“I’ve arranged a meeting for you,” said Luke. “It’s the last thing I have to do.”
¦
“Don’t touch anything,” warned Sergeant Renfield, guiding the detective sergeant away from her bosses’ open doorway. “I know what you lot are like.”
“You act as if we’re a threat to you,” Longbright pointed out. “But we were always working on the same side.”
“I see it differently,” replied Renfield, scratching himself disconsolately. “We’re like doctors, and you’re like alternative therapists. Your system is full of mumbo jumbo, and doesn’t work. You got lucky a few times, that’s all. We use tried and tested effective methods of policing.”
“And you kill the patient in the process. You could have worked with the unit instead of fighting us for so long.”
“What difference would it have made? We won eventually. Now, would you mind telling me where your case files on the Highwayman are?”
Longbright looked around the chaotic room. “Only Mr Bryant keeps hard copies. Everything else is stored on the main server. You’ll need the access codes. I’ll put them in for you.”
“No, just write them down and I’ll do it.” Renfield eyed Bryant’s Tibetan skull with trepidation.
“I can’t do that. Mr Banbury added a security device. The codes have to be logged at different speeds to open the file gates. He taught all senior personnel how to alter their typing technique.”
“Very well, but I’m watching you,” warned the sergeant, wedging himself into a chair beside her.
As she accessed the documents, she maintained a steady stream of distracting conversation, until the sergeant broke his attention to briefly glance out of the window. It was all the time she needed to add her own private e-mail address to the files.
“I want everything printed out,” the sergeant commanded.
“It will take ages to produce hard copies. We only have a very old printer. I’ll queue all the relevant folders, then you can get someone to take it all to the station.”
“No, I’ll wait,” said Renfield doggedly, folding his arms.
“As you wish.” Longbright rose and walked towards the door.
“And you’re waiting with me.” He pointed to the seat behind her own desk. “Just sit yourself back down.”
She sat and waited while Renfield cleaned his nails, picked his nose, examined the breakfast stains on his shirt, and scratched his bottom. Pulling open the lowest drawer of her desk with the toe of her boot, she leaned forward, making a show of adjusting her hem. She could not allow the sheet of paper containing May’s confession to be bagged up and taken with the rest of the unit’s contents. Kasavian would be only too happy to misinterpret it. Slowly and silently, she slid the page from its hiding place.
Suddenly, Renfield looked at her. “I can’t trust you for a minute, can I?” he sighed. “What have you got there?”
Reluctantly, she raised the hand with the page in it, turning the blank side to face the sergeant.
He snapped his fingers at her. “Bring it over here.”
Longbright rose and walked over, furiously searching for a way out. She held John May’s career in her hand.
“Give it to me.”
Renfield snatched the sheet from her, glanced at it, saw that it had nothing to do with the Highwayman, screwed it into a ball, and tossed it back at her. “Go on, get out of here,” he said. “I’ve got more important things to do.”
The detective sergeant fled the room, heading for home and her waiting laptop.
¦
As April was sending her text, the detectives were just pulling up before the gates of St Crispin’s. May patted his jacket pocket. “Have you still got your other mobile?” he asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” Bryant replied with the hint of evasion that suggested it might have fallen under a steam roller or been torn apart by wolves.
“Then where is it?”
“Ah, that would be more difficult. I do still have it, in the sense that it hasn’t left my possession, but it’s full of meat.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was cooking a spaghetti bolognese for Alma last night and it fell out of my apron pocket into the sauce pot. We dried it in the oven and now it seems to be intermittently working.”
May shot him a murderous look. “Let’s go in. God help anyone trying to contact us.”
The corridors of the school were in darkness. Classes had yet to begin. Outside, the rain had given way to a wet autumnal mist. As it rolled in from the Thames it thickened, clinging to the hedges, blanking the windows, and deadening sound from the street.
“He doesn’t behave like a mature, rational human being,” said Bryant, looking unnaturally pale in the gloom. “The Highwayman keeps baiting the police, getting us to run after him before dropping out of sight. That’s what I didn’t appreciate before. It’s like a series of dares. Multiple attackers actively court publicity. Does that mean he wants to be caught? Perhaps at some subconscious level. He’s anxious to stop just short of capture, but the impulse takes him closer to the edge each time. He has an antipathy towards his fellow creatures. We’re nothing to him, just objects to be used as a means to an end.”
“Which is?”
“His eventual deification, of course.”
“I can’t imagine why anyone would go to so much trouble to be noticed,” said May, pushing open the internal doors and searching for a light switch. “All this complex ingenuity, the sheer work involved.”
“First of all, he finds it no trouble at all. Second, this kind of killing is an achievement that ultimately requires some form of acknowledgement. Respect, fear. And finally, approval. Third – ” Bryant stopped to wipe his brow, trying to understand why he felt so strange. He’d forgotten what he was saying.
“There’s a light under his door.” May reached Kingsmere’s study first. He leaned forward and twisted the doorknob. “You know we don’t have enough to make a formal charge,” he whispered to Bryant. “All we can do is take him in for questioning, unless he chooses to incriminate himself. Are you ready?”
“I was expecting you both earlier,” called Kingsmere, anticipating them.
He was seated behind his desk, marking term papers, and barely bothered to look up. When he did so, May noted that he appeared to have aged. He removed a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and studied them wearily.
“Tell us about your grandfather,” suggested Bryant, unravelling his sepia scarf and gratefully drawing up a seat.
“What’s the point?” Kingsmere countered, tossing his glasses onto the desk and massaging his eyes. “I imagine you already know quite a lot about him. He had very little respect for the forces of law and order. He went to jail for the values in which he believed.”
“He was a fascist, a Mosley supporter.”
“In later life, yes. His ideals became a terrible burden.”
“What about your father?” Bryant asked, trying to concentrate. “How did he feel?”
“You should know,” replied Kingsmere, making eye contact for the first time. The teacher rose and opened the cupboard behind him, reaching in for the bundle he had left there. “You’re probably looking for these.” He dropped the mask and tunic on the desk.
“Do you want to make a formal statement?” asked May, surprised by Kingsmere’s calm attitude.
“If you want,” he replied. “There’s not much to say. I guess you’ll want to test these clothes for proof, but I can save you time. My father was the Leicester Square Vampire.”
