reaching for her with his free hand. “It could happen to anyone. Are you all right?”
Clutching a tissue to her face, she slowly rose, barely able to catch her breath.
“Just tell me what was in the bag. I’m sure we can replace – ” He was amazed to see that she was caught in the throes of helpless laughter.
“The first time I step out of the flat in months and I get bloody mugged. The little bastard.” She leaned on him, still laughing, fighting to catch her breath. “For heaven’s sake, let’s get to the PCU before something else happens.”
“Are you sure?”
“After this?” She wiped laughter from her eyes. “Where did you park? You’ve probably been clamped by now.”
“You mean you still want to come?” May was taken aback.
“You’re joking. Think I’m going to let kids like that get away with murder? Just tell me what I have to do.”
This was the April he remembered and loved. It was as though the pain of the last few months had been folded away like an awning, revealing her old self beneath. He had no idea how long her newfound strength would remain, but was determined to make the most of it. April was far too valuable to lose. Her mother had died when she was just nine years old, and the loss had affected her in ways which still adopted new manifestations. May’s family life had been tangled and messy, marred by small tragedies, filled with arguments and estrangements, in contrast to his partner’s bare, ascetic existence. He wanted April’s life to be simpler, and had the notion that keeping her around Arthur Bryant might be the answer. Bryant had a way of making everything seem plausible, possible, and even probable. He cut through impossibilities and protestations. He would be able to help her, if anyone could.
¦
“Is it usual to have a cat flap in a police station door?” asked April, studying the unassuming red-painted entrance that led to the Peculiar Crimes Unit.
“We’re not a police station,” May replied. “Crippen has to use the outside world as a bathroom sometimes, which makes him a very Camden cat. We hide his litter tray because he’s not supposed to be living here. Raymond has an allergy.”
April knew that Raymond Land was still waiting to be transferred elsewhere, anywhere that would get him away from Arthur Bryant. It wasn’t that they had nothing in common, so much as they shared things they didn’t like, mainly each other. Last month, Bryant had accidentally insulted Land’s wife at a Police Federation charity dinner when he had mistaken her for a toilet attendant. It seemed that no week passed without some fresh affront to Land’s dignity. Worst of all, it occurred to May that his partner was secretly enjoying the feud.
“It’s not much, but we like to think of it as home,” said May, pushing the street door wide. “Top of the stairs and turn right. Sorry, we’ve been meaning to get the hall bulb replaced. Arthur was demonstrating Tim Henman volleys with a coal shovel and blew the electrics.”
The headquarters of the Peculiar Crimes Unit occupied the single floor above Mornington Crescent tube station. The detectives looked out into the grey London streets from half-moon windows set in glazed crimson tiles. The unit had become almost a local landmark; it was even being pointed out by a guide on his ‘Bizarre and Dangerous London’ tour, although the guide was unsure which category the unit fitted best.
April reached the landing and looked about, touching a pile of postwar
“I’m sorry, we don’t keep a very tidy house.” May knew that his granddaughter had a compulsion for neatness; her flat reminded him of an operating theatre. “Why don’t you take the room across the corridor?”
“This must be Janice Longbright’s room.” April noted the Agent Provocateur boned corset that hung on the back of the door, the thick face-powders and ceramic-bottle cosmetics that spilled from an old Pifco hair-dryer box, circa 1955. May moved a low-cut spangled trapeze dress from a swivel chair and hid it. Lately, Sergeant Longbright’s obsession with stars of the 1950s had reached epic proportions.
“Yes, but Janice is very happy to have a guest.”
“You want her to keep an eye on me.” April picked up a dusty bottle of ‘Bowanga!’ Jungle Red Nail Varnish priced 2/11d, and set it back in place. She had forgotten just how odd everyone was here.
“To begin with. Just until you settle in.”
“How many staff do you have now?”
“There are eight of us if you count Raymond Land, but he’s not often here. Spends most of his time creeping around to his officer pals at the Met. Now that we’re under the jurisdiction of the Home Office, we’re waiting for a visit from their new man. Apparently, he wants to reorganise the unit to make it more accountable and efficient. Arthur and I have the room opposite. Dan Banbury is our IT-slash-crime scene manager. Rough and ready, but a good sort. He shares with Giles Kershaw, who’s rather too posh and plummy for my taste, but also good at his job. He’s the forensics officer and social science liaison – ”
“What’s that?”
“Not entirely sure,” May admitted. “He came with the title and no-one’s got around to asking him what it means. The lovely Sergeant Longbright you know, of course. And there are two detective constables down the hall, Meera Mangeshkar – she can be a bit stroppy, but she’s all right once you get to know her – and Colin Bimsley, who has been medically diagnosed with DSA, that’s Diminished Spatial Awareness, which explains why he falls down the stairs so often.”
“And that’s it?” asked April, shocked. “This is the crack team that solves crimes no-one else can handle?”
“Not quite,” said May with a smile. “There’s you now. Our first resident non-professional. Liaison and communication. At least, that will be the official title until we find out what you’re best at.”
Leicester University’s Scarman Centre had suggested that the Association of Chief Police Officers should train members of the public to work alongside professional investigators, and the PCU was always an early adopter of radical new ideas. “Come with me,” May beckoned. “Let’s get you started.”
“I like it here.” April wiped a patch of condensation from the window and looked down into the traffic. “It feels safe and protected, like a nest. When I look outside, I have to fight a sense of panic. How many active cases are you working on?”
“We’ve been asked to take on work from other jurisdictions around the country, and there are a couple of interesting matters in hand. A British civil servant named Garrick, on assignment in Thailand, was found in a Bangkok reptile house at the city’s floating market, apparently bitten to death by green mambas. When the body was shipped back, Arthur and Giles found traces of old needle tracks in the crook of his left leg. Garrick was right- handed; addicts usually cross sides when they inject, so we figured they were self-induced. There were unused syringes in Garrick’s desk drawer, but no traces of injectable drugs in his system except snake venom. We suspect he was trying to build up his immunity to the snakes by injecting small amounts of poison into his bloodstream.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Our job isn’t to fathom the vagaries of the human mind, just to settle the arguments about death. Not that it stopped Arthur from trying to find out. He discovered that Garrick’s previous assignment was in Alabama, where he had joined a snake-handling sect. He’d decided to convert the locals in Bangkok, but needed to prove his own abilities first. Case closed. Apart from that, we’ve another dead biological warfare expert on our hands. That’s the twelfth since 9/11 – more fodder for conspiracy theorists.”
“I’m a great believer in conspiracies.”
“Then you’ll love this one,” said May with a smile. “Dr Peter Jukes from Salisbury, Wiltshire, found by fishermen floating off Black Head at the Lizard Peninsula, Cornwall. The local coroner reckoned it was a straightforward matter of death by drowning, but there were unexplained injuries. Plus, his boat turned up fifteen miles away, washed into a local harbour. The coast guard concluded that it was unlikely he had fallen from the boat, because local tides and currents would have taken it into shore near the spot where he was found. Jukes told some drinking pals he was going fishing with his friend Leo, but no-one of that name has been found. Arthur has
