer. I’m going to tell them that this whole thing will be wrapped up by the end of the week,” said Land, heedless of the breach in security represented by the listening workmen. “And I’ll say the same thing at the press briefing if I have to.”
“Why not give them a hypothetical sequence of events?” asked May. “Release plenty of facts and figures, all the exact times and dates we’ve held back, and let them draw their own conclusions. There can’t be any harm in that. They might even be able to help us.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” agreed Land, a little mollified. “You’d better talk to them. If you can’t arrest anyone, at least you can come up with a plausible explanation as to how this whole damned mess occurred. We must explain that whatever triggered these attacks is finally over and done with.”
“He’s going to try and shove it all under the carpet,” said Bryant after the door had shut. “Wait and see.” He unwound his ratty scarf and dropped it on to a chair. “Four deaths and an abduction, and he doesn’t care about getting to the truth so long as he keeps himself off the hook.”
“He’s panicking because someone’s pressuring him to put a lid on the whole business,” said May. Understandably, the kidnapping of a child was a highly emotive issue, and the media would wring every last drop of coverage from it. Until now, the biggest story of December had been how Bourne and Hollingsworth were stocking up on candles and oil lamps, ready for the strike blackouts.
“It’s a government cover-up, innit?” said one of the workmen. “Stands to reason. Just like Jack the Ripper.”
“Thank you, Fabian of the Yard,” said Bryant, surveying the mess beyond his desk. Half of the office was now a sickly hospital green, which the workmen were scraping off to reveal orange lincrusta wallpaper from the 1930s.
“This room is starting to make me feel sick,” said May, tossing his partner’s hat over to him. “Let’s go.”
“But I’ve only just come in,” complained Bryant. “It’s thick fog outside.”
“It’s not much better in here,” replied May, noting the filled ashtray that Land had left behind. “Come on. We’ll slip out the back and I’ll buy you a pint over the road.”
“It’s much too early for me.”
“We have to talk where no one can find us.”
The saloon bar of the Nun and Broken Compass was mercifully deserted. Only the disgusting dog that lay half in the fireplace ceased clawing clumps of hair from its ears to briefly register their arrival.
“Two days to make a breakthrough,” said May, returning from the bar with pints of Bishop’s Finger. “The chances of wrapping the whole thing up in forty-eight hours are pretty slim. The city’s already half empty. Have you found out anything more on James Whitstable’s group?” Bryant’s first appointment of the morning had been to conduct further research on the Alliance of Eternal Light.
“Only that his family denies any knowledge of his activities,” said Bryant, relishing his first sip of beer. “There was a biography of him written in the twenties but the British Library has no record of it, so Janice is searching through private collections.”
“Everything about this case is upside-down,” complained May. “We eliminate all the suspects, only to resort to digging through the past. None of the traditional investigative methods work, and any evidence that turns up seems to appear entirely by accident.”
Just then the door opened and Sergeant Longbright stuck her head into the saloon bar. “Mr Bryant, there you are. Your friend Mr Summerfield called. He wants to see you urgently. He says he’s made some kind of discovery.”
¦
The Triumph 250 sat beneath a dripping plane tree, its engine quickly cooling. Joseph slid from the pillion and massaged his rump as Jerry kicked up the stand. She had managed to borrow the motorcycle from a school friend.
“You haven’t given me an answer,” Joseph said, shoving his sweater further into his jeans. “What are you going to say when she opens the door?”
“I’ll figure something out. I could introduce you as the photographer who works with me. She’s the only lead I have and she certainly knows more than she’s told me so far.”
Jerry checked her watch. Nearly nine-thirty p.m. The street behind them was shrouded and silent. The lights were on in Peggy Harmsworth’s house, but they had no proof that she was even home.
“I don’t see how you expect to extract any more information from her without arousing suspicion. Nobody makes business calls at this hour.” Joseph pulled the sleeves of his leather jacket over his hands. The freezing fog had turned the overhead branches crystalline. This was no night for them to be standing around outside. Seen through the saffron aureoles of the surrounding streetlamps, the Holly Lodge Estate took on the unreality of a film
