Bryant & May 06; The Victoria Vanishes

rather than spreading him all over the A102.”

“My officers risked a great deal trying to prevent the flight of a mentally unstable man,” Land explained.

“Quite understood.” Kasavian examined his nails as though checking for evidence that could link him with murder. “Trying circumstances for everyone involved, and I look forward to reading your full report. But I am here about another matter entirely. The Peculiar Crimes Unit currently occupies the site at 1b Camden Road, does it not?” Kasavian opened a folder and produced a photocopied map of the area, with the footprint of Mornington Crescent station marked in shaded lines.

Land was bewildered. He leaned forward, peering at the proffered document. “That is correct.”

Kasavian tapped a long hard nail on his front tooth. It made a sound like water dripping from a corpse onto an upturned tin bucket. “You see, the thing is, there has been a rather unfortunate oversight. Probably no more than a clerical error, but an error all the same. Your lease – ”

“ – extended to 2017; I signed the documents myself,” said Land hastily.

“Indeed you did, but for some reason I can hardly begin to fathom, the document was never notarised by the Land Registrar. Which means that the lease was never officially extended.” Kasavian had employed his legal team for over a month, searching for some loophole by which to remove the PCU from his sight. The unratified lease had fallen into his etiolated hands like disinterred treasure.

“Then surely it is simply a matter of presenting the lease once more,” said Land hopefully.

“Would that things were so simple.” Faraday wrung his hands together so tightly that Land expected to see drops of blood fall from them. “With the lapse of the lease, all existing documentation between the former leaseholder and the Crown Estate, which owns the site, is voided.”

“Can’t we draw up new documents based on the previous arrangement?” asked Land, already knowing the answer.

Kasavian gave him a dry, hooded look that suggested he could not be bothered to come up with any more excuses. “The unit is required to vacate the premises at noon on Monday.”

“But tomorrow’s Saturday,” squeaked Land. “Where are we to be rehoused?”

“Alas, we do not have the facility for rehousing such a government unit at present.”

“Then what are you suggesting we do?”

Faraday pretended to spot something of great interest outside the window, which was unlikely as he was facing a brick wall in Horseferry Road. “Mr Kasavian has kindly agreed to placing all members of staff on partially paid leave until the situation can be sorted out,” he said.

“We hope to find new premises for you within three to four months. Meanwhile, we will be offering a generous ‘opt-out’ scheme to your staff, for those members who feel unable to continue with the unit.”

“Do you know how many times the Home Office has tried to disband the PCU and failed?” said Land hotly. “Without us, this type of crime would go undetected and unsolved.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Kasavian. “The unit has clearly had its fans in the Home Office, but many members of the old guard are reaching retirement age and handing over the reins. There are reasons why you never made superintendent, Land, just as there are now reasons to assume that the Metropolitan Police Force could handle this kind of work with greater cost-efficiency.”

“So that’s what it comes down to?” asked Land. “Money?”

“It’s a matter of security. It may have escaped your notice, but the capital is on a permanent ‘Severe’ terrorism alert. There is no room for your little cottage-industry detection unit. You’re an anachronism, an unacceptable security risk; you’ve admitted so yourself.”

“That was in the past, before – ”

“Before your detectives won you over? Ask yourself, Land, what has changed? The answer is nothing, and that’s the problem.”

“Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?” Land pleaded. He glanced back at Faraday, who had just noticed that his tapestry chair was ruined.

“It’s too late for that,” said Kasavian. “I’m afraid the building has already been sold. Tomorrow is your very last day at Mornington Crescent. You’d better go and tell your staff to pack up their belongings.” His smile was as mirthless as any carnival huckster’s. “Don’t worry, we won’t do anything as drastic as changing the locks. I remember only too well what happened the last time we tried that. We’re all civilised adults, Mr Land, I’m sure we can reach an amicable agreement.”

“You mean you’d like us to reach a compromise on the terms of moving out?” said Land hopefully.

“Good God, no,” said Kasavian. “It’s merely an expression. There’s nothing you can do now except go.”

? The Victoria Vanishes ?

35

Interpretation

A pair of disembodied legs sealed in black fishnet tights and crimson satin garters was balanced gracefully on a mound of red plastic poppies. Nearby, a torso clad in a basque with lavender rhinestones set in its staves glittered menacingly.

DS Janice Longbright peered into the shop window and sighed at the clothes she could not afford. She was tired of being broke and unloved. Checking her watch, she realised that she was running late. Carol Wynley’s partner was awaiting her arrival in the flat beside the shop.

Shad Thomson had suffered a stroke in his late fifties, three years earlier, and the apartment he shared with Carol Wynley had been adapted to allow his motorised wheelchair to pass easily from room to room. Although she was unsure how much help she should offer her host, Longbright suggested making tea for them both, and he comfortably acquiesced.

“I suppose I got lazy living with Carol,” he told her. “It’s surprisingly easy to let someone do everything for you.”

“You must miss her a great deal,” Longbright said.

“I’ll never know anyone else like her,” he replied. “She knew me before the stroke, so she remembered a different person, the one who was still on his feet, racing around town taking meetings, hitting deadlines, thinking that work was so damned important. No-one will ever see me like that again. Carol was the last person to really know me. I’m someone else now. I can never go back.”

“How long were you together?”

“Seven years. I met her in a pub, the Seven Stars in Carey Street. I remember it had some kind of connection with Holland. She had worked for a law firm in Amsterdam, and we got talking about the history of the place. I’m a journalist. At least it’s a job I can still do like this.”

“Carol was still working in a law firm, wasn’t she?”

“That’s right, as a legal PA for the Swedenborg Society.”

“Where was she before that, do you remember?”

“Of course. She was at the Holborn Security Group, a firm of specialist solicitors on Theobalds Road.”

“When did she leave that job?”

“I think it was a couple of years ago now.” Around the same time that the other three had left their non-existent jobs, thought Longbright. Where had these women all been? What were they really doing?

“Did you ever meet anyone she worked with at the Holborn Security Group?”

“I met one of her bosses, some kind of consultant,” said Shad, “and once a woman of about her age dropped her off here.”

“One of these three, perhaps?” Longbright showed him the photograph of Roquesby, Kellerman and Curtis taken in the pub.

“That one,” said Shad, pointing at Roquesby without hesitation. “I think she and Jocelyn briefly shared an office. I remember because Mrs Roquesby was an old colleague of Dr Peter Jukes. You must have read about him in the papers.”

“I don’t think I have,” said Longbright, but she could vaguely recall someone at the PCU mentioning his name.