“Everyone blasts the tabloids; nobody condemns the readers,” replied Ramsey, swinging her white leather chair away. “I think about the process more than you, that’s why I’m in the job you want but will never have. I went to Cambridge and I showed my breasts in the tabloids. These facts aren’t mutually exclusive; the stereotypes are formed in the public mind, where I can benefit from them.”
She flicked at her computer and ran a coral-coloured false nail down the screen, crackling static. “If this report is to be trusted, the Highwayman killed twice within the same half hour last night. The public won’t know what to think, so it’s our job to tell them. Either we vilify him, ‘this depraved monster,’ et cetera, which leaves our readers with no course of direct action, or we promote him – luckily, he looks bloody sexy in these stills – and they can follow his exploits. They can feel as if they have a share in him. I think our course of action is clear, don’t you?” She looked out at the city streets shrouded in autumnal morning vapour. “They’re looking for new gods, and we’ve got one for them. Vengeful, unforgiving, filled with righteous wrath, roaring down from the sky like a fiery angel. We’ll give them what they asked for.”
¦
“I don’t see what you’re so angry about,” said Bryant, pulling open each of his desk drawers in turn and rummaging through them. “Have you seen my special tobacco?”
“It’s not special tobacco, Arthur, it’s grass from your mutant marijuana plant, and I’ve thrown it away – Yes, I know you’re going to say it’s medicinal, but Janice thinks Raymond Land is searching the offices for incriminating evidence, so it had to go.”
“I’d appreciate your dropping the sharp tone from your voice,” said Bryant, still rummaging. “You sound so unnerved.”
May dropped wearily onto the corner of his desk. “Is it surprising? I want to find a flesh-and-blood killer, not some mythical creature who slips through the night like a wraith. I’m giving you permission to explore alternative methods of investigation. You should be thrilled. Instead, you’re telling me you’d rather use my methods. Why must you always be so perverse?”
“I’m not, I’m being open-minded, as you requested. And I don’t make distinctions between reality and myth. The former often ends up becoming the latter. Look at Atlantis.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Men have been looking for Atlantis ever since Plato’s dialogues, even though he probably intended the story as an analogy. Despite this, American oceanographers are using up their grant funds in attempts to place the lost continent in locations ranging from Ireland to Cyprus. Fiction affects and alters the truth, you see? If a scientist fell overboard on such a trip and drowned, we could say that he died as the result of belief in a myth.”
“Four deaths, Arthur! This is not about some ancient myth.” May looked at his bitten nails, wondering how much longer he would last without suffering another heart attack.
“In a city of eight million people, at least a handful must have strange and potentially harmful belief systems, and we can root them out using standard investigative methodology. Janice and April are searching the victims’ backgrounds for common elements, something they’ve shared in the past that has marked them out from the rest of the population. Because you’re right; there are no illogical murders, only irrational ones. A youth bludgeons an old lady for a handful of change. The boy has an addiction, the pensioner is vulnerable. He behaves irrationally but quite logically. One has simply to consider the moral dimension. The boy’s need forces him into a situation we consider morally repugnant, but if he failed to act logically, by attacking a stronger victim living further away from the pensioner, we would have no way of locating him. Without logic, our working methods collapse. You’re right.”
“Will you stop saying I’m bloody well right?” May was frustrated and becoming increasingly annoyed. “How can you use logic here?” he demanded. “The man is wearing nineteenth-century clothing, for God’s sake.”
“And there is a reason; we simply haven’t deduced it yet. The lord chancellor wears a tricorn hat during proclamations in Parliament, did you know that? Perhaps there’s a political link.” Something rang a distant bell in his head, but he dismissed it.
“And what about the timing on Sarne and Paradine? There’s nothing logical about the Highwayman being sighted in two places at once.”
Bryant patted the papers on his desk. “‘I do not mind lying, but I hate inaccuracy’ – Samuel Butler. The witness reports actually fall within fourteen minutes of each other. The distance between the two sites is too much to cover on foot, but perhaps he really does have a motorcycle. It would partially explain the outfit.”
“Nothing explains anything in this investigation,” cried May, exasperated. “I’m expecting Faraday through that door any minute to demand why we haven’t locked up a suspect.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and dropped into the chair opposite. “What I’m saying is, I’ve come around to your way of thinking. We need to try something new. Run me through the combined timeline Banbury and Kershaw came up with.”
“Let’s see.” Bryant adjusted his bifocals and squinted at the page. “Have you been using my watermarked Basildon Bond? I keep this for special, you know; it’s not for scribbling on.”
“Give it to me. I don’t know why you have to get everything printed out; it makes a mockery of the electronic age.” May snatched at the papers impatiently. “Eight-thirty P.M. – Sarne arrives at the Oasis Swimming Pool for his evening dip. The pool is due to shut at nine P.M. There’s supposed to be a guard on duty but he’s gone off somewhere; nobody seems to know where. A couple of other swimmers have timed tickets for the previous half hour, but they’ve gone to change by the time Sarne hits the water. The Highwayman is spotted on the roof above the pool at around eight forty-five P.M. by one of the class instructors, but she doesn’t consider the incident unusual enough to report.
“At exactly the same time, in Clerkenwell, Paradine checks into the empty building in St John Street looking for his recording studio. He goes up to the fourth floor, using the stairs because the lift isn’t connected up. You’d think he’d twig that there was something wrong, but presumably he’s merely keen to get the job done and leave. His agent has no record of the booking, so we’re checking Paradine’s phone messages to see if someone rang him direct.
“On the fourth floor he walks along the corridor, steps onto the faked-up covering, and falls through the unfinished floor. The Highwayman is seen leaving from the site at nine P.M.
“Meanwhile, Sarne is finishing his laps in the pool. He gets out of the water and heads for the showers. Turning on the hot tap, he gets dowsed in ordinary unleaded engine petrol and set on fire. Banbury traced the exposed section of water pipe into the ceiling and found it sawn through. Fitted over the end was a plastic accordion hand-pump containing petrol residue. The killer simply waited for Sarne to turn on the tap before stamping on the pump and tossing a match down through the grille. Still, it seems an absurdly complex method of death. The pipe must have been cut earlier the same evening, because the shower hadn’t been reported out of action.” He tossed the paper back onto his desk. “The combined reports of the entire unit, and they amount to virtually nothing. Four locations with no link between them, and four victims with no shared attributes beyond a public profile.”
“You want me to use my methods?” Bryant asked. “Then we need to find out what inspired this nightmare figure to be conjured to life. How can we protect potential victims if the public believes they somehow brought retribution upon themselves?”
“We’re reviewing the few unlikely suspects we do have. Janice is arranging that for later today.”
Bryant pulled the collar of his ratty jumper up to his chin, shrinking into his chair with the effort of thought. “The most common attribute shared by the victims is their increasing level of infamy. As your granddaughter pointed out, their movements are known; it makes them easy targets. Four people have died, and one has been born; the Highwayman has already begun the process of passing into our shared mythology, just as Jack Sheppard and Jonathan Wild did before him. He is conjuring himself into existence, aiding his own birth, building the creation of his own myth. How? By dressing outlandishly, by leaving a calling card, by posing for photographs and allowing himself to be seen. He craves a different kind of notoriety to that achieved by his victims. He desires admiration and respect, and that will be the weakness that causes his downfall.”
Something in Bryant’s speech struck a familiar chord. “You’re talking about setting up a potential victim for him.”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“You know how dangerous that is. Look what happened with the Leicester Square Vampire.”
“This time we can have total control. You don’t even have to be involved, John. The unit will take all the risk. Besides, there’s something else for you to do. Look back at the birth of our myth-figure. Who first gave us the image of the Highwayman?”
