“Maybe not, but it’s a place to start,” Bryant interrupted. “Keep looking, and leave everything exactly where it is, just in case he decides to come back. I’ll see if we can run surveillance for a few days at least.”
Bryant was about to leave, then stopped. In the open bathroom cabinet he could see a small white plastic pot. Removing it, he checked inside. “He wears contacts. The case is still wet, and there’s what looks like an eyelash. Can you run this through your DNA database?”
“Depends on whether the saline solution has corrupted the sample. But I’ll give it my best shot.”
“You’ll need to. We don’t have anything else.”
“Do you think he’s insane?”
“We’re all mad,” Bryant replied unhelpfully. “That chap Ted Bundy was working as a suicide prevention officer while he was murdering women. In 1581, the test of legal insanity was based upon an understanding of good and evil. A defendant needed to prove that he couldn’t distinguish between right and wrong. But what if he could prove it, and still commit atrocities? The insanity ruling was amended to allow for those who couldn’t resist the impulse to kill. Nowadays, that clause has been removed because serial killers don’t fit the legal definition of insanity. They accumulate weapons, plan their attacks, hide evidence and avoid detection for years, so it’s clear they should know right from wrong. They certainly appear to be making informed choices. Voices in the brain? Perhaps. Something in the darkness speaks to them.”
“I thought you didn’t know anything about serial killers,” said Banbury.
“I don’t,” Bryant replied. “But I’ve seen the things that make men mad.”
? Off the Rails ?
5
Trouble
Detective Sergeant Janice Longbright was not exactly the tearful type. Longbright had been around police stations all her life, and it took a lot to upset her.
When she was seven years old, she had been sitting in the public area of the old cop shop in Bow Street, waiting for her mother to come off duty, when a distressed young man walked in and cut his wrists with a straight razor, right in front of her. The scarlet ribbons that unfurled from his scraggy white arms were shocking, certainly, but she’d been fascinated by the trail of blood splashes he left as he walked on through the hall, because for two weeks before that, she had been seeing their pattern whenever she shut her eyes. His death seemed to clear the problem; her sleep that night was deep and dreamless.
Longbright’s mother had often brought copies of case notes home with her at night. Gladys was always careful not to leave them lying around the flat, but her daughter knew exactly where to find them. Shootings, stabbings, men ‘going a bit mental’, political correctness had been thin on the ground back then. No diversity training, no child trauma services, nothing much to comfort the beaten and bereaved beyond a cup of strong tea and a comforting chat. And somehow, perhaps because she was used to the subject of death being introduced at the meal table or between Saturday night TV shows, young Janice had remained a well-balanced child.
Gladys had discussed the mysteries of human behaviour with her daughter in a kindly, dispassionate manner, as if they were stories that could damage the sensibilities only of other, less robust families. Janice had grown up tough enough to survive the defection of her father and the loss of her beloved mother. She had spent eleven years with a partner whose nerve had ultimately failed him when faced with commitment. There was a core inside her as firm as oak, inherited from a long line of strong women, and nothing could chip it away.
But by God, she was sorry to lose Liberty DuCaine.
Friends for four years, lovers for one night, they would probably have proven too similar for their relationship to grow further, but the chance to try had been snatched away from her. So she sealed his death inside her head, somewhere at the back with the other sad things, and told herself she might look back one day in the future, but not yet. There was too much to do. Her colleagues probably all thought she was an icy bitch, but it couldn’t be helped. There was a time to cry, and it was not now.
First things first; if they were really going to clear up all outstanding work by the end of the week, they needed to get organised. The offices were a dirty, dangerous disgrace. The Unit hadn’t had a chance to catch its breath since it moved in. Crates were piled in the hall, taps leaked, lights buzzed and smouldered, the floors were strewn with badly connected cables, doors jammed shut or opened by themselves. The detectives’ files were a hopeless mess. Bryant kept hard copies in cardboard folders, May kept his on discs, and neither knew what the other was doing.
She had hoped April would help her sort everything out, but the poor girl had declined into her former agoraphobic state after DuCaine’s death, and could not be persuaded to return to the Unit. Janice was annoyed with her for giving in to her demons. April’s departure had handed another small victory to Mr Fox.
The PCU’s new home was situated on the first and second floors of an unrenovated warehouse on the corner of Balfe Street and the Caledonian Road, sandwiched between a scruffy Edwardian residential terrace and a traffic- clogged arterial road. Bryant and May’s offices overlooked the latter, and despite the Detective Sergeant’s best efforts, the elderly detectives had so far proven resistant to rehabilitation.
A little chaos had always suited Arthur Bryant and John May. The world was an untidy place, Bryant always told her, and he had an innate suspicion of those who tried to keep it too neat. May was, of course, the exact opposite. His white apartment in Shad Thames was eerily immaculate, and only the burbling presence of a small television, left on a 24-hour news channel whenever he was home, disturbed the sense of orderly calm. But here in King’s Cross, their chaotic offices defied order.
Longbright looked over at the two Turkish Daves. One was drinking tea and the other was reading Thackeray’s
“We’re waiting for the wood,” said one.
“Can’t do anything without the wood,” said the other.
She snatched away the mug of tea and the novel. “If you’re reading this for tips on British society, it’s out of date. These days, pushy little bitches like Becky Sharp end up working in media.” They stared blankly at her. “It doesn’t matter. Go and get the wood or you’ll get the boot.”
“No good,” said one. “We got no cash.”
Longbright dug a roll of bills from her pocket and tossed it over. “Buy the wood, bring me the change. And get a receipt or I’ll break your nose.”
The workmen left muttering under their breath.
Longbright wondered if she could get away with throwing out some of Bryant’s rubbish. He would notice if the bear’s head table-lamp went missing, but perhaps his collection of Great Western Railway Timetables 1902–1911 could be quietly dumped in the skip at the back of the building. She hoisted up a mouldy carton.
“I’ll kindly thank you to return my railway timetables to where you found them,” said Arthur Bryant, poking her in the back with his walking stick.
“You can’t possibly need all this stuff, Arthur.” She dropped the carton back on his desk with a cloudy thump.
“It’s not all timetables, you know,” said Bryant, pulling off his overcoat. “Remove the top volume.”
Longbright did as she was told. Underneath was a dog-eared copy of
“You see?” Bryant declared triumphantly. “You’d have felt a bit silly throwing that away.”
Longbright wrinkled her nose. “It’s even less useful than the timetables.”
“Wrong. The sculptor Scopas carved mythical figures with the features of humans, not gods. He was the first artist to notice that hidden muscles shaped the face, which was square rather than oval. Scopas taught us to see what was hidden. In that sense, he was the first detective.”
“All right, but blimey, we’ve moved on a bit since then. We’ve got forensic psychology and serology, DNA testing – ”
“You’re missing the point, enchantress. A body is more than mere meat and fluids. Its humours are ultimately unknowable. Why do people behave as they do? Every book I own adds a tiny piece to the puzzle.”
