? Bryant & May on the Loose ?
45
Complete
Richard Standover worried about his collection.
Now that it was finally complete, something indefinable had been lost. That magical, mystical day in 1968 had been catalogued and pinned down, every last minute accounted for. He had been there, at location number five, reading a Beano comic on the park bench in the graveyard attached to St Pancras Old Church, when the Fab Four had turned up with their photographers.
They were rowdy and filled with laughter, and he was seven years old. John Lennon had insisted that he join them in the group shot on the bench, and had even put his arm around his shoulders. Passers-by had stopped to gawp through the gates of the churchyard, but were too awed to come in. People were in those days. It was a working class area; the old’uns were dismissive of pop stars, and the young were shy.
The photographs were taken, then all four were off with a smile and a wave to be filmed in a flower bed of crimson hollyhocks beside the hospital buildings. Paul McCartney was in a pink suit, George Harrison wore a bright blue shirt and orange-striped trousers. The heat of the afternoon sun was starting to fade. Cool green shadows crept over the lawns as the watchers dispersed. Standover had remained on the park bench, touching the wooden slats where his heroes had sat, laughing and joking with him as if they were his older brothers.
It was the day his collecting habit had begun, and now the most important part of it was complete, sealing the faded memories of his childhood behind cardboard and clear plastic forever.
Going on-line, he printed out a boarding pass for a 7:20 a.m. Easyjet flight from Luton and threw a few clothes into a holdall. He would rent out the flat until it could be sold, but the slender envelope of photographs would remain in his hand until he arrived in Majorca, where it could take its place in the documented schedule of that extraordinary day.
His cleaning lady had promised to drop off her keys before he left. When the doorbell rang, he assumed it was her.
¦
Renfield and Bimsley knew something was wrong as they approached the block of apartments in Bloomsbury where Standover lived. The lighting in the front-facing third-floor living room was askew; Renfield had seen enough rooms where fights had occurred. A lamp had been knocked to the floor, its shade displaced. A shadow stretched, the upturned beam passed across the opposite wall, then the ceiling, rolling fast.
“I know these flats,” said Bimsley. “There are exits all over the bloody place.”
Renfield broke into a run, with Bimsley close behind him. He powered through the unlatched main door and up the stairs, through the open apartment door and into the dim hall. He could already see the bright scarlet smears in the room ahead. Standover was on his back, his right hand still frozen in a posture of defence, the left gripping his throat, ebbing rivulets of blood pouring between his fingers. He was already dead.
“Roof,” said Renfield. “Come with me.”
There were smears and splashes on the staircase above, and on the landing over that. The exit door led to the lift mechanism and a shingled flat roof set in a hollow square, four apartment buildings with an internal garden at their centre. The low London night was yellow enough to see ahead, but they heard his crunching steps first. Renfield led by experience, with Bimsley hard on his heels.
At the far edge they saw him, a small figure in a knitted brown cap, moving with shocking agility. They saw him look back in panic, then brace, but could not believe he would actually jump. The noise of his landing was immense; a wide gap onto the next building, too wide for men as heavy as Renfield and Bimsley to chance, one floor down and onto an angled metal-skimmed awning that allowed little purchase.
Bimsley was calling in the description as Renfield searched for another way across. They ran back to the roof door, but four flights of stairs took them outside with no obvious way around to the next building. Even as they ran, they knew they were dealing with someone unusual, a man who knew exactly where he was going. They would search now, but their quarry had gone. Standover was dead, and somewhere in Bloomsbury’s confusing maze of streets was a blood-smeared madman.
Renfield was always angry, and never more so than when a life which might have been saved was cut short. He had no way of knowing that in one sense, Standover had died with his world completed at last.
? Bryant & May on the Loose ?
46
Pieces
Marianne Waters was the kind of woman who only noticed members of staff when they made a mistake, and she regarded everyone of lower status as a member of staff, whether they worked for her or not. She handed her overcoat to the maitre d’ of the discreet Italian restaurant without engaging eye contact and found her own way to Oskar Kasavian’s table. She had no time for pleasantries and no facility for small talk.
“Oskar, don’t ever try to palm me off with one of your juniors again, do you understand?” She poured herself a glass of wine but did not remove her jacket. She could unsettle anyone by confounding their expectations. “I thought the Home Office had cleared out people like Faraday years ago.”
“He’s a legacy.” Kasavian sighed. “His father – ”
“I know who his father was. The children of famous parents are nearly always less talented, which is why they make such messes of their lives. From now on, I’ll deal only with you.”
“I don’t know what more you want, Marianne.” Kasavian regarded her coldly. “Your construction crews are all back at work.”
“I wanted Alexander Toth charged, not released. Your special unit let him go.” Kasavian was shocked at the news. He had specifically asked Faraday to plant a spy at the PCU and get feedback every night.
“Now the press are crawling all over this multiple-murder case. The media’s desperate to suggest that it’s the tip of a corruption scandal and they’re sniffing around us, but so far of course they have no evidence. We can’t be investigated now, not at this crucial juncture. Our investors are nervous enough as it is. One has already pulled out, and the others are keeping a close eye on developments. Nobody wants a spotlight shone on their finances or their internal policies, and they certainly don’t want to attract the attention of the Inland Revenue Services. I’m not saying there are any irregularities, just that any audit would throw us off schedule. I need to know what you’re doing for us, Oskar. I want your press officers to get something out by tomorrow morning at the latest.”
She knew – everyone knew – about Kasavian’s affair with Janet Ramsey, the editor of
“I’m not one of your suppliers, Marianne; I represent the state,” Kasavian pointed out. “You all think you’re above the law, but if we decide to investigate you, we will do so at our convenience and our leisure, without your permission.”
“I have the word of the Secretary of Trade on this,” warned Marianne. “We have put mechanisms in place to ensure that the work is finished on time.”
“And I have the ear of the Prime Minister,” Kasavian reminded her. “You need to remember who you’re talking to. It’s your job to make sure that your investors hold their nerve. Tell them the situation has been resolved.”
“Has it?”
“That’s no concern of yours. The unit handling the investigation is being removed tomorrow evening. Islington and Camden will combine their CID departments and take over, and the whole thing will fall under the jurisdiction of the Commissioner of Police. He’ll make the appropriate reassurances. The work must be completed on schedule.”
