“Because of the love,” Jerry replied. “I always wanted to be able to love you.”
“Yes,” Gwen agreed, taking a step toward her, then thinking better of it. “It may surprise you, Geraldine, but there is love.”
“I’ll let you know where I am,” Jerry promised. As she looked back at her mother from the door, standing squarely in the centre of the hallway, her hands by her sides, her feet bare, she saw how fragile Gwen’s life had been, and how much emptier it would be now.
“I’m going to come back,” she said.
“I’d like that very much, Jerry. I wish – ”
“What?”
“I wish I could go away somewhere. Start learning again.” She gave a rueful half smile.
“You can learn right here,” Jerry said. “You don’t need to go anywhere.”
“That’s simple for you to say. Everything’s easy to the young.”
“At least you could try, Mother.”
“Mother.” Gwen turned the word over, as if hearing it for the first time and trying it for size. Finally, she raised the palm of her right hand in farewell, coolly watching as Jerry walked to the end of the road. But even as Jerry turned the corner, she knew that Gwen would be standing at the door long after she had passed from sight.
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
55
Turning On the Lights
Tower Bridge was the gateway to London, the first bridge a ship encountered upon its passage into the Thames. Its Gothic turrets are merely stone clad over steel, and have guarded the river for barely a hundred years, yet it has become as definitive a representation of the city as the Tower of London itself. Below the bridge, smelt, dace, roach, and perch have been known to swim with flounders and elvers through the thick brackish water of the Thames. The riverbank here was once a thick slope of orange sand known as Tower Beach. From the 1930s to the 1950s, families swam and played on it as if day-tripping to the Brighton seashore.
On a Friday evening at the end of January, as a sulphurous sunset jaundiced the roof of the southern turret, two middle-aged gentlemen surveyed the river scene. Above them rose the tower’s massive pressurized-water pistons. The bridge had recently been repainted a rich blue, the colour of a summer sky. It was deserted as the two men crossed it on the west side, their hands thrust deep into their pockets.
John May paused to lean on the wooden handrail and look down over the edge. Arthur Bryant had summoned up another vile scarf from his infinite collection of depressing knitwear and was even now peering over its folds like a perished frog. The top of May’s head was still swathed in bandages, lending him an Oriental air.
“I don’t know what the bare-breasted woman on roller skates was supposed to be doing,” he said, puzzled. “And why on earth was she wearing a centurion’s helmet?”
“That was Britannia,” Bryant explained. “I told you, it was a very modern interpretation. Still, it was nice to see the Savoyards again.”
“Yes,” agreed May, “they weren’t bad for a group of people who are obviously deranged. I’m afraid it’s not my cup of tea, all that theatrical stuff. It’s just not real enough. Good tunes, though, I must say.”
The Savoy Theatre had finally reopened its doors to a brand-new production of
“Actually, I think I might have dozed off in the second half,” May admitted.
“I know. I heard you. So did everybody else. You should have your sinuses seen to. Look, John.” He stopped in the centre of the bridge and looked back at St Paul’s. “It’s nice to see that the cathedral still stands high above the other buildings.”
“That’s just because they haven’t given planning permission to build office blocks around it,” said May unsportingly.
“I love this skyline. It’s less spectacular than other cities, but when I think of the men and women who firewatched for the domes and spires through the war, the mere fact that it still survives at all amazes me.”
“You’re a dreadful sentimentalist, Arthur. Look at the crumbling tower blocks and the empty docklands buildings.”
“I know they’re there, and I can’t do anything to change them. I suppose they’ll all get pulled down and replaced. Soon there will be nothing left of the city I played in as a kid.”
“Perhaps the next batch of politicians will improve our lot. I hear this Mrs Thatcher is a rising star. It would be good to have a woman prime minister. She’d be more inclined to kindness, one feels. She could end inequality in the city.” May withdrew a cigar and lit it. He was allowed one at the end of a case. “You know what Tower Bridge reminds me of? The Shepherd’s Market diamond robbery, our second case.”
“Good Lord, you’re right,” exclaimed Bryant. “Remember Sidney Dobson, the deaf explosives expert? The mastermind behind Mayfair’s finest safecracking ring. His old dad ran the Smithfield black-market sausage syndicate during the war. To think that Sidney would have got away with the diamonds if he’d taken London Bridge instead of this one.”
“That’s right. I almost felt sorry for him, stuck in a lorry full of pigs while they opened the bridge for a barge full of illegal bananas.”
“He was very decent about it. The last of the gentlemen crooks. Had a nasty three-legged cat called Wilfred. I visited him in prison, you know.”
“That was nice of you.”
“Not really,” conceded Bryant. “His sister-in-law sold me a car with no brakes. I was trying to find out if he’d heard from her. Sidney told me she’d emigrated to New Zealand, but on the way back from the prison I passed her at a bus stop.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I couldn’t slow the damn vehicle down. I think she heard me yelling. I suppose men like Sidney are into property scams now. That seems a rather sleazy, backdoor style of crime. The old ways felt more honest.”
“That’s enough, Arthur,” said May, raising his hand. “Looking back is morbid and unhealthy. I think I prefer you cantankerous. Anyway, there are all kinds of interesting crimes now.”
“Did I tell you? I got a postcard from Jerry Gates. She’s on her way to India with some chap. She’d do well to stay away from the Calcutta offices of the Whitstables’ shipping company. Mind you, there’s no one left at the addresses Charles Whitstable gave us.”
“Raymond Land says he’s going to refute the possibility of the entire case with tested scientific evidence.”
“We saw the device with our own eyes. How can they refute that?”
“There’s no concrete proof left, Arthur. Even Land doesn’t believe it, and he was there.”
A variety of lurid theories had allowed the tabloids to speculate in all kinds of colourful, alarming ways. Yet, despite this and other damning publicity resulting from the investigation, the fickle press had decided to champion the Peculiar Crimes Unit. After all, it had provided them with gruesome entertainment for weeks. Although the official hearing had yet to take place, there was now at least hope for the unit’s future.
Charles Whitstable’s fate still lay in the hands of the British magistrates’ court. May had to admit that James Makepeace Whitstable’s system was ingenious. It was impossible to estimate how many families had been bullied into accepting his sabotage orders. Many would still be keeping their secret packages for years to come – just in case the cycle renewed itself and the system returned one day.
The most capricious casualty of the investigation had passed from her life barely mourned. May had been one of the few people to attend the funeral of Alison Hatfield. He had forced himself to stop thinking of an alternative future where she was still alive. He knew that her memory would be better served by destroying every branch of the organization that had ultimately caused her death. Sadly, this would never be entirely possible. Too many companies carried the seal of government approval. They would continue to prosper, aided by powerful financial
