no right to desert them.
Wearily, but a little happier with the thought, he climbed out of the car and headed back into the building.
? Ten Second Staircase ?
50
Grave To Cradle
MEMORANDUM
PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL
Attachment Supplied: 20059PH
TO: Leslie Faraday, Senior Home Office Liaison Officer
FROM: Raymond Land, Acting Head, PCU, London NW1 3BL
DATE: Tuesday, 1 November
Dear Mr Faraday,
Having outlined at your request the recent problems I experienced at the PCU, I now feel it necessary to make an addendum to my report in light of succeeding actions to close down the unit, undertaken by yourself and Mr Oskar Kasavian.
I would be grateful if you would destroy my notes on Mr Arthur Bryant & Mr John May (file 3458SD) as I no longer feel that they provide an accurate reflection of the matter at hand. Subsequent to my report, the long- standing investigation of the so-called Leicester Square Vampire has been brought to a successful conclusion, and all surviving relatives have been notified of the outcome. There can be closure for them of a kind that was never possible when the case came under the jurisdiction of the Metropolitan Police.
Concerning the disbanding of the Peculiar Crimes Unit: In anticipation that you may find it difficult to abandon a process that has now been placed in motion, I would like to remind you that I am prepared to release a full account of the investigation surrounding the arrests of Nicholas Gosling, Thomas Jezzard, Daniel Parfitt, Marcus Billings, and Luke Tripp. Part of this report will, of necessity, need to focus on the unorthodox relationship conducted between Mr Kasavian and the features editor of
I anticipate that you may encounter some resistance from Mr Kasavian to returning the Peculiar Crimes Unit to its former operational status, in which case may I request that you make the focus of my report known to Mr Kasavian, in order that he may decide for himself whether or not he wishes to commit career suicide and face personal discomfort at the sight of his fragrant wife being questioned about her knowledge of his extramarital affair, and the possible security risk it poses to Her Majesty’s government. I do this with the full knowledge and cooperation of Mrs Ramsey herself, who no longer wishes to be associated with her former partner, and is fully prepared to explain her side of the story in the above-mentioned periodical if her wishes are not met.
Please also find attached the PCU’s official request for increased funding, which I trust will be received favourably in light of the above.
I remain,
Yours sincerely,
Acting Temporary Head of the Peculiar Crimes Unit
(1973 – ongoing)
¦
They sat on the black iron bridge crossing the converted warehouses on the fourth floor of Shad Thames, peering down at the narrow cobbled street beneath them. The faintest traces of cinnamon and pepper, imports that had given the Spice Wharves their name, still hung in the evening air. The setting sun had turned the river a bilious shade of heliotrope. 'Yourists wandered between the glowing art stores and neon restaurants, looking lost.
“How could you possibly afford a place like this?” asked Bryant. “Is there anything left in that bottle?” He gestured at the magnum of champagne standing on the occasional table they had dragged out from the tiny kitchen.
“I’m swapping a huge apartment in St John’s Wood for this miniscule flat because I want to be near the Thames again,” May explained. “When I was a kid, only the poorest of the poor lived here. In a sense, I’m coming home.” May watched the distant golden river pensively. “I don’t need much space. My world is shrinking. Friends are dying, opportunities are disappearing. Soon all I’ll have left is my work.”
“Welcome to my world,” said Bryant, dipping a Jaffa Cake in his champagne glass and sucking it pensively. “Although if you’re really going to be like me, you’ll start forgetting where you left your shoes. The main thing is, you have April back. All that time the two of you wasted, when you could have been close.”
“How was I to know Renfield had told her about Elizabeth’s death? And I hadn’t seen this.” He removed the crumpled page of his confession from his jacket. “Janice gave it to me. She managed to trace the female officer who acted as my co-witness. Apparently I once recommended her for promotion, back in 1996. She told Janice I’d signed the statement under abnormal circumstances, and that she would never betray my secret.”
“Give it to me.” Bryant held out his hand. He touched a match to a corner of the sheet and watched it blacken and curl in flame.
“Are you okay about the Highwayman case?” asked May. “My granddaughter is worried about you.”
“I have to accept a new order of criminal,” Bryant replied, sprinkling ash over the balcony. “I need to try to understand. London has always been a city of sedition and disorder, from the Peasants’ Revolt to Bloody Sunday, Broadwater Farm, and the Poll Tax riots. Violent dissent is in our blood. It is simply taking a spiteful new form. How can we be surprised when television teaches children that it’s normal behaviour to tear each other’s characters to shreds in public?”
“Television is dying. It’s being replaced by a computer network in which everyone has a right to say what they feel, and about time, too. Those schoolboys had the measure of you, didn’t they?” May reached over for a biscuit. “Choosing the home of the Knights Templars to kick your psychogeography fetish into action.”
“Christ’s blood is still out there somewhere,” said Bryant. “I’ll go looking for it one day. I’ve got the surveillance maps. If the bones of St John the Baptist can survive to this day in Istanbul, then why not the blood of the Saviour?”
“I was just thinking about Gosling and his friends. I looked into their eyes and saw nothing at all. No love, no hate, just blankness. All bets are off now. What’s to stop any teenager from buying their way into celebrity by committing murder?”
“We have to pray that the spirit of a more benevolent myth hangs over the city to protect it,” said Bryant, “something that can counteract the cruelties of murderers and highwaymen – the benign and secret spirit of Mother London.” He refilled their plastic cups. “The mistake I made was thinking that the victims were worshipped by the young. The young don’t feel represented by such people, they feel ignored and invisible. We’ll never understand them, and we’ll have no way of stopping them next time. It’s the kids on the estate who have a staircase to the future. They have to fight or fail. Their victories are small and hard-won. The boys in Brilliant Kingsmere’s class are already lost.”
Bryant tore open a fresh packet of biscuits; no mean feat, considering he was wearing woollen mittens. He squinted at the label. “
“Now you’re sounding like the Highwayman,” said May. “Or even Robin Hood.”
“Perhaps I’m reconnecting with my own past,” said Bryant. “I certainly remember it more clearly than the present.” He looked over the balcony. “I say, some traffic wardens are trying to tow my car away.” He removed the pickle fork from his jacket. “They’ll be lucky. I’ve got the key. Pour some champagne over them.”
“We still have to find out who the week’s final victim was supposed to be, you know. None of the boys is
