handle, pushing home its blade with terrible force. Two girls and a boy had died, assaulted, stabbed, and bitten almost as an afterthought. Some had lost blood before stumbling terrified into the square, desperate for help. Elizabeth had fallen silently in an alley, her life seeping out into the drain beneath her as the officers had desperately combed the corridors behind Leicester Square. Hundreds of witnesses had been interviewed, but only a handful had been called back for further questioning, and they had surrendered blood samples. The files of these few lay rotting in the bottom of the box.
When confronted with the hard evidence of violent death, instinct and emotion took hold of him, forcing rationality into retreat. He tried to remember the panicked night patrols, the anxious faces, but saw only the face of Elizabeth, smiling and waving back to John as she turned to walk the path of her murderer. What had happened in the minutes after the attack? How long had it taken for the shock of the event to make itself felt? He had watched over Elizabeth’s cooling corpse, taking care to shield it from his partner. John was in shock, and someone had poured him brandy. Bryant’s interest in the Vampire’s identity had died at that point. Who had he been? What did it matter? Nothing could bring back John’s daughter, April’s mother. She had joined the ranks of those who had died viciously, needlessly, on the streets of the city.
Bryant’s knees cracked as he lowered himself down to the wet concrete. Normally he would simply have taken what he needed, but as Faraday had forbidden him to remove anything, he was forced to examine the documents by torchlight. He did not expect to find anything new; what little evidence there was had been studied by everyone except the office juniors. Vaguely remembered faces glinted before him, unfortunates photographed in the aftermath of their loss. Pictures of the killer’s victims in happier times, backpacking, squinting into sunlight, grinning happily at flashlit nightclub tables, their halted histories stapled to their face shots like casting cards for some melancholy documentary.
The old detective’s bones protested as he changed positions, spreading a sheet of plastic across the floor and laying the files on it. The events of the past had split like thawing pack ice, incidents drifting apart so that it was almost impossible now to see the greater picture. He recognised his own crablike handwriting on the files, adding dense sidebars where none was necessary, noting that the first victim was a member of an occult society, as if that somehow had bearing on the case. His errors of judgement were augmented before him, mocking and misguided, making him ashamed. He had repeatedly avoided obvious lines of questioning to focus on the obscure and the arcane, sidetracking his uncomfortable subjects, repeatedly twisting the interviews to his own ends. Mystical connections, oddball acquaintances; they had assumed an unnatural level of importance, all because he could not bring himself to accept that the real answers might be mundane, that his job might be grimmer and more prosaic than he was prepared to believe.
And yet there were successful conclusions – how did one account for them? He thumbed through the photographs, wondering what his partner might have seen had he not commandeered the case. Connections – private, public, family, business, social, accidental – that was how May worked. He remained thorough and methodical, endlessly searching and collating. It was how Bryant tried to think now.
The rain dripped through the cracks in the bricks, drumming onto corrugated iron above his head. He studied the dead victims’ backgrounds once more, adding his own notes on those who had survived their attacks. He noted their birthplaces (New Zealand, Nottingham, South Africa, Norway, Wales, Madrid, Chile – not even in the same hemisphere), their lodging addresses (Earl’s Court, Marylebone, King’s Cross, Acton, Wandsworth, Wembley, Hackney), their jobs (student, student, artist, insurance assessor, secretary, builder), their extracurricular activities (pubs, parties, football, tennis, walking, cinema, night classes), and stopped, rereading his water-stained notes. Comments were scrawled in margins, cramped and indecipherable. Reading by torchlight was hard work; he found himself returning to the typed background files assembled by Longbright, because they strained his eyes less.
With the files laid out on the damp concrete floor, he tried a process May had taught him.
A single link had been noted at the time; several of the victims had been taking night classes in the weeks preceding their deaths. The connection had been dismissed, because no two students attended the same college.
One victim had been heading for a class in economic history on the night she died. No specific venue for the course was listed, but in the contents of the second victim’s backpack Bryant found a folded copy of the school curriculum. The class was circled in red Biro, with the name of the lecturer printed beneath it, and a small photograph.
It would have meant nothing at the time, but now the arrangement assumed momentous significance.
Alexander Kingsmere, MA, BSc Oxon.
Brilliant Kingsmere looked so much like his father.
? Ten Second Staircase ?
41
Psychic Trail
Janet Ramsey turned her key in the lock and admitted herself to her Chelsea apartment. She had been expecting the PCU to prove incompetent – it was what always happened when you placed academics out in the field. Their hopeless mishandling of today’s attempt to lure out the Highwayman had achieved the desired effect. She kicked off her shoes and rang Oskar Kasavian’s mobile. It made the call traceable but was better than calling him at a government office.
“You were right, they were even worse than you said they would be,” she told him. “The Highwayman showed up, just as I expected. He obviously sensed it was a trap and didn’t stick around, but he wanted to use the photo opportunity and made sure my man got plenty of shots. God, a blind man would have sensed the police vehicles scattered around the street. I must admit, though, it hadn’t occurred to me that the school would be in session on a Saturday. The unit staged the most extrovert undercover operation imaginable, flatfoots thumping up and down the pavement barking into walkietalkies, huge officers lurking behind tiny garden walls, quite ridiculous.”
“I want a full report detailing their incompetence,” said Kasavian. “Your end of the deal.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get it.”
“What happened to the Highwayman?”
“He waited outside the apartment, then trotted back downstairs and out the front door, unapprehended. They managed to lose him despite the fact that the entire street had been sealed off.”
“It doesn’t surprise me, but I don’t understand how.”
“They hadn’t allowed for two hundred kids suddenly pouring into the street. The sudden confusion allowed him to use an escape route.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“Not really – the officers had turned off the light in the hall – but he’ll show up in the pictures. I’m not in the business of helping to identify him, Oskar. The longer he stays active without running to ground, the better it is for the paper’s campaign.”
“You have to get the report typed up tonight,” Kasavian instructed her. “I need to work on it over the weekend.”
“Let me take a nap first,” said Ramsey. “I’ve been on my feet all day.”
“I thought we were going to meet up later.”
“Are you sure you want to risk being seen with me? I thought you were taking your wife to the opera tonight. I could damage your credibility.”
“I hardly think so, Janet. Your newspaper has no credibility, so why should it damage mine?”
“We represent the voice of the people, darling, don’t forget that. Sometimes I wonder what I see in you. I’ll call you in a couple of hours.” She rang off and made her way to the bathroom, shucking her dress.
The day had worked out well. She had an exclusive story and plenty of saleable images to work with. What she really needed now was another murder to keep the outrage of the public at its peak.
