“This amounts to vandalism, Arthur.”
“It’s a murder investigation.”
“All right.” Beaufort hoisted his bulk up on the low window ledge and wedged his crowbar under the shop’s nameplate. It came away in an explosion of brickdust and plastic. “The same cement finish,” he tutted. “Hopeless rendering, very disappointing. Still, the original structure of the building is intact. If you could get all this off, I suppose you’d be able to build a false front over the top of it, but you’d need several strong lads and plenty of specialist equipment. Help me down before I fall.”
“That’s no good,” said Bryant, holding out a hand. “I’m looking for a lone murderer, thin, slight build, late twenties or early thirties, not someone travelling around with a team of builders. Besides, even assuming that the killer arranged to meet his victim here, with all the real pubs in London to choose from, why would he feel the need to re-create one from the past? Damn, there’s someone coming. We’d better get out of here.”
“I thought you’d be officially sanctioned to commit wanton acts of destruction,” said Beaufort.
“Er, no, not exactly,” Bryant admitted, looking around. “Time to scram.”
Feeling like a pair of teenaged vandals, they shoved the broken plastic back in place and scooted across the pavement with Bryant using the crowbar as an impromptu walking stick. Dropping into the Mini Cooper, they struggled to regain their breath.
“Well, I’m stumped,” said Bryant, thumping his wheezing chest. “I most definitely saw the victim in that street. The St Pancras clock tower was directly behind her like a full moon. Can I give you a lift anywhere? I’m driving back to the PCU.”
“You’re not going to carry on working tonight, surely?”
“Just a few notes. I’ve asked everyone to come back. We need to create a more accurate profile for this gentleman.”
“And how are you intending to catch him?”
“That’s the tricky part. He appears to have come up with one of the simplest killing methods ever devised, which makes him either very smart or incredibly stupid.”
“And which do you think he is?” asked Beaufort.
“Both,” said Bryant.
? The Victoria Vanishes ?
24
Hangovers
“You’ve all been drinking,” said May, shocked. “Look at the state of you, you’re half smashed.”
He glanced around the briefing room. Raymond Land was nodding off, Renfield looked sloshed, Banbury was poking about in a packet of Cheese ‘N’ Onion crisps and Meera was wearing a suede fringed jacket with the king lives written across it in red, white and blue sequins.
“Only in the cause of research, sir,” said Banbury, crunching crisps.
“Has anyone seen Bimsley?” asked May.
“Outside, sir. On the street.”
“What’s he doing out there, for heaven’s sake?”
“Snogging a girl, sir. Tongues and everything. Pretty hot stuff.” Banbury wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and looked about the room. Meera attempted to kill him with a well-aimed stare.
“He gave me his notes,” said April, unfurling a ball of paper and smoothing it out.
“Well, at least you’ve all been able to turn some in. I think the evening has given us a chance to reflect on the events of the past few days. I know how these women came to meet their deaths. I want the why.”
“With all due respect, old chap, we’re not going to be able to crack that nut overnight,” said Kershaw. “We don’t have any clear suspects.”
“We now have witness descriptions,” said April, looking up from the collated notes she had laid neatly across the desk. “Naomi Curtis and Jazmina Sherwin were both approached by a man in his early thirties, attractive despite the fact that he has a large wine-coloured birthmark covering the left side of his face. We think he might be a former North London barman who was fired from his job. It shouldn’t be so hard to get a name.”
“That depends on whether he was using his own,” said Bryant. “Bar staff sometimes pay substitutes cash in hand to take their shifts.”
“Then we have to hope this one was legally employed,” said May, glaring at his partner.
“There’s something else,” said April. “Three of the victims knew each other.” She held up a photograph that clearly showed Naomi Curtis, Jocelyn Roquesby and Joanne Kellerman standing together in a bar holding glasses of red wine.
“Where on earth did you get that?” asked Bryant, amazed.
April pointed across the room to Renfield. “Jack found it among the photographs of drinkers pinned behind the bar in the Old Bell, although it doesn’t look like it was taken there. The decor is different,” she told the group. “Dan, perhaps you could examine the shot and get some clue to the location.”
“The barmaid thinks it’s a recent addition, because she doesn’t remember it being there when she started working behind the bar last month,” said Renfield.
“Then it’s conceivable that the killer was drinking or working in a pub on the night they met there, and singled them out.” Kershaw tapped the photograph with a manicured nail. “When it came to meeting up with them separately, he clearly had a way of posing as one of the other two, using Kellerman’s cell phone. I’m guessing via text messages. Could they have all been members of the same pub club?”
“They met in a public house because it was secure,” said Bryant.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s what Masters said, a pub is neutral territory. Why, the very word
“Or someone,” said Longbright. “Jazmina was stalked.”
“The fundamental problem remains,” said Bryant. “He’s changed his MO and didn’t take Sherwin’s phone this time, so how do we predict whether he will strike again?”
“Start narrowing the search,” said Renfield. “We put out a description to every pub in North and Central London. He’s not going to leave his hunting ground. You said yourself that he feels comfortable there, Bryant. He’s local to the area. We could have him locked away by this time tomorrow.”
“That would require extra manpower, which means involving the Met,” Bryant pointed out.
“What, you have a problem with that?” Renfield wanted to know.
“We don’t but they do. They won’t help us, or you, despite the fact that your mates are still there.”
“Bryant’s right.” Land seemed suddenly alert. “We’ll have to do it ourselves. Let’s start making the calls and getting people out of bed. Nobody goes home tonight.” A collective groan rose in the room. The staff clambered from their perches and started to disperse.
“It still doesn’t feel right,” said Bryant, shaking his head as the office emptied. “We’re looking at the victims instead of the victimiser.”
“You’re trying too hard, Arthur,” said May. “You always do.”
“No, this time my gut instinct is valid. I think – ” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, as if searching for ideas in the dusty cornicing. “I think I need to be alone with my books for an hour.” He rose with a grimace and stumped off to his own room.
May knew it was pointless trying to control his partner. He could only follow and wait for revelations, no matter how wrongheaded they might be.
¦
Dan Banbury had scanned in the photograph of Naomi Curtis, Jocelyn Roquesby and Joanne Kellerman drinking together, and section by section, expanded the background illuminated in the flash of the digital camera, a 3.5 megapixel by the look of it. There were plenty of cell phones offering that level of quality. The top left of the photograph showed the edge of a window. From its placement, he could tell that the pub was on a corner. The light
