Bryant & May 06; The Victoria Vanishes

breaches of conduct. You don’t need to be a bloody detective to do that.”

So, this is the price of getting Giles Kershaw appointed as the new pathologist, thought May. The Home Office was planting Sergeant Renfield in the unit as a practical field man who would force them to play by the rules. The ministry officials had tried using Raymond Land to control the PCU, and that had failed. Now an alternative strategy had presented itself. May wished the unit could just get on with the business of solving crime, but instead it was mired in inter-departmental politics, despite the fact that it had been set up as an independent body to avoid government red tape. Its original purpose had been to deal with crimes that could cause civil unrest and political embarrassment, but over the decades (and under the guidance of Bryant and May) it had proven itself adept at cracking cases where even the most advanced technology failed to identify a culprit. No computer could replicate the sheer peculiarity of the PCU’s techniques. England had a history of creating think-tanks where freedom of thought was more important than an adherence to procedure.

Renfield is just another hurdle we’ll have to find a way of leaping, he thought. We’ve always managed in the past, and we’ll do it again. He was already imagining ways of defusing this latest strategy when Bryant dropped his bombshell.

“You’re too late, Renfield,” Bryant told the sergeant. “I’m not your chum, your pal or your mate. Rather, I have some news of my own that may surprise you. I’ve put in for official retirement. I stuck the envelope into Raymond Land’s top pocket a few hours ago.”

May looked thunderstruck. Renfield’s broad jaw fell open. Everyone knew that the day Bryant retired he would most likely drop dead.

“I know it’s a shock,” said Bryant, “and I know what you’re thinking, retirement will probably kill me, but I’ve made up my mind. Actually, you’re partially responsible for this decision.”

“Me?” Renfield distractedly set the remains of his mushroom vol-au-vent to one side. “This is about our pathologist’s death, isn’t it?”

“Well, of course,” said Bryant. “Although I’m not really blaming you. Oswald Finch died because of the case you brought into his morgue, it’s true. But it’s not about what you did. You made me see something in myself that I hadn’t seen before. It’s as you’ve always told me: I’m miles past my best. My powers of observation were at their peak thirty years ago. When Oswald died in such tragic circumstances, I was as much in the dark about its cause as everyone else. Oh, I understood at once what had happened to him, but not why. I couldn’t appreciate the human causes behind the tragedy. When you lose that ability, you start putting others in danger.”

“But Arthur, you were out of town when it happened,” his partner reminded him. “How could you be expected to fully comprehend a crime that had taken place hundreds of miles away? You couldn’t conduct an investigation without any resources.”

“The point was that I thought I could,” said Bryant. “I should have shared information instead of hogging the little knowledge I had. I failed to observe the most fundamental rules of crime detection. I wanted to test Janice and the others, to make them come to their own conclusions.”

“Jack, leave us alone for a minute,” May told Renfield. “I need to speak with my partner.” He pushed Bryant away from the bemused sergeant.

“Outside, you. I’m not having this argument in front of our staff.”

Seizing Bryant by the shoulders of his absurdly baggy coat, May steered him down the steep nicotine-brown stairs of the Devereux public house and into the narrow courtyard that filled with bankers and lawyers on summer evenings.

“How on earth could you do this to me, Arthur? Could you not have had the decency to discuss it with me first?”

“What, and have you try to talk me out of it?” asked Bryant. “Just look at me, John. I’m half blind. I have to use four sets of spectacles: my reading glasses, my bifocals, my computer lenses and my distance-driving goggles. My observation skills are limited to noting whether or not it’s raining. I wear a hearing aid. I take tablets twice a day. I use a walking stick, but might be better off with a spirit level. I’m older than Picasso’s minotaur paintings. I can’t remember my e-mail address. My memory operates in an almost entirely arbitrary fashion. My sense of orientation is so poor that I’m lucky to find the front door of my house without the aid of an ordnance survey map. And on top of all that, I appear to be shrinking. How many more organs have to pack up before I accidentally cause somebody’s death?”

“Look, I know Raymond said that your powers of observation were failing, but he was talking rubbish as usual, and I am absolutely not going to have this kind of self-pitying conversation with you,” May protested, holding up his hands. “You’re as tough as an ox. Your father was a weight-lifting champion, for God’s sake. You told me his neck measured the same size as Victoria Beckham’s waist. Your dentist reckons you have the strongest tongue in London. He has to put you out just to clean your teeth. You know how you always exaggerate your faults. You’re hurting because you weren’t here to save Oswald Finch, but there’s no point in blaming yourself because you couldn’t have done anything. A detective is someone whose life operates on a strict binary system, Arthur; you’re either working flat out and fully committed or completely off the case. If you stop now, you’ll really see how many parts of your body can start to fail. It’s the job that keeps you supple in mind and body, can’t you see that? I’m going to find Land and take that damned envelope away from him.”

“You’ll do no such thing, John, not if you value our friendship.” Bryant looked up at him with aqueous azure pupils. “Don’t you see? It’s important to know when the time has come to stop, and Oswald’s death has made me realise that I’ve reached that point. Back in that pub there are younger, more energetic members of the PCU who can continue our legacy.”

“Wait a minute, what about me?” said May hotly. “You may have decided that it’s time to give up the ghost, but suppose I’m not ready to go yet? I’m younger than you – ”

“ – only by three years – ”

“ – and I’m certainly not ready to retire. We’ve been a team as far back as I can remember. How am I supposed to survive without you? We can’t just walk away from everything we’ve built, not now, not after all the battles we’ve fought to keep it.”

“We’re not part of the Met anymore, remember?” Bryant rarely raised his voice, but was close to doing so now. “There’s no-one fighting for us, John. We’re under the control of the Home Office, whether we like it or not. You’ve met that faceless little weasel Leslie Faraday. Worse, you’ve met his boss, the Phantom of Whitehall. They’ll wear us down eventually.”

“So that’s it, you just give up and walk away? What do you think you’re going to do at home all day, thumb through your scrap-books of past cases, stare vacantly out of the window jingling the change in your pockets? Or worse still, phone the office offering advice until nobody wants to take your calls anymore? That’s what happens when people retire, you know. Their colleagues tell them to stay in touch but they don’t mean it. They’ll just think you’re too slow and out of the loop. They’ll be too busy proving themselves to bother with you. You’ll be nothing more than a nuisance to them. Ageism is the last real taboo.”

May knew he had to make his partner see the truth, even if it meant being cruel. “If you leave now, you know what we’ll have wasted? All those years spent showing that we could hold our own against overpaid young hotshots, the bean-counters brought in by government ministers eager to prove themselves. All our efforts to make Raymond understand why the unit needs to survive. Wait a minute – Raymond – ” Why hadn’t the chief mentioned Bryant’s resignation to him? Could it be that he hadn’t had a chance to read the letter yet?

“Come with me.” Seizing Bryant by the arm, May dragged him back inside the crowded pub. Land was standing near the bar, talking to his wife. A thin band of white paper protruded from his top pocket. May could not tell from this distance if it had been opened. “You are going to get that letter back right now,” he told his partner.

“I most certainly am not.” Bryant stood his ground. “And kindly take your arm off me. I am still quite capable of perambulating around a room, thank you.”

“Then stay here while I get it and tear the damned thing up.” May pushed his way through the clusters of officers until he found himself standing beside Raymond Land’s wife.

“Well, hello, stranger. Where have you been?” Leanne’s eyes were half closed and her lipstick was smudged, but she was sending out signals to her favourite detective. For many years she had held not so much a torch for John May as a smugglers’ lantern, but his ship had never been tempted to ground upon her rocks.

“Hullo, Leanne. I’m afraid Arthur was a little overcome after his speech and needed some fresh air.” He