Bryant & May 07; Bryant & May on the Loose

you, when you had me deciphering naval flag codes before I’d even got my coat off, all you ever cared about was yourself.”

“That’s not entirely true,” retorted Bryant indignantly. “There have been times – not lately, perhaps – when my generosity has known no bounds. I gave you all the credit when my efforts brought about the capture of the Little Italy Whelk Smugglers.”

“An action which resulted in me having to hide several dozen drums of black-market treacle from the police, I remember. You always give me the credit when you’re about to get caught for something.”

“Excuse me?” intervened Meera, whose brief attempt at patience had already evaporated. “This is, like, an ancient history lesson or something. Can we get back to the real world? Tell him, Mr May.”

“There’s been a murder in King’s Cross,” said May, duly prompted.

“Hardly headline news.” Bryant slouched further into his dressing gown. “I’d be more surprised if there hadn’t been.”

“It’s a professional job.”

“One for the Met, then. They have all the right contacts in that area. There are eleven recognised gangs in the borough of Camden alone.”

“Except that in this case no-one has a clue who’s behind it. The victim’s remains haven’t been identified because his head was cut off and we don’t yet know if his fingerprints are on file. He’s been dead for a few days. I thought it might pique your interest.”

“Well, you thought wrong,” snapped Bryant. “You think every time someone dies my heart quickens? It doesn’t.”

“You’re being so unfair, Mr Bryant,” said Meera. “Why don’t you just get dressed and come and visit the crime scene?”

“You come any nearer, young lady, and you shall get the benefit of my toasting fork where you least expect it.” He turned back to his old partner. “I was looking through my casebook over the weekend, and realised that once you get beneath the unique circumstances of a crime, the perpetrators are depressingly similar. They’re selfish, blind, unpleasant people, and worst of all, they no longer have the ability to surprise me in any way.”

“Perhaps not,” said May, “but there’s a very good reason why you should be interested. It’s a case that could bring down the government.”

¦

“This kind of crime creates a potentially disastrous situation in the area,” said Leslie Faraday. “King’s Cross – of all places – the PM’s flagship development – you understand the implications.”

Faraday had taken to coming in on Saturday mornings because his supervisor did, and he was anxious to have his diligence noted. He ventured into Kasavian’s office with the trepidation of Van Helsing entering the lair of the undead. The room of casket-coloured oak had absorbed a hundred years of tobacco smoke before the banning of cigarettes, and somehow the very air seemed to be stained sepia. There were patches on the carpet where no light had ever fallen.

Oskar Kasavian winced at the watery morning sunlight and turned away from the window, slipping back into shadow. With his sharply hooked nose and pale, elongated features he reminded Faraday of Nosferatu in the 1922 German film version he had seen on a drizzly evening in November 1979 at the East Finchley Rex, an event he had never forgotten, because he never forgot anything. He had been on a date with a girl called Deirdre Fairburn who went out for a choc-ice halfway through the film and never came back. Faraday had remained in his seat to watch the end of the film because it was not the first time a girl had given him the slip.

“Of course I understand. Do you know how much money the government is spending on security resources to convince investors that the area has been cleaned up? The return of organised crime is unthinkable. Have you spoken to Islington? I heard they had a suspect in custody.”

“They seem to think the crime didn’t occur on their turf, but yes, they were holding a man called Rafi Abd al-Qaadir. They had no evidence and were forced to let him go, thanks to our Mr Bimsley, who brought in a lawyer to argue on his behalf. Now they’re trying to track down the Nigerian businessman who sold the lease of the shop where the body was found. Trouble is, the place was open and empty for a month. They’re checking their usual contacts, but I can tell they don’t know what to make of the death. I’m waiting for a pathology report.”

“Have you at least managed to keep this away from the press?”

“For the moment, but there’s no way of stopping information from getting out so long as it’s a publicly registered CID case. I’ve already warned APPRO not to issue any kind of statement.”

“St Pancras International is right next door, and it’s the terminal for the next Olympics. They’re about to open a luxury hotel that will house senior members of the Olympic Committee not five hundred yards from where this corpse was found. If anyone at the PM’s office gets wind of this we will be crucified.” Kasavian looked like a man who was no stranger to crucifixion, or subsequent resurrection.

“There may be one solution,” Faraday ventured, “but I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

¦

Back in Chalk Farm it was like old times, insofar as the detectives were arguing. “All you have to do is talk to Leslie Faraday,” said John May. “He owes you several favours. If he can be persuaded – ”

“You’re forgetting one thing.” Bryant leaned forward, his blue eyes widening. “I am not interested.”

“Come on, we’re wasting our time here,” said Meera, grabbing May’s arm. “I’m disappointed in you, Mr Bryant, after all your lectures about looking for the unexpected in everyday crimes.”

“That’s because I finally realise there’s nothing unexpected anymore,” Bryant replied, slumping back.

“That’s not true and you know it. Unexpected things happen all the time. I was coming out of a nightclub on Friday night when some bloke dressed as a bloody stag attacked me in the street, slashed my arm and ran off.”

Bryant was brought up short. “A stag?” he repeated.

“Yeah, you know, big animal, they have them in the countryside or in zoos or something. Furry coat, antlers, the lot.”

“Where was this?”

“Right in the middle of King’s Cross, the bit behind the cross-channel railway line that’s a dug-up field.”

“You’re talking about the triangular piece of land between the Battlebridge Basin and the Eurostar terminal?”

“Yeah, I suppose so.” Meera looked puzzled.

“You have to show me exactly where this happened, right now. Find my shoes, someone.” Moments later Bryant had shucked his dressing gown and was scrabbling to get into a grubby old herringbone overcoat, still clutching his walking stick, which became accidentally threaded through one of the sleeves, so that as he floundered about he resembled a particularly disreputable scarecrow coming to life.

“For God’s sake don’t just stand there, woman, help me get this blasted thing on properly!” he shouted. Then he fell over.

“Oh, Mr Bryant, you’re back!” cried Alma Sorrowbridge, pulling him out of the fireplace and patting him down before anything could burst into flames.

? Bryant & May on the Loose ?

11

Tremors

“You know, I always felt that the Peculiar Crimes Unit might finally find its spiritual home in a railway terminus district like King’s Cross,” said Bryant as the trio marched along York Way in blustery squalls of rain. He spoke above the ever-present bourdon of taxi engines, a low thrum that underscored life in the area from every dawn to every midnight.

The road behind the railway yards turned into the kind of strange no-man’s-land Bryant had often seen in London after the war. These urban limbos had been created by bomb damage and government indecision. With a nation to rebuild, cash for housing was in short supply. After the rubble from fractured terraces had been cleared away, the scarred earth remained as a slow-healing memory of the wounds inflicted by war. Children turned the