¦
“I don’t see why we had to meet here,” May complained. He had found Bryant standing at the centre of Waterloo Bridge once more. By now the sky had become icy and inhospitable, and billowing black sheets of rain were spattering his neck.
“I was on my way back from the Paddington lockup,” Bryant explained, pulling out a plastic bag containing several slips of waterdamaged paper. “Several of the Vampire’s victims were taught in evening classes conducted by Brilliant Kingsmere’s father. I think that’s how he came to stalk them in the first place. I ran a check on the father. He has a charge sheet: disturbing the peace, causing an affray, assaulting a police officer, and molestation of a minor, a young woman who failed to press charges. Unfortunately, there’s not much detail in the reports. There’s no answer from his current address, so you’ll have to talk to his son, Brilliant.”
“Wait a minute, you’re telling me that one of my witnesses in the Highwayman case is actually your suspect? Do you realise what the odds are on the two cases being connected? It’s astronomically unlikely. Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake and muddled up the documentation or something?”
“My mental faculties may be in decline, but I don’t get cases mixed up,” snapped Bryant. “You’re becoming quite unpleasant as you get older. Here, I was saving you some of this.” He pulled a leaky plastic freezer bag from his pocket and handed it to May. “Alma made a sherry trifle. I’ve had it on me all day. It’s got a bit squashed.”
“What am I going to do with you, Arthur?” May examined his partner’s peace offering and reluctantly slipped it into his pocket. “Today’s operation was a nightmare. If you’d been there, you’d have realised that something was wrong from the outset. As unlikely as it sounds, I just don’t think clearly without you. The whole fiasco has merely given Faraday more ammunition.”
“It wasn’t your fault, John. The unit was never designed to carry out such operations.” He stopped abruptly and looked out at the sluggish olive water blossoming beneath the bridge.
“But what? Go on, you were going to say something. You know I messed up. What would you have done differently?”
“It’s just that you’re looking at it from the wrong perspective. You thought you were luring him, but I think it was the other way around.”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t a trap but an opportunity. Ramsey and the Highwayman both used you to get publicity.”
“But why would he show up at all? Why risk being captured?”
“Because he knew he wasn’t going to be. Such bravado requires the extreme level of calculation he adopts in everything he does. The Vampire’s bravery stemmed from the wildness of psychological aberration, but the Highwayman’s methods are more sophisticated. It happens over time. You don’t suppose the two killers could be one and the same person?”
May looked at his partner in horror. “There’s nothing to suggest that the cases are connected other than your scraps of paper, Arthur. You can’t just follow some kind of psychic trail in your head that makes links where none exists.”
“If you don’t think there’s a connection, go and see him. Ask Brilliant Kingsmere about his father.”
“What can he do beyond admit that his old man taught thousands of pupils, some of whom suffered tragedies? Teachers touch so many lives, and we’re talking about a very specific London neighbourhood, so it’s hardly surprising their paths crossed. But the two cases together? How old would Kingsmere’s father be now, and why would he be running around dressed as a highwayman? It just raises more questions than it can answer. Oh, and did I mention that the idea is utterly ridiculous? The Highwayman is an incredibly strong man, tall, athletic, not someone of your age.”
“All right, but he still has a link with the Vampire, whom we were intended to see as Robin Hood, a real-life thief and murderer changed into a mythical champion. Kingsmere’s an idealist, a reformer. He must know about the Vampire, because his father was interviewed by police at the time. Suppose it gave him the idea for a warped kind of social experiment? Kingsmere was missing when the first Highwayman murder was committed, apparently at home with food poisoning. Was he missing from school again today?” Bryant was fired with a fresh spark of enthusiasm. “We need to get him in for questioning immediately.”
“We can’t do that without Land’s permission, and he’s out of town until tomorrow night.”
“Kingsmere must have his own office at the school. We could search it.”
“I doubt there are sufficient grounds for a warrant, Arthur, and we wouldn’t get one until Monday at the earliest.”
“Then we’ll need to break in. I can get hold of Felix.”
“Oh, no, you promised never to use him again. Not after we paid him to break into Sharon Letts’s house.” Letts, a notorious London thief known as the Queen of Shoplifters, had stolen a fortune in gems from Harrods’s jewellery counter. It was hard to tell how much she had looted, because Felix had stolen back the diamonds for the police, only to hide several of them in a glass of water which he had drunk before anyone could stop him. After the Met boys arrested him, they planned to wait for the stones to pass through Felix’s alimentary canal, but the cat burglar managed to lock the police officers in their own squad car. Felix was later captured and sent to prison, where he discovered that Letts’s family had placed a contract on him. Thinking he would be safer in solitary confinement, he picked a fight with a small ginger Irishman in his wing, only to discover that his victim was a Real IRA terrorist, whose people promptly placed a second contract on the hapless burglar. Since then he had lived in fear of his life, running discreet small-scale operations for anyone who needed his services.
“Lend me your phone. Nobody need ever know we hired him. Besides, he owes me a favour.”
“Give me one good reason why I should agree to this.”
“We’re about to lose the unit. What else is there left to lose?” Bryant fumbled about in his overcoat and produced two scraps of paper. “Look, this is a photocopy of Luke Tripp’s Highwayman drawing.” He unfolded the second piece. “And this I took from the Paddington lockup. It’s the only witness sketch we ever had of the Leicester Square Vampire. Apart from the tricorn hat and the mask, the outfits are almost identical. It looks like Kingsmere stole the idea for some mysterious purpose of his own.”
“This is against my better judgement,” warned May, handing over his mobile. If their superiors discovered that the unit’s most senior members had hired a cat burglar to break into a suspect’s office, they would prosecute the PCU. However, having failed to make his own plan of action work, May had no choice but to trust his partner’s instincts. He had reached a stage where any action was fair if it yielded results.
“Do it,” he told Bryant. “Get him on the phone, and God help us if we get caught.”
? Ten Second Staircase ?
42
Describing Evil
Janet Ramsey checked the temperature of her bath and laid out fresh clothes. She rarely questioned the wisdom of her actions, but the events of the last few days had given her pause for thought. She was editing a tabloid with a shrinking readership and a record number of hits lodged against it with the Press Complaints Commission. She was continuing an affair with a married man despite the fact that Oskar Kasavian was never likely to leave his wife. She had a son she had hardly seen since her ex-husband had unexpectedly been granted custody.
And she wasn’t getting any younger.
Tugging at the creases around her eyes in the bathroom mirror, she wondered how much longer she could maintain the balancing act. The real problem was that she no longer believed the stories she wrote. Once she had been able to convince herself that the public had a right to know about the mistakes made by those whose lives were lived in public. The Fourth Estate’s latest periodicals made hers look positively scrupulous. Everyone had jumped onto the celebrity bandwagon until there was nothing of interest left to report. It was no longer about news but bargaining power, and she doubted her publication would be able to raise the cash for many more exclusives. But
A fold in the darkness through the glass of the front door caught her eye, and she turned from the mirror. The worst part about living in a ground-floor flat off the Brompton Road was having to place steel trellises across all of
