Bryant & May 07; Bryant & May on the Loose

transformation. After the games, the Lower Lea Valley will become the largest urban park created in Europe for one hundred fifty years.”

“So I am led to believe. The government expects international traffic through King’s Cross to become permanent, and that means even more overseas investment, public-private partnerships, that sort of thing. The Prime Minister is anxious to maximise the business opportunities afforded by the new Eurostar link, and as you know, it only takes one incident to swing the British press in the wrong direction, so – ”

“For God’s sake, Leslie, do stop waffling,” cried Bryant, exasperated. “Is he going to bring us back or not?”

Faraday looked back at the phone and scowled. He had dropped macaroni cheese down his trousers. “Well, I don’t think we have any choice in the matter.”

“Does that mean you are?”

“There’s good and bad news. You can re-form the PCU as long as it’s on the strict understanding that this case is resolved very quickly and very quietly. No later than the end of next week. After that, it returns to Islington CID.”

“I take it that’s the good news.”

“Correct. The bad is that we won’t be able to officially recognise you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means no-one can know of your existence. You won’t have access to police information or technology. No identity intelligence, file sharing, fingerprint databases or forensic utilities of any kind. We simply can’t afford to let them know about you.”

“You mean we’d have to operate with fewer tools than Sherlock Holmes had at his disposal, and he was fictional! How are we supposed to do that? This is the twenty-first century.”

“I’m sorry, that’s the best I can do.”

“Can we at least get our old building back?”

“I’m afraid not. There will have to be some kind of temporary arrangement – ”

“Then we’ll take out a rental agreement on a cheap office in King’s Cross and send the bill over to you.”

“I don’t know about that – ”

“I’m a pensioner, Leslie; I’ve got no money. What am I supposed to do, bung the expense on my Sainsbury’s card?”

“Well, I’ll have to clear it – ”

“Fine, you do that and I’ll get started at once.” Bryant could hear the sweat breaking out on Faraday’s forehead; he decided to ring off before the civil servant changed his mind.

¦

“Meera? Is that you?” Colin Bimsley was still in bed when the phone rang. He could scarcely believe that the diminutive Indian DC was actually calling him.

“Don’t get your hopes up. The old man’s trying to get the unit back on its feet. I think you’d better come over here as soon as you can.”

“Do you want me for my body? I mean, the body I found in the shop?”

“I’m not sure what Bryant’s up to. I’ve tried working out how he thinks, but it’s like trying to reset the clock on my oven without the manual.”

“I didn’t know you cooked.”

“I can heat up takeaway. Are you coming or what?”

“Where are you?”

“In some horrible fake-French cafe at the back of King’s Cross station, just past the junction of York Way and Wharf Road.” Meera gave him the address. “Don’t say – ”

“So is this, like, a date?”

“You had to say it, didn’t you.” She cut the connection, then called Janice Longbright.

“Come back to the unit?” Longbright wedged the heavy Bakelite telephone receiver under her ear while she folded a pair of 1950^s crimson silk broderie anglaise knickers into a ribboned box. Saturday was a busy shopping day in Camden Town. “To be honest, I’m quite enjoying myself here. Why would I want to come back?”

“I could say we’ll be performing a service by taking on the case,” said Meera, “but the truth is I think old Bryant will peg it if we don’t.”

“He’s not ill, is he?”

“Not yet, but he’s been going downhill. Let’s just say he doesn’t have a lot to live for without you and John beside him.”

Longbright sighed and looked around the sumptuous lingerie store, already knowing she would have to bid farewell to it. “When does he want me?”

“Right now.”

“Then I guess I’ll be there,” she promised, trying to keep the regret from her voice.

¦

Raymond Land was at his club, waiting for the bar to open. He missed his shot when the phone rang.

“Buggeration!” He rose from the billiard table with a wince. Flipping open his phone, he tried to recognise the number. It couldn’t be Leanne, his wife; she was having a lesson with her Latin American dance instructor. Apparently the man was teaching her to rhumba.

“Mr Land, it’s Meera.”

“Hello, Mangeshkar, how are you?”

“Very well, thanks. How’s Crippen?”

“I’m not very good with cats.” Land still had a bandage on his hand. He had been stuck with the PCU’s mascot ever since the unit shut, and the damned thing kept trying to bite him whenever he picked it up. “Do you want it back?” he asked hopefully.

“I have some wonderful news for you.”

Land’s heart began to sink. He set down his billiard cue reverently, sensing that something was about to die, probably his long-term retirement plan.

“The Peculiar Crimes Unit is going to be reopened.”

No, thought Land. I’m out. I earned it, all those years of being made to look stupid while Bryant and May took all the glory. I can’t do it. I won’t do it.

“I won’t do it.” He realised he had spoken the last part of his thoughts aloud.

“I’m afraid you have to, sir,” said Mangeshkar. “I just had a call from Mr Leslie Faraday at the Home Office. His orders come from Mr Kasavian, and his orders come directly from the Prime Minister. They want you to start work immediately. A matter of priority.”

“But I thought the team had split up.”

“No, sir. I’ve located all of them except one.”

“Why, who’s missing?” asked Land.

? Bryant & May on the Loose ?

13

Identity

The steep-roofed Gothic building at the back of Camley Street had a melancholy air, even for a coroner’s office. The wet green banks of the St Pancras Old Church graveyard sloped down on either side of the walls, as if threatening to inundate the little house with the cascading tombs of the dead. Even a modern extension could not erase the sense of desolation that enveloped it. Tall black iron railings, each spear topped with a gold-painted fleur-de-lis, surrounded the doorway. Beneath a rowan tree, a muscular grave digger stood motionless, looking down at them with feigned disinterest. He was young, but it seemed to May that the mournful atmosphere had stained his features with sorrow.

King’s Cross was increasingly becoming an area of paradox; the more its pavements filled with commuters dashing between the stations, the less travelled were its backstreets. The morgue was only a few hundred yards