Bryant & May 04; Ten Second Staircase

Worrying would only spoil his workout. He insisted on having the entire gym to himself; it had caused a fuss at the time, especially as it meant evicting the women’s group that met here on Tuesday evenings, but he had stuck to his guns and asked his agent to strike a deal with the owner, booking out the entire final hour for his exclusive use twice a week. Actually, it hadn’t been that tough to arrange; the gym was badly in need of renovation, and most of its users had moved to a more fashionable fitness centre in High Holborn.

He had put on twelve pounds in the last few months, and his doctor had warned him about the consequences of neglecting his regime while working in such a high-pressure job. Stepping into the weights room in coordinated blue-and-white Lycra gym gear and rubber sport sandals, he caught sight of his belly in the mirror and felt a twinge of embarrassment. Thank God there are no photographers to get a shot of me like this, he thought.

He puffed for ten minutes on the rowing machine, watching the rain as fat grey droplets started to spatter the first-floor windows of the renovated Smithfield apartment building opposite. There was a storm coming, and he’d just had the Jaguar washed.

He wished he’d never made the fitness video; it had been intended as a bit of fun, but now every crew he worked with expected him to give them dietary guidelines. Didn’t they realise he had simply been given a script and told where to stand? Didn’t they have any idea how many times he’d been swabbed with towels and fresh make-up between takes? Fitness wasn’t necessary when you had good lighting.

Needles of pain flittered between his shoulder blades. Pain is good, he told himself. This is helping. I could shed a stone, lay off the chems, and stop having to pay for sex, really turn my life around.

On the wall opposite was a luscious poster of an impossibly slender Brazilian girl in a tiny white string bikini, her skin the rich umbrous colour of dates. She was probably eighteen, no more than twenty, high buttocks, flat stomach, large luscious breasts. He pulled at the oars, stretched his legs, felt a warm lolling in his shorts. Girls like that can have anything; the rest of us have to work at it. Sweat was dripping into his eyes, so he slowed his pace and groped about for a towel.

How many weeks would it take, he wondered, how many hours spent on this damned Californian torture rack, to burn the extravagances of the last few years from his body? The effort of climbing out of the rowing machine nearly sent him reeling back to the changing room.

I shouldn’t feel this bad at forty-eight, he told himself. People forget all the years I worked the clubs before I got a break. Now all they can do is shout at me in the street: “I won’t try that again!” Why did he ever come up with such a stupid catchphrase? He should have known it would shadow him to the grave, probably be carved on his tombstone. He moved to the pectoral press, adjusted the seat, and lowered the weights. Fifteen reps on this, if he was lucky, then some abdominal crunches and off for a shower.

A low rumble of thunder vibrated the windows. The approaching storm outside made the empty gym a melancholy place. Its brightly painted walls required music and a foreground of pumping athletes to bring the room to life. He was about to raise his hands to the rubber grips and begin his set when he heard the noise again. This time it was clearer, louder, more defined. A horse’s galloping hooves, a rush of wind, even a whinny, as tailored and distinct as a BBC sound effect.

It sounded as if it was in the next room. The gymnasium had been constructed across the first floor of the converted warehouse. There were apartments above, behind, and below – somebody had their television up too loud.

He began to work out, feeling the now-recognisable streak of pain flash along the line of his buried musculature, and wondered if he had set the weight too high. Beginners always did that, the trainer had warned him. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a bright idea, firing her, but it would have been too distracting trying to exercise while catching glimpses of her moist tanned cleavage.

Forked lightning forms a zigzag; it takes the path of least resistance through the air. He saw it but didn’t believe what he was witnessing, because it was here, inside the room with him, a crisp white line tinged blue at the edges, passing before his eyes.

He felt the arrhythmic pulse deep within the cage of his chest, like soldiers breaking step, or a band squeezing an unfamiliar chord into a well-known song. Something bad was happening. His heart hadn’t skipped a beat; it was beating too often, and could not regain its rightful balance.

Extreme heat in his flesh – the palms of his hands – a searing pain that reached to the insteps of his feet – a plunge into icy bitterness – a hollow forming deep inside, as though something had just jammed and collapsed. A tangle of seared nerves, and a sensation of falling, dropping away.

He had been pushing the elbow pads of the Nautilus machine forward, but now they whipped back, releasing him. As he fell, he knew that the terrifying silence in his chest was caused by the sudden stopping of his heart.

He was almost relieved to know that he would not have to suffer the indignity of seeing tomorrow’s headlines.

? Ten Second Staircase ?

16

Voluptuous Harm

“I’m sorry to pull you out in such disgusting weather,” Dan Banbury apologised. “Nobody saw the storm coming in.” The young cockney crime scene manager had been playing squash at Islington’s Sobell Centre when he received the summons, and was still sweating so much that he had trouble fitting his disposable gloves. “I rang your mobile for ages, but there was no answer.”

The pair were standing outside the first-floor door of the Smithfield Fitter Body Centre. Arthur Bryant undid the buttons of another shapeless raincoat he had purchased from Caledonian Road market. He had taken his partner’s advice to treat himself to some more clothes. Unfortunately, the ones he had chosen were every bit as horrible as the items in his existing wardrobe. “No, it doesn’t ring anymore. I only realised someone was calling when I saw it vibrate across the table into my landlady’s Ruby Murray. We had a date in Brick Lane with a biryani. I’ll be tasting it all evening now.” He picked a piece of curried prawn from his jumper and flicked it over the stairwell.

“You’ll be glad you came, though. I think you’re going to like this.” Banbury spoke without a trace of irony. “Ostensibly, we’re looking at a heart attack on an exercise machine. No-one’s been into the gymnasium apart from Mr Martell himself.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Bryant.

“The owner is a German gentleman who apparently loves Martell’s TV show. He cleared the gym at eight- fifteen P.M., ready for Martell to come and do his workout at eight-thirty P.M. There’s a bit of resentment from the city boys over the fact that Mr Schneider closes the gym for private sessions several times a week, but his name is on the lease, and there are no bylaws preventing him from doing what he likes with the place. Presumably he gets paid well for the service.”

Banbury tapped a grey metal box beside the entrance door. “Standard smart-card system. One swipe gets you in and out. Each card is registered to its member, so the staff know exactly who’s in the place at any given time. It’s also a security measure – they have a few minor celebrities using the place and don’t want photographers grabbing shots of people in the showers. The point is, all the cards are accounted for. Everyone came out, the room, showers, and toilet stalls were all checked, then fifteen minutes later Martell arrived and swiped himself in. He never checked out. The box hasn’t been tampered with, so it looks as if he was the only one inside.”

“Who found his body?”

“The cleaner came in to turn off the running machines and wipe down the wash basins. She called the owner, who called Clerkenwell nick, who called us. I took a quick look and closed up again, because I wanted you to see exactly what I saw.”

“Let’s cut through some of the mystery, shall we?” Bryant shoved at the door but couldn’t open it. Looking around, he lifted the entry card from Banbury and swiped himself inside.

“Hang on, sir, we haven’t – ”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to touch anything.”