Bryant & May 04; Ten Second Staircase

That part of the Thames was hardly more than a rural riverbank until the Festival of Britain in 1951. My theory is that he had no choice in that location, because it’s where White’s art piece had already been installed.”

“A bit of a dead end there, then. You must have tons of forensic information to go on, even if you’re low on suspects. Surely the bizarre methods of death have left you with something?”

“Less than you’d think. We’re due some more results later today.”

“So what do you need me for?”

“I thought you might – oh, I don’t know, help me get a synapse jump-started or something.”

“Well, I can certainly help you with highwaymen. Come with me.” Golifer led the way to a circular iron staircase at the rear of the shop and squeezed his bulk down it. They descended into a mildewy basement filled with overloaded shelves. “They’ve always been a popular subject for prints. After all, so many of them became folk heroes. Let me see what we’ve got.” He slid out a long box from beneath one of the counters and began drawing out envelopes. “Take a look at these. We’ve got prints of around thirty highwaymen operating in England, from Captain James Hind to Jack Shrimpton and John Cottington, but of course there were hundreds of infamous highwaymen – and a few women. The trouble is that most of the illustrations are rather similar in styling.” He carefully lifted a sheet of tissue paper covering one of the prints, which bore the caption Mrs Huntingdon is much received of dissatisfaction by robbery and an offer of marriage from Mull-Sack the Murderer.

“These are all hand-tinted from books published between 1880 and 1925, when the subject came back into vogue. The main features are common to your photographs: flintlock pistol, tricorn hat, greatcoat – usually crimson, occasionally blue – gloves and high riding boots.”

“What’s that?” asked Bryant, pulling out his reading glasses to squint at an object depicted on the bottom of the sheet.

“Ah, that’s a rather more private part of the highwayman’s lore,” said Golifer, “a secret known only to London’s criminal fraternity. It’s the fabled highwayman’s key.”

Bryant found himself looking at the key left behind in the Burroughs gallery.

? Ten Second Staircase ?

31

The Assonance of Myths

John May pushed his way between the moping trumpet vines draped from the railway embankment as the drainpipe-thin boy passed by no more than six feet away from him.

He had intended to talk to Luke Tripp as he exited the school, but something had held him back. The detective’s age counted against him; the boy would not confide in someone he saw as ancient and alien. He was making his way alone from St Crispin’s, and had reached the edge of the Roland Plumbe Community Estate. If the private-school pupils were wary of crossing the estate gang’s territory, their caution had not infected Luke, who kept a steady unfaltering pace as he passed into the shadow of the ground-floor columns. Aware that he was the only other figure crossing the bare open space of the estate’s grounds, May dropped back.

Tripp knew exactly where he was going. Not once did he raise his head to check his route, or hesitate before altering direction. His slender form appeared and vanished between the columns as May kept pace. He thought of something Bryant had said: Even if he doesn’t know it, the boy holds the key. What had he meant?

Luke was perhaps a hundred paces from him when he broke into a run. The little devil knows I’m here, thought May, matching his speed. What does he think he’s doing? The boy reached the concrete staircase at the end of the corridor and took the steps two, sometimes three at a time. May felt his pulse rise as he tried to keep up. He smelled the acrid stench of urine. As they passed the first-floor corridor he momentarily lost sight of his quarry but heard his shoes thumping on the steps above. Then, as if he had been lifted into the air, they simply stopped.

May halted, too, listening to the faintly falling rain above the pounding of his heart. He moved cautiously upward, keeping to the dark inner core of the stairs, until he reached the point where the boy should have been. Looking down, he saw where the wet footprints ceased. Although the staircase was open on one side, there was nothing beyond the waist-high concrete barricade but rainy air beneath low cinereous clouds; he was between the first and second floors of the block.

May’s nerve endings tingled with unease. He felt himself in the presence of the Highwayman. Foolishly, he had ventured here alone. To open his radio line now would be to give away his position on the stairs.

A time switch click-clocked above him, and the stairway was suddenly outlined in dim yellow light. Above a burnt-out sofa and a drift of beer cans, he saw the hand-painted stencils that twined and crowded each other across the concrete. Familiar gang signs of fate and luck: crowns, stars, pitchforks, hearts, horns, dice, pyramids. He peered closer at the recurring stencilled motif of black V’s, and realised he was looking at the tricorn hat and collar once again. As a familiar spasm in his back kicked in, he stood upright to ease the pain, and found himself faced with a dozen watchful shadows.

¦

“We collected a key from the floor of the gallery, beside the installation that contained Saralla White’s body,” Bryant explained. “Made of aluminium, looking exactly like the one in this picture.”

“Well, you’ve been left a pun of sorts,” said Oliver Golifer. “‘A thieves’ key, unlocked for the good of the public,’ as I believe the city marshal once called it. The key is meant to consist of three main sections: the ring, the pipe – that is, the stem – and the wards, which are the cut sections that interface with the inside of the lock. There are fourteen wards in all. The key and its parts are both literal and figurative.” He unfolded a second print of a highwayman, down the side of which was printed a list of words and phrases with the S’s and G’s joined. “The ring is made of gold, signifying the virtuous profession of highwaymen. The pipe is made of silver, and hollow, signifying the secret art of handing out bribes. The wards – well, here you are: First, boldness. Second, neatness. Third, flattery. Fourth, treachery. Fifth, diligence. And so on through obedience, lying, and cruelty – these last few words are water-stained and unreadable, but you get the idea. You’ll probably find books that go into great detail about the thieves’ key if you’re that interested, but it seems a bit arcane. I can’t imagine your average murderer would know or care much about them.”

“He cares enough to dress himself in an exact replica of the clothes in these prints,” Bryant pointed out. “Who knows how far his interest extends?” He pulled his moulting scarf tighter around his neck. “Thank you for the information, Oliver. I have absolutely no idea what I shall do with it, but I’m sure I’ll think of something. There is another matter to be dealt with; you don’t have a file on the Leicester Square Vampire, by any chance?”

“I haven’t heard anything about him in years, but I seem to recall some press shots,” said Golifer. “Let me have a look.” He led Bryant to a back room filled with locked metal boxes. “Most of these photographs are in the public domain, but your lot prefer us to keep them away from public gaze because, technically, they involve stillunsolved crimes and could be needed as evidence.”

“The Met is no longer ‘my lot,’ as you put it,” said Bryant, ruffled. “We report directly to the Home Office now, and I’m not sure which is worse. Why don’t they keep the pictures themselves?”

“No room, apparently. I asked them to pay for some better security down here, but they refused.” He unclipped one of the box lids and drew out a selection of large-bordered monochrome photographs taken in the 1950^s. “These are the earliest ones we have. Didn’t you once get a priest involved to exorcise the spot where he appeared? You reckoned he could run through walls like Le Passemuraille. I’m sure I remember a scandal.”

Bryant sighed. When it came to his investigative technique, everyone remembered the scandals. “It was a long time ago, Oliver. I was desperate for a break in the case. Three deaths, sixteen attacks, I was prepared to try anything at that point. He ran to ground and we never found him.”

“So why the interest now?”

Bryant scratched at the grey stubble on his cheek. “Because I’m sure now it was all trickery, jiggery-pokery designed to make us think he was superhuman. He was motivated less by the need to attack than by the desire to make an impression on the world. That’s what we have here. Rampant egotism. The superior being flexing his