stemming from a single photograph of a woman who fell into a fire, taken in the 1920s, although it’s true that the body can change its temperature very quickly. We’re extremely adaptable machines.”
Bryant wasn’t happy about being corrected but was willing to concede the argument. “Do you have a workable theory about this?” he asked.
“Think we should talk to the witnesses now, sir. They can shed some more light.”
Channing Gifford and her partner whose name Bryant failed to catch, lived in a first-floor apartment of such minimalist design that he thought they must have been recently burgled. Thieves had made off with most of the furniture, leaving bare floors of black slate and tall, clear vases of calla lilies perched starkly against hard white surfaces. In a thin blue tank running the length of one wall, a single angelfish hovered listlessly. Bryant and Banbury were ushered in, but there appeared to be nowhere to sit. Channing wore a white leotard with a black shift over the top, and looked as if she had got dressed twice. She was as elegant as an ostrich, minus the exuberance of plumage, and clearly adored her partner, who was giraffe-tall, and moved with the same loping gait.
“We teach modern dance, you understand,” Channing explained. “We were warming up at the window, doing some gentle stretches – ”
“ – very gentle stretches – ” confirmed the partner unnecessarily.
“ – and watching the storm break. There were quite a few flashes of lightning, but far away, in the direction of Lambeth.”
“ – Lambeth. Then we saw the flash inside,” said her partner, whipping her long head in the direction of the gym opposite. “A lightning flash, and we – ”
“ – we saw him.”
“You saw Danny Martell?” asked Bryant.
“We know he works out there because fans sometimes wait – ”
“ – they wait outside the door of the gym. They call his catchphrase up at the windows.”
“We’ve had to get your officers out on numerous occasions, but you never do anything.”
“ – do anything at all.”
Bryant didn’t notice their sudden accusatory tone. He was too busy wondering how anyone could live in a lounge without seats. “And you saw him in the room, working out?”
“We weren’t looking,” said Channing hastily, “but a man that size is hard to miss. He blew up after his wife left him.”
“ – blew right up,” her partner agreed. “Poor diet.”
“We saw the lightning flash inside the room. It looked as if it came from the ceiling, a thin blue streak.”
“Or perhaps through the window,” added her partner. “But it hit him.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Most definitely,” said Channing. “He screamed and fell forward. That’s when I called the police.”
“You didn’t think of going over to see what had happened.”
“No, we have a history with that gym – ”
“ – an unpleasant history.”
“It would be a great help if only one of you spoke at a time,” snapped Bryant, who hated couples completing each other’s sentences.
Channing looked at her partner and silently acknowledged an agreement to take over the story. “We went to the window, to see what was happening, and – ”
Channing’s partner opened her mouth. Everyone held their breath. Bryant shot her a filthy look. She shut it again. Channing continued. “ – and we saw this man leaving the building. He was closing the main door behind him.”
“Why did you notice him particularly?” asked Banbury.
“He was a tall man. But it was the way he was dressed; you couldn’t help noticing. At first I thought he was a motorcycle courier. You know, a black leather suit, tight-fitting, big black boots. But he was wearing a black half-mask that stopped at his cheekbones, and above that he was wearing a black hat, but quite small, like a futuristic version of a traditional highwayman. We once did a modern-dress production of
“Have you seen any pictures of him in the press?” asked Bryant.
“No, we don’t buy newspapers; they’re full of lies. Why?”
“Did you see where he went?”
“He looked around, then ran off in the direction of Farringdon Road.”
“If you think of anything else – ” Banbury began, closing his notepad.
“Well, of course we did, because of being dance teachers.” Channing’s partner could not resist speaking out. “It was the way he moved. Great strides, unnatural and awkward, as if walking hurt him. You see it in dancers all the time when their muscles are healing.”
Bryant moved to the window and looked down into the shining yellow puddles below. In his mind’s eye, he saw the Highwayman turn from the deep grey shadows of the building’s archway and lope away towards the lights. Almost as if he wanted to draw attention to himself.
“Good job they were looking out the window, sir,” Banbury consoled as they walked back towards Bryant’s Mini Cooper.
“They had no choice. There was nothing to look at in the flat.”
“There was a fish. I’ve always wanted a pet.”
“Fish aren’t pets, Banbury, they’re ornaments. Why didn’t he leave a calling card this time, that’s what I want to know.”
“If he did, we haven’t found it,” Banbury agreed.
“Why not? He wants us to acknowledge him. Why not make sure by leaving the card again?”
“You don’t think it was some kind of freak side effect of the storm?”
“Lightning has some unusual properties, Banbury, but I’m fairly sure it doesn’t come through the windows and strike people indoors,” Bryant snapped back. “Although my mother used to make us cover the mirrors and lay our cutlery flat during thunderstorms. I want that gym taken apart brick by brick. The Highwayman must have gained admittance to the room somehow, in which case he’ll have left entry or exit marks. You of all people should know that.”
Banbury was already shaking his head. “I only had time for a quick look, but unless I’m missing some kind of secret passage, I really don’t see how he could have effected an entry. Apart from anything else, Danny Martell would have seen him; he had an unobstructed view of the door from his seat on the machine. If he’d felt threatened, he would have got up, and we know he didn’t do that.”
“What are you suggesting?” asked Bryant. “That we’re dealing with some kind of supernatural agent who walks through walls, the living embodiment of a lousy half-remembered poem that’s come down to earth for the sole purpose of exacting bloody vengeance on minor celebrities?”
“I didn’t say that, sir,” Banbury pointed out. “You did.”
Outside the apartment building, Bryant lit his pipe and leaned against the cool glazed bricks, looking across the street to the gymnasium. If the Highwayman was so determined to make it appear that no killer had been at the scene, why was he prepared to show himself to witnesses? Bryant’s fascination with crimes of paradox was well documented, but even by the peculiar cases of his own past, this was outstanding.
Something else was here, though; the death sites were public areas associated with wealth and security, not squalid back alleys. There was a sense of voluptuous harm, visited upon random strangers by a dispassionate, cruel mentality. The feeling was shocking because it was so alien. Long ago, Bryant had developed a psychic sensitivity to London’s buildings and landscapes, but rarely had he experienced the impression of such a malevolent personality. It tainted the atmosphere and left behind a darkly spreading stain…
The grey dome of St Paul’s rose beyond the low office buildings. The screeching of seagulls reminded him of the river’s nearness. Something tugged at his memory, the faint impression of an earlier case, its detail fading now like a footprint in soft sand. Puzzled by this half-recollection, he crossed the street and walked to the building’s doorway.
