overweight middle-aged Nigerian woman.
“I don’t suppose he could have disguised himself?” asked Bryant. “In order to give his girlfriend the slip?”
Mr Gregory zoomed the camera in, first on the old man, then on the Nigerian woman. Even a master of disguise would have been unable to transform himself into either of these characters.
“Could he have let himself into the driver’s cockpit somehow?”
“Not a chance, it’s dead-bolted.”
“Then he must simply have stayed on board the train.”
Mr Gregory reversed the footage and panned along each of the carriages while the train stood with its doors open. They zoomed into all of the few remaining passengers, but there was no-one in a striped coat and woollen cap. “See for yourself. I don’t know where you think he could have gone, unless he found a way of tearing the seats up and hiding inside them.”
“You’re telling me a six-foot-tall student vanished into thin air on board a moving train,” Bryant complained.
“No,” said Mr Gregory, “you’re telling me.” He shoved the inhaler back up his nose and snorted hard.
On their way back out of the station, the detectives passed a neat row of K stickers that had been stuck on the tiled walls. “Oh, those,” said Mr Gregory, when they were pointed out. “Bloody anarchists.”
“It’s advertising a local bar, isn’t it?”
“It might be now, but those stickers have been around for donkey’s years. They’re a bugger to get off.”
Bryant picked at one with a fingernail. “How do you know they’re anarchists?”
Mr Gregory shook his head in puzzlement. “Actually, now I come to think of it, I don’t know. Somebody must have mentioned them before. It’s a local symbol, like. Been up on the walls since I was a nipper. My old man used to bring me up here. I’m sure it’s something to do with wanting to bring down the government. Someone here must have told me. Hang on.” He called across the station forecourt to a guard. “Oi, Aram, them stickers along the wall, what are they for?”
“Anarchists, innit,” Aram confirmed. “Bash the Rich an’ that.”
“Ah, a psychogeographical connection.” Bryant perked up. “Leave this to me.”
“No,” May mouthed back. “There’s no time left for your pottering.”
“I’ll have you remember that my ‘pottering’, as you call it, caught the Fulham Road Strangler.” Bryant had discovered that their suspect was a collector of Persian tapestries, and had matched a fibre left on one of his victims. Tracking him to an antique shop, May had wrestled him to the ground while Bryant crowned him with the nearest object to hand, which unfortunately proved to be a rare seventeenth-century ormolu clock. The killer’s sister had sued the Unit.
“It was a horrible clock anyway,” mused Bryant. “Let me potter for a few hours and I might surprise you.”
May wearily pressed a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “We’re already looking for an invisible passenger and an anarchist,” he told his partner. “Let’s not have any more surprises today.”
? Off the Rails ?
25
Late Night Conversation
Bryant spent the next few hours in a dim basement library you could only access with the possession of a special pass and a private knock. For the other members of the PCU, Wednesday dragged past in a grim trudge of paperwork, legwork, statements and interviews. Colin Bimsley and Meera Mangeshkar were now resigned to being yoked together, but the paucity of leads made it feel as if there was barely a case to resolve. Meera felt guilty for thinking so, but it was certainly not the kind of investigation upon which reputations were built, not unless there was a racial or political motive for the attack. What did they really have to go on, other than a couple of hunches and the vague sensation that something was wrong?
Just after noon, one of the Daves took the curl out of his hair by slicing through a power cable, which darkened the offices instantly and killed the computers.
At 2:15 Crippen managed to locate the packet of butter that had been used on his paws and ate the whole thing, regurgitating his lunch into Raymond Land’s duffle bag.
At 4:45 the other Dave, now differentiated from his colleague by the lack of singeing in his extremities, removed some plaster from a wall in order to locate a pipe, and in doing so, uncovered an amateurish but alarmingly provocative fresco of naked, overweight witches cavorting in a devil’s circle. It was further proof, if any more was needed, that the warehouse had once been used for something damnably odd. Land had immediately demanded to know what the witches were doing there, and was not satisfied with Bryant’s suggestion that it might be the foxtrot.
By 8:30 that evening having satisfied all existing avenues of enquiry, the exhausted investigators reached a dead end and were sent home, leaving only Bryant and his favourite detective sergeant at King’s Cross headquarters.
DS Janice Longbright pulled the cork from a bottle of Mexican burgundy with her teeth and filled two tumblers. “The trouble with you, Arthur,” she began, with the cork still in her mouth.
“Any sentence that starts like that is bound to end with something I don’t want to hear,” Bryant interrupted. “Take a card.” He held out the pack in a hopeful fan.
“The trouble with you is that once you get the bit between your teeth you can’t be shifted. Two of diamonds. Like this thing with Mr Fox. Take a look.” She spat out the cork and threw a page across his desk. “It’s a screen grab from your security-wallah, Mr Dutta.”
“You weren’t supposed to tell me what the card was.” Bryant fumbled for his spectacles and held the page an inch from his nose. The blurred photograph showed Mr Fox and his victim walking outside King’s Cross station. “Just what I told you. He followed McCarthy into the tube and stabbed him.”
“Come on, even I noticed this.” She threw him another sheet, the same scene a few frames later, as the pair moved into clearer view.
“Oh, I see what you mean,” said Bryant. “That looks like Mr Fox in his earlier incarnation, before he shaved his hair closer to his head.”
“Because it was taken ten days ago. Concrete evidence that they knew each other. You were right. Mr Fox was taking care of business, getting rid of an unreliable junkie who had something on him.”
“Any news from the patient?”
“Nope, he’s still unconscious. There’s a staff nurse on duty outside his room, making sure nobody tries to get in. She’ll call us if and when he comes around.”
“Has anyone tried to see him?”
“He’s had no visitors at all.”
“I wonder if Mr Fox thinks he’s dead. You’d better check and see if anyone’s been talking to the ambulance crew. Take another card.”
“Do I have to?”
“Humour the meagre amusements of a frail old man.”
Janice gave him an old-fashioned look and withdrew a card.
“Remember it and put it back.” After she had done so, he threw the pack at the wall. One card stuck. Grunting, he reached across and turned it over. “Nine of clubs.”
“No, it was the queen of spades.”
“Bugger. You know those television detectives who put themselves in the minds of killers? I’ve never been able to do that. I never have the faintest idea what killers might be thinking. But I would imagine Mr Fox would like to make sure Mac never opens his mouth again. He’ll be watching the hospital, or asking around.” Bryant sipped his wine. “This tastes like that bottle of Chateau Gumshrinker I meant to throw out when we moved.”
“There was nothing else in the kitchen. Try not to let it touch your teeth.”
“It doesn’t matter, they’re made of plastic. Did you get a chance to look into Mrs DuCaine’s claim that her other son was turned down for the force?”
