There, at the base of the steps, a scratched
The Highwayman had left another calling card.
? Ten Second Staircase ?
17
Renegade Minds
They met in the middle of the bridge.
What had once been undertaken as an evening constitutional had now assumed talismanic value, a requirement of their continued survival. Throughout the passing decades, the pair had walked beside the surging sepia waters of the Thames to the bridge’s centre, and now the habit was unbreakable. They reserved their secret histories for this moment, their private doubts, their hidden knowledge. It was one of the few places where Bryant was still legitimately allowed to smoke his pipe and where May could steal a few puffs on a forbidden cigar. They usually walked at sunset, but early on Wednesday morning the bridge proved to be a convenient meeting place before their return to the unit. A thin dawn mist spiralled from the river, its tendrils clinging to the stanchions of the bridge, sharpening the air with the brackish tang of mud and mildew.
“God, what a business,” said May, passing over a cardboard coffee cup. “We have to keep a united front on this, Arthur. It will sink us otherwise.”
“You pessimist,” said Bryant, sniffing his coffee. “Has this got sugar in?” He leaned on the cold stone balustrade and marvelled at the rising dark outlines of the city. “Look how it’s changing.”
“You always say that,” May countered. “You love St Paul’s, the Gherkin, County Hall, the Royal Festival Hall, and the London Eye. You hate the mayor’s building and Charing Cross Station. I know exactly what you’re about to say because you always say the same thing.”
Bryant was affronted. “I’m sorry to be so predictable. Habit and familiarity provide me with comfort. What’s wrong with that?”
“You’re going to get out those strange boiled sweets now, aren’t you? The ones nobody sells anymore. What will it be today, Cola Cubes, Rhubarb and Custard, Chocolate Logs, Flying Saucers?” He turned to face his astonished partner. “Come on, what have you got?”
Bryant looked sheepish as he unwrapped a crumpled paper bag, revealing strings of red licorice. “Fireman’s Hose,” he said apologetically. “Do you want one?”
“No, I bloody don’t.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Bryant’s trilby had folded down his ears, and his scarf was pulled up to his nose. He looked like a superannuated schoolboy who’d been held back for half a century. Nobody would take him seriously looking like this. May sighed, turning back to the balustrade.
Before them, a pair of police launches were fighting the tide, heading towards the pier at Greenwich. “Look at us. How absurd we are. All these years spent bullying bureaucrats for budgets, working ridiculous hours, losing friends, having no social life, leaving no trace of our efforts. All the stress, all the pain, and we’re no further forward than the day we met each other.”
“That’s not fair.” Bryant dunked a rubbery length of hose in his coffee and sucked on it ruminatively. “Think of the destinies we’ve altered. The lives we’ve saved. The weight of knowledge we’ve accumulated.”
“You understand less now about the criminal mind than when you started,” said May. “You’re always complaining that life is speeding up around you, yet you make absolutely no effort to change.”
“What is this about?” asked Bryant suspiciously.
“Nothing – I’m just frustrated, that’s all.”
“We’re still investigating. We haven’t been beaten yet. You don’t fool me. Something’s happened.”
“It’s our ambitious new Home Office liaison officer,” replied May. “Leslie Faraday has ordered psychiatric evaluation reports on us. He’s gathering background material as ammunition.”
“When did you hear that?”
“I found an e-mail waiting for me from Rufus when I got in last night.”
“Faraday won’t find anything of interest. Why are you so worried?”
“Perhaps you don’t understand the gravity of our situation. He’s looking for a way to shut us down, and he wants it done as quickly as possible.”
“You don’t know that for a fact.”
“You have no friends in the Met, Arthur. I do, and they keep me informed. You forget some of the things Faraday could uncover. We freed thirty illegal immigrants last month. We hid their trail and falsified the case’s documentation. Do I need to remind you that you also placed a minor in a position of danger, allowing him to be lowered into a sewer with a registered sex offender?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds bad,” Bryant admitted.
“That’s how Faraday will put it. Wait until he discovers how many cold cases we have on our files.”
“That’s part of our remit, John. Half of those investigations were already cold when they came to us.”
“If he reopens any of them, he’s going to find more than just procedural anomalies. We’ve broken rules. We’ve faked reports. We’ve buried evidence.”
“Only for the benefit of the victims, John, and to ensure that justice is done. Truth and fairness are more important than procedure. ‘A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds’ – Ralph Waldo Emerson.”
“But when a policeman disobeys the law he becomes the worst kind of criminal in its eyes. We won’t just lose the unit. We could both go to jail. We’ve been behaving like renegades for too long.”
Arthur selected another strand of licorice and chewed it. “This morbidity doesn’t become you, John. I’m usually the negative one. Put it out of your mind. You know how the system works: If we get this right, everything else will be swept under the carpet. We never make mistakes; when we break the law, it’s absolutely deliberate.” He beamed hopefully, his bleached false teeth expanding what he’d intended as a life-affirming smile into something both innocent and creepy.
“There’s something else you should know. The rumours are starting up again. April has only just joined the unit. I don’t want her to hear them. I can’t have that conversation with her right now.”
“She’ll be fine. You always said we were a family, didn’t you? We’ll look out for each other and ride it out. Come on, concentrate on the case. I can’t do it without you.”
May shook his head. “I’m not sure I can walk into the briefing room and face everyone this morning.”
“You have to see it as a challenge. Two very public deaths, linked by sightings of a horseman.” His scary smile grew wider.
“They’re linked by more than that,” said May.
Bryant could see that he was holding something back. “Have you found something out?” he asked.
“There’s another link. I couldn’t sleep after reading the e-mail, so I started looking for Saralla White’s ex- husband, the executive whose sex life she first exposed. It only took a few minutes to locate him; he’d left a trail through dozens of Web sites. His name is Leo Carey. He was working at Bell and Lockhead in the city, handling public relations for their corporate clients, but was fired because his wife’s exposure of their private life destroyed his credibility with clients. Guess what he does for a living now?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“He’s Danny Martell’s publicist. I got hold of his mobile number and rang him. He told me he’d met up with Martell on the night of his death. Even better – they had a fight.” He raised his fist. “A proper punch-up.”
Bryant’s smile grew so broad his teeth nearly slipped out. “You’re joking.”
“It set me thinking. PR agents jealously guard their contacts, but their circles overlap. I’m pretty sure both victims have a number of colleagues in common. We just haven’t uncovered them yet.”
“What did they fight about?”
“You can ask him that yourself,” said May, checking his watch. “What time do you make it?”
Bryant squinted at his ancient Timex. “Twenty past.”
“Twenty past seven?”
“Not entirely sure, old bean. My hour hand appears to have fallen off.”
