outside the main gate?”
The detectives were attending a prayer-giving for Daisy Whitstable at St Peter’s Church, Highgate. They had returned to the nearby vault where Peggy Harmsworth had been attacked, to take another look at the scene of the attack. The forensic team had finished their work, but the area was still closed off to the public. The site was attracting ghoulish observers. They pressed against the railings, pointing out the crypt to each other.
Although the outside of the family vault was overgrown with ferns, the white marble interior was clean and well tended. Eight members of the Whitstable family were buried here, as well as Peggy’s husband. Each was sealed behind a small door marked with a brass plaque, and every door was fitted with a brass holder containing a single white flower. Behind them the wedged-open portal flushed staleness from the tomb with loamy morning air.
“I must say it’s not the kind of behaviour you expect from a respectable middle-aged woman,” said Bryant, eyeing the vault wall.
“Who can tell these days?” replied his partner, looking around. “Especially with this family.” A routine check had turned up a police file for Peggy Harmsworth. Four years earlier she had been convicted for possession of cocaine. Yesterday, several grams of white powder had been found in one of the brass holders within the vault. Wary of keeping drugs at home, it seemed that Peggy had been in the habit of stashing her supply in the nearby family mausoleum. Little did she know that by the 1980s, dinnerparty guests would happily be racking it across their coffee tables.
“She’d arranged to meet a friend for drinks on Wednesday night,” said May, his smartly combed hair ruffling against the low ceiling. “She stopped off to collect the drug on the way. There was an empty vial in her purse. But her supply had been doctored. Either Denjhi forced her to take the new mixture, or she couldn’t wait for a taste.”
“Longbright says Forensics are getting conflicting results,” said Bryant, peering into each of the holders in turn. “Did you see the list they’ve turned up so far? Atropine, meadow saffron, panther mushroom, betel-nut seed. There are other strains they haven’t yet identified. Nobody seems to know what the combined effect might be. Do you think she’s going to be all right?”
“I don’t know. It sounds like a pretty lethal mix.”
“I’ve been trying to fathom out the sequence of events. See how this sounds. It begins with Max Jacob being summoned to London by his old friend and client, Peter Whitstable. Peter wants Jacob to oversee the removal of the Japanese from the Savoy deal. He’s earmarked the theatre for his prestige charity, CROWET. Peter is determined to own the theatre. He resorts to subterfuge, arranging to have one of the heads of the Tasaka Corporation compromised. The number 216 is written in Jacob’s diary, the number of the hotel room where the incriminating blackmail material will be held.
Jacob is the go-between in this little blackmail plot; perhaps he’s acted for Peter before in a similar capacity. He arrives at the hotel, but there’s a mix-up. He’s given the wrong room. And before he can sort out the situation, he is killed.”
“But the photographs still find their target,” said May.
“Indeed.” Arthur folded his scarf beneath his bottom and seated himself on a shadowed bench. “Someone gets into the room and removes the pictures in a hurry, leaving one behind. We have Miss Gates’s evidence to support that. The compromised businessman is exposed and the buyout collapses.”
“Jacob was murdered
“True. The Bible found by Jerry in Max Jacob’s room belonged to William Whitstable. Perhaps it was a gift, or the lawyer was returning it. Jacob was Jewish, so we must assume that the Bible had symbolic value only. The highlighting of all those passages to do with light and dark suggests some deeper significance.”
“I’d forgotten about that,” May admitted. He glanced down at his watch. “The service is due to start.”
Below them, the pale city lay in gathering frosty fog. Arthur was gazing off at the horizon, his thoughts unreadable. “We’re inches away from losing everything we’ve ever worked for,” he said. “It will mean the end of both our careers. The Inspectorate can appoint a fullscale inquiry into our methods. We could even face criminal charges.”
“The case will go somewhere else, and it’ll get a new team. They’ll have our data, but no physical experience of the investigation. In the time it takes for them to catch up, others will be dead.”
Bryant gave no reply.
“I know you have ideas you’re not telling me about, Arthur. You always do.”
“You want to know what I really think?” Bryant asked, looking down at the straggling figures who had just entered through the private gate of the churchyard. “In 1881 James Makepeace Whitstable set up the Alliance of Eternal Light. On the surface, the society was seen to carry out good works – building hostels, helping the poor, funding charities, restoring buildings. Privately, it was dedicated to something else, some secret cartel for the betterment of the Whitstable family – their fortunes certainly prospered in the years following its foundation. With that betterment came a price, which the family is now paying.” His eyes hardened. “Until we understand the machinery that was set in motion, I don’t see how we can stop it.”
The service was brief and gloomy, more of a wake than a well-wishing. The detectives were leaving the cemetery when they were accosted by Isobel Whitstable. Throughout the service Daisy’s mother had held herself with quiet dignity, supported by her husband and her son. As she threw back the veil of her hat, Bryant could see the debilitating effect of the last few days in her eyes. For a moment, he thought she was going to lash out at them with her fists.
“You two,” she spat furiously, “I hold the pair of you responsible for this.” She gestured at the gathering behind her. “My daughter is traumatized, and you did nothing at all to prevent it. Ever since this whole nightmare began you’ve done
“Mrs Whitstable, every person here today has a police detail,” intervened May. “Your houses are being watched around the clock. Until we find the information we need to make an arrest, there’s nothing more we can do.”
“Well, there’s something I can damned well do,” she hissed, thrusting her livid face forward. “I’m going to make sure your little experimental unit is closed down and this investigation is turned over to someone with an ounce of competence. You’ll wish you’d taken the police pension, because believe me, both of you, this was your very last case.”
She turned on an elegant high heel and stalked from the churchyard to the waiting Bentley parked beyond.
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
31
Purpose
As their last two dates had ended with Joseph being locked up in the dark, it didn’t augur well for a third try. Jerry wondered if he had come to the Gates home to say good-bye. He stood in the doorway before her. “How’s your hips?” he asked.
“And good morning to you. I have a bruise the size of Belgium.”
“Well.” He looked around. “I could stay here on the doorstep, but in this neighbourhood someone will call the police if they see a black guy hanging about.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Come in. I’m having a bad day.”
“Coming from you, that’s one omen I’d take notice of.” He entered the foyer, marveling at the domed ceiling above the entrance hall. “Nice place. What days do you open it to the public?”
“Around here, we are the public. In this neighbourhood the carolers sing in descant and get a tenner for their troubles.” She was smoothing back her hair and smiling too widely.
Still, she was very pleased to see him. “It doesn’t feel like Christmas, does it? Can I pour you a seasonal toast?” She led the way through to a large, light kitchen adorned with outsized copper saucepans. “My mother had
