“That’s what he calls it. The little iron balcony at the back of the building.”
“Go and get him, will you?” May ran a hand over the nape of his neck. “Keeping you lot in one room is like herding cats. Who hasn’t got anything to do? Renfield, do you feel like doing door-to-door?”
“Not really, no.” Renfield was also in a lousy mood, knowing that he had to sneak behind everyone’s backs all week to report to Faraday.
“Fine, then, it falls to you: I want the rest of the statements, anyone who knew Delaney, or saw him, or employed him, on my desk by the end of the day. Come on, ladies and gentlemen, I want you thinking beyond the obvious.”
“You’re looking for me?” Bryant sauntered in, still smouldering from pipe tobacco.
“You can’t use that platform as a smoking area; it doesn’t look safe,” May warned. The balcony had once contained a block-and-tackle for raising cargo into the building, but now the iron framework was rusted through, so that the entire cage shifted when any weight was placed upon it.
“Can I enjoy my pipe in here?”
“Certainly not,” said Land.
“Then I shall continue to indulge this innocent pleasure on my deck. What would you like me to do?”
“I thought you might like to help me find out who is leaving body parts all over the neighbourhood. You could lend a hand, preferably one that’s still attached to an arm.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’d make a first-class nightclub comic?”
“No.”
“They never will. I think I can help you with the vexed question of extremities,” said Bryant, tearing open a bag of mints and doling them out. “I was pondering the problem just now. Did you know that the Celtic area of Penton, part of King’s Cross, is directly connected with the severing of human heads?”
Land looked blankly back, as if struggling to decipher what he had just heard.
“It’s true. The Celts believed that the spirit dwelt in the head, and built a sacred mound in which they buried the heads of their enemies. This is the mound that was known as the Penton, hence Pentonville, town of the sacrificial mound. It is also in the diocese of St Pancras, who was himself beheaded. It would seem that the sighting of the Horned One, our chap in the stag’s outfit, and the headless victims are historically linked. King’s Cross is a land of great mystical significance, after all.”
“No, no! I will not go down this route, Bryant.” Land raised his hands in complaint. “One minute everything is normal, and the next you’ll have crackpots with spirit-meters and dowsing rods taking over the place.”
“Look, it’s very simple,” Bryant explained patiently. “St Pancras Church as we know it was founded in the third century, but it’s built on a temple to Mithras, and the area has deep connections with the occult. The Horned One is intent on reclaiming his land. I’ve been working too, you know, interviewing witnesses and checking through local records, and I think this vision which has been spotted on the King’s Cross construction site is intended to be regarded as an incarnation of the great god Pan himself, Jack-in-the-Green, London’s oldest and most enduring myth. Now, I’m not saying it
“Why do you think this mythical creature would leave a body in a freezer? Why are you so sure that the events are connected?” May asked his partner. Sometimes Bryant tried too hard to join facts together.
“If you understand the motivation, everything else follows,” said Bryant, screening out reasonable argument. “Think it through. Once the bulldozers move in, the battle is lost. There are no valuable buildings to save on the site, no architectural wonders to fight for, just derelict factories and barren waste-ground used by prostitutes and drug addicts, so who could possibly raise an objection when companies offer to pump millions into a neighbourhood?” Bryant raised a wrinkled finger. “Ah, but imagine someone with a different agenda, a plan to restore the area’s lost religious significance, someone still intent on disrupting the building schedule. What’s the best way to do that? Complain to the board of directors? Forget it; it won’t work, because the consultations have all been concluded. Corporations pay huddles of lawyers vast fortunes to crush the council’s paltry opposition teams. So how about simply frightening off the workers, many of whom are migrants with a limited grasp of English who’ve been plonked down into a strange land? Visions and portents. Evil omens. Simple, cheap and extremely effective.”
“That’s the best you can come up with, is it? The Scooby-Doo defence? It was the mill owner dressed as a ghostly stag? Plus, it doesn’t give us any clue as to who might be responsible,” said May.
“Oh, I think it does,” Bryant disagreed. “In fact, we can meet up with him this morning if you like. But I warn you, identifying him and proving his culpability are going to be two entirely separate problems.”
“It sounds to me like he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“That’s precisely what makes him so dangerous,” Bryant warned.
? Bryant & May on the Loose ?
26
Proof of Innocence
“I want them off the premises right now,” warned Marianne Waters. “Put them back beyond the perimeter fence.”
“I can’t. Mr Toth has somehow got hold of press passes. They’re legit, and Toth knows his rights. I can’t throw him out without attracting more attention. They’re right across the path between our team and the site for the ground-breaking ceremony.”
“Then delay the start until I can get down there.”
“They’ve already kicked off.”
“Jesus, Cavendish, what do I pay our security team for?” Waters angrily closed her cell phone and stalked out along the office corridor.
At the front of the fenced-off triangle of land before the railway embankment, Maddox Cavendish watched helplessly as Xander Toth led the picketers in another chant, something about the freedom of the land. There were no more than a dozen of them, but the public was falling into line, singing along. A shout of indignation went up every time the security guards pushed back at the advancing picket. Above the bellowed slogans, the architect fought to make himself heard. A handful of police constables were keeping a watchful eye on the wavering line between protestors and guards.
On a raised platform, monitors showed computer-rendered graphics of how the site would look once the building works were completed. Attractive, willowy people meandered robotically over glass bridges and through sculpture parks. From the computer-assisted designs it appeared that the new buildings would not only transform the area, they would change the city’s weather patterns as well. The entire landscape appeared to be basking in Mediterranean sunshine. When the picketers suddenly surged forward some of them bumped the edge of the stage, and the screens wobbled alarmingly.
“What are they protesting about?” asked Colin Bimsley as they approached. “I thought Mr Bryant said that the whole deal was signed off.”
“It’s the second phase of construction,” Meera explained. “The plans got changed, more offices, less affordable housing, more concrete, less parkland – the usual sort of thing. The council must have signed off on the alterations without public consultation. I don’t believe it!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Bryant’s over there with the bloody protestors!” Meera was right; their superior was wedged into the front of the picket line. They could see Bryant’s moth-eaten brown trilby bobbing up and down.
Marianne Waters had arrived and was talking to a member of the PR team. Moments later, she had grabbed a walkie-talkie and was ordering the construction workers to break through the picket line. The noise level welled up as both sides pushed forward and megaphones squealed feedback
“We have to get Arthur out of there,” said Meera. “This is going to turn nasty.”
“‘Leave it to me.” Bimsley charged off into the surging crowd. Meera saw a scaffolding pipe being raised, then suddenly there were bricks and bottles in the air. She ran after Bimsley, shoving her way into the brawling mass. They saw Bryant rise peculiarly above the seething scrum, then slip and sink between a pair of security guards. Diving deeper beneath the collapsing bodies, Bimsley managed to catch his boss’s outstretched arm and lift him up, pulling him over his broad shoulder.
