unit’s intranet, and I’d end up killing you.” Bryant’s talent for spreading malignant plagues through the most benign technical equipment had made him an object of terror amongst IT technicians. “Besides, you don’t need to know. You’ve got me to do it for you.”
Bryant fingered the frayed edge of his corduroy waistcoat, purchased at the Gamages summer sale of 1948. “I thought perhaps you could show me Web sites, you know, about music and celebrities – the sort of things young people like.”
“So that’s what this is about.” May could not resist an inward smile. “You have a team who are paid to research that sort of thing, so that you can stick to what you’re good at.” Bryant was usually convinced he was right in the face of unshakeable odds. This new doubting demeanor was unsettling. “Delegation,” May concluded feebly. “Let someone else do it for a change. You’ve devoted your life to this place. You’ve paid your dues.” But he could tell that Bryant thought he was being put out to pasture, and had no way to convince him otherwise.
“Cool gaff,” said Colin Bimsley, admiring the redbrick exterior of the double-fronted house while they awaited an answer. “She’s got a bob or two. When I get promotion, I’m going to get on the property ladder.”
Meera Mangeshkar snorted derisively. “Yeah, right. From a rented bedsit in Stoke Newington to a two- million-pound town house in Holland Park.”
“Sneer all you like, mate. You’ll be sorry you turned me down one day. I’m not going to be slapping the sidewalk in a padded parka for the rest of my life.”
“No, you’ll be sitting at a cheap desk filing reports and dropping bits of burger into the keyboard of a seven- year-old computer, before going down the local for eight pints of bitter and a curry with the lads.”
Colin subjected his colleague to intense scrutiny. “I don’t know what makes you so sarcastic, but it’s incredibly unattractive.”
Mangeshkar sniffed. “So now I’m ugly.”
“What do you care what I think? You’ve already told me I’m not good enough for you.”
“I never said that.”
“So will you go on a date with me?” Colin asked, sensing a gap in her defence.
Before Meera could answer, the front door opened.
¦
“I don’t know where she got this new identity from,” said Eleanor White. “Certainly not from us.”
“What do you mean, new identity?” asked Meera, setting aside her notepad.
Mrs White fell silent, distracted by something fluttering past in the garden. The lawn was an absurd shade of countryside emerald that could still be seen in expensive parts of the city. “This working-class thing,” she said finally, sniffing drily and turning from the windows. “Her name was Sarah, you know. Perhaps she thought ‘Saralla’ sounded more exotic. She dropped out of Oxford. She was training to be a biochemist. We didn’t hear from her for two years. Can you imagine how that made us feel?”
Meera was in danger of sinking inside the immense floral sofa. She felt suffocated by the arrangements of dried flowers, the emetic purples and greens, the gathered flounces of material around the tables and curtains. A woman like Mrs White cut little ice with her, even if she had just lost a daughter. She belonged to a breed of county women who dwelt in bay-windowed Edwardian villas and never showed emotion to those they perceived as social inferiors. Meera had grown up in a battery of pebbledashed Peckham council flats where the sound of police sirens nightly bounced off the balcony walls.
“She reappeared when she had run out of money, of course.” Eleanor White tapped out a cigarette and lit it. “Living in an East End squat with some other so-called artists, including the one who made her pregnant. Casually announced that she was a sculptor, if you please, not that she’d had any formal training. Didn’t look like she’d had a bath or a hot meal in months. My husband, Patrick, refused to give her a penny, but I couldn’t let her leave the house without something. She was our only child. The next time we saw her was on the television, drunk, swearing at a man who had once interviewed Nixon. Then that disgusting magazine photo spread, her sex life revealed, the abortion, and the rest I don’t even want to think about. Patrick won’t have the subject mentioned in the house. Soon afterwards we started hearing that her – installations, is that what you call them? – were fetching record prices with private collectors.”
“You must have taken some pride,” Meera wondered, “at least in her success.”
“Pride?” Mrs White was horrified by the idea. “To have our name dragged through the mud? To see such muck being sold to the public? There are plenty of other ways to be successful. An animal can be seen rutting in a farmyard, but that doesn’t make it talented. She became famous for exposing details about her private life that no decent wife would share with her husband; it was nothing to do with having artistic talent. We were deeply ashamed of her.”
“There were plenty of boyfriends. The artist, and her supposed mentor. She left the first one when she started to make sales.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Oh, it was something strange and made up, the way they do.” Mrs White stopped. “Don’t give me that disapproving look, young lady. You think I’m just one of those undemonstrative Englishwomen who never showed her daughter love. But it wasn’t like that. We only ever wanted her to be happy. Of course we hoped she would share our values, even if she considered them old-fashioned. We believe in dignity, honesty, and Christian kindness – there’s nothing so unusual in that, is there? Some emotions require privacy. Why would she want to throw it all up in our faces? I don’t understand.” Her fingers traced the outline of a photograph on the side table. “I still can’t believe our sweet little girl changed into such a monstrous person. This is a terribly poisonous time to be young.”
Meera realised she was ashamed to be seen crying, and watched with a softening heart. “We’ll talk to everyone who knew her,” she promised. “We have every hope that her killer will be found. We’ll try to give you back your little girl.”
But she wondered if such comforting words were true. It was the lonely who left themselves open to attack. Eleanor White’s daughter had been insulated by a public life and a large circle of friends. It made her death all the more unlikely, and the chance of discovering its cause almost impossible. They left Eleanor White sitting in her floral lounge, bewildered and diminished, surrounded by the silver-framed memories of a daughter she now realised she had never tried to understand.
? Ten Second Staircase ?
11
Departing Soul
“Ah, there you are,” said Arthur Bryant, strolling into the damp converted school gymnasium in Bayham Street that passed for an autopsy room. To combat the falling temperature, he had swiped a shapeless brown roll-neck sweater from the unit’s evidence room that made him look even more like a de-shelled tortoise.
“Where else would I be, seeing as my rehousing request has been declined?” Oswald Finch, the unit’s pathologist and the only man on the force older than Bryant, straightened his bony back with a series of audible clicks, scowling at the covered body in his aluminium trough. His permanent look of disdain had left him with a face like a sepia photograph that had been crumpled up and flattened out again.
“Yes, I heard about the refusal. I’m afraid it’s the new Home Office chap, Leslie Faraday. He’s been appointed to oversee the operation of all specialist units, and isn’t happy about our meagre budget rise. The usual story: He’s never been too ambitious, but now he fancies making a name for himself. I daresay he thinks he can do so by getting us closed down in the ruthless drive for efficiency. It’s the unsolved cases; we’ve too many on our books. It makes him look bad.”
“Of course it does,” Finch barked. “Good God, look at your resources, they’re embarrassing. You’ve no crime lab of your own, you’re forever cadging equipment downtime from the Met. We live in an era of mitochondrial DNA
