perhaps as those who lurked backstage at rock concerts, but every bit as tenacious. Among these was Jackie Quinten, the maternal widow who had tried to tempt Bryant back to her larder with the offer of a steaming kidney casserole when they had met in the course of the PCU’s investigation into the so-called ‘Water Room’. He had turned her down, not because he disliked her cuisine but because she seemed to view him as potential husband material, which could only lead to tears.
He had spotted her sitting in a corner reading, and was careful to skirt the edge of the room in order to avoid her. Unfortunately, as he was creeping past with his head drawn down into the folds of his scarf, he caught his foot in somebody’s handbag strap and lurched forward, precipitating half a pint of Samuel Smith’s Imperial Stout straight into her lap.
There was a detonation of yelping chaos followed by a commotion of mopping and sponging, during which time Bryant stood helplessly by, caught between profuse apologies and the desire to sprint for the exit.
“Really, Arthur,” Jackie Quinten cried in exasperation as she wrung out her skirt, which was woollen and perfectly designed for absorption, “there must be better ways of announcing yourself.”
“I’m most dreadfully sorry, Jackie, I didn’t see you sitting there. You’re rather invisible in that corner.”
“Thanks, you always know how to make a woman feel special.” When she saw the look of mortification on his face, she relented. “Come and sit down for a minute, at least.” Bryant squeezed in beside her, breathing in the yeasty scent of fermented hops.
“I suppose you’re here on business.”
“After a fashion. I’m trying to stop a most unusual murderer.”
“You always are, Arthur. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but this one is particularly slippery. He corners middle-aged women in public houses and puts them to sleep.”
“I know an awful lot of men like that.” Mrs Quinten did not appear in the least surprised. If anything, she looked as if her worst fears had been confirmed. Perhaps, thought Bryant, the widow had considered herself to be in London’s last safe place, only to find its status suddenly removed. “I presume they die in the process; otherwise, you wouldn’t be involved. Why would he want to do that?” she asked.
“Because he probably hears voices and is appeasing a desire, attempting to restore an equilibrium only he understands. Who knows? Ask why men kill and you open the door to one of life’s most paradoxical mysteries.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Trying to learn how you can make a pub disappear. What about you?”
“Oh, the usual, listening to a bunch of rambling old lecturers and writers talk utter rot. I have to get out occasionally, Arthur, otherwise I’d go insane. Besides, I’ve always had a soft spot for academics.”
“Their endless curiosity about the world does seem to keep them young,” Bryant admitted.
“And I can’t stay indoors making chutney every day, you know. I refuse to watch the toxic drivel that passes for television these days. I thought that by coming to these sorts of events I might get a clearer understanding of the world. I wonder what it is that drives the old to such questioning.”
“These days the young accept the status quo to an alarming degree, but I find I’m getting more rebellious as I age,” agreed Bryant.
“So many of life’s good intentions seem to go wrong, and I feel I’d like to know why. Have we merely been disappointed with our lives, do you suppose?”
“When I was young I fantasised about the future.” Bryant flicked a droplet of splashed beer from Jackie’s sleeve. “Now that I’m living in it, I find it all a bit tatty. I was expecting us to be on other planets by now. I wanted genetic transformations and orbiting cities instead of Internet porn and small improvements in personal stereos.”
“I know what you mean,” Jackie agreed. “Take this lot. They have plenty of ideas but no application. At least you might find them useful. Stanhope Beaufort sounds like your best bet, over there. He’s an architect.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bryant. “Do you mind if I go and talk with him?”
“No, but before you go, perhaps I can hold you to the promise of dinner. I’m not trying to lure you, Arthur. I’d make a rather unprepossessing siren. I just enjoy your company.” She seemed hesitant about continuing. “And I’d appreciate your opinion about a private matter. On a professional basis, you understand.”
“On that basis, I’ll do my best to oblige,” Bryant relented, rising. “I’m free on Saturday.”
Mrs Quinten looked disappointed. “That’s the one day I can’t do. I’m meeting one of my gentleman academics.”
“Oh, what an enormous pity. Another time then.”
“Perhaps after I finished – ”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude and spoil your evening.”
He was aware of Jackie Quinten’s eyes on his back as he moved across the room.
? The Victoria Vanishes ?
23
Vandalism
Stanhope Beaufort drained his pint and wiped his white beard. He had put on an enormous amount of weight since Bryant last saw him. Squeezed into a shirt clearly purchased before this gain, he looked like a sheep in a corset. “What the hell are you doing here, Arthur?” he asked with characteristic brusqueness. “You only track me down when you want something, so what is it?”
“Actually I happen to be a semi-regular among this crowd,” Bryant pointed out. “But seeing as you’re here too, tell me, how long would it take a man to build a Victorian pub from scratch and then dismantle it again? Could he do it in a single night?”
Bryant explained his predicament.
Beaufort’s initial look of surprise transmuted into concentration as he applied himself to the puzzle. “It would be easier to go the other way around,” he said. “Hide the pub behind a shop, because the Victorians built things to last. They used stronger mortar, thicker tiles, denser metals. But you could get a shop front up in an hour just by whacking a few sheets of coloured Perspex over the brickwork and holding them in place with a handful of screws. Cover the windows with posters, strip the interior furniture, hide the bar behind racks of magazines, hire some old guy to sit at a counter and fob you off with some story about how he’d been there for years. Pubs usually have the capacity to be brightly lit, because the lights are traditionally turned up after time has been called, so they wouldn’t have to replace the lighting. I can see how that might just work.”
“I don’t know,” Bryant admitted. “It sounds loopy even to me.”
“I didn’t say it was a sane idea, just that it’s possible. There’s one way to find out,” said Beaufort. “I’ve got a crowbar in my car.”
“Are you suggesting we try to take the front of the store off?” said Bryant.
“You’re a police officer, aren’t you? You can do whatever you like.”
“Sadly we can’t,” said Bryant, “I have a tendency to get caught.” But he was already rebuttoning his coat.
They found a parking space for Victor, Bryant’s decrepit Mini Cooper, in the next street over, and Beaufort slid the crowbar inside his coat as they walked to the corner of Whidbourne Street. The Pricecutter supermarket was in darkness. After checking that the coast was clear, Beaufort slid the steel stave from his coat and applied it to the oblong of orange plastic that covered the base of the store. He levered the crowbar back until there was a loud crack, and a two-foot-long triangle shattered, clattering to the pavement. Beaufort dropped to his knees and examined the brickwork underneath.
“The fascia is screwed directly into the stonework,” he pointed out. “With the right tools it could be removed in a few minutes, all of it, but the bad news is that the stonework underneath dates from the 1970s. Nothing is left of the pub that used to be on this site.”
“Are you sure?” said Bryant. “Couldn’t we get one of the upper panels off?”
