“Then let me ask you something,” said Bryant. “What do you consider to be man’s greatest sin?”
“That’s easy. The sin of pride. It’s the tricky one, it keeps on changing form. But if you took your nose out of your books for a minute and looked at what’s happening to the country, you’d see all these silly kids around you, thinking they’re going to ‘become celebrities when they have nothing to offer the world. When I was a little girl me and my sisters wanted to be doctors and nurses, explorers, teachers. We wanted to give something, to do our duty, not to be idolized for doing nothing.”
“Surely that’s just overconfidence,” said Bryant.
“It’s another name for pride. It’s when a man thinks he’s greater than God. Like this man Robert Kramer.”
“What do you know about him?” asked Bryant in surprise.
“I read the papers. I’ve heard you talk. Not even showing remorse for his dead son. That’s what a man like him needs to lose, his pride. But it’s the one thing he’ll never give up.”
Bryant’s blue eyes widened at her. “Alma, you never cease to amaze me,” he said. “I think you’ve just helped me to understand our killer.”
“Well, thank the Lord for that,” she said. “Eat your haddock. And give me that scarf for the wash, it’s filthy.”
¦
John May had given up trying to get hold of Brigitte in Paris, and was just about to go to bed when Bryant rang.
“I think we’ve got it around the wrong way,” Bryant told him without any preamble. “We should have been studying the victim, not the perpetrator. We need to catch him by surprise, tear him apart and look inside, understand what makes him tick. I asked myself: what must Kramer be made to lose? What does the killer most want to take away from him? And Alma came up with the answer. His pride. That’s what he’s after. Mr Punch, the ruler of his own world, needs to be taken down from his pedestal and made to beg for mercy. Nothing the killer has done so far has worked. So what will he do next?”
“Go after Kramer himself,” said May, completing the thought.
“Exactly. I should have thought of it earlier but I got distracted by Gail Strong’s so-called disappearance. I’m sending Colin and Meera over to Northumberland Avenue right now. By the way, Dan was right about Ms Strong. She checked into a boutique hotel in Devon, using a credit card to secure her room. She didn’t think they were taking a payment, but they ran a check and it flagged. Not a smart move. Devon police are going to keep an eye on her.”
“So what do you and I do?”
“Get a few hours’ sleep,” said Bryant. “We’re going to need it.”
¦
Meera parked her Kawasaki under the bridge at the Embankment and walked to Northumberland Avenue with Colin. Rain was just starting to gloss the road ahead and speckle the roofs of passing taxis. Many of the streets around Trafalgar Square were now awash with neon but this road had retained its dark, deserted look. “Where do you want to locate?” she asked. “I’m not sitting in a shop doorway watching you eat Pad Thai from a box.”
“I don’t see we have much choice,” Bimsley replied. “The offices opposite Kramer’s gaff are closed for the night and the nearest cafe is down there under Charing Cross Bridge. We won’t be able to keep an eye on the apartment from that far away.”
“Then why don’t we just park ourselves in the foyer of his building?”
“John doesn’t want us to show our hand.”
“I can’t see why not. If you ask me, I don’t think they know what they’re doing. We’ve turned up nothing. Why is that? Maybe Kramer chucked his own kid out the window and frightened the old dear, and his banker just saw how things were going and took his own life.”
“Why do you always think they’re not on the ball?” Colin asked. “You’re always having a go at them – too old, too slow, don’t know what they’re doing. We’ve still got a higher success rate than the Met.”
“Everyone’s got a higher success rate than the Met. My old mum could solve crimes quicker than them. It’s the way they operate, keeping us in the dark, going off without explaining, it makes me so angry – ”
Colin laid a calming hand on Meera’s arm. “Meera,
“I’m under stress, my parents hate me being in this job, my sister’s a walking disaster and I can’t get a bloody date because I’m always at work.”
“Look, it’s raining, it’s miserable, come here and give me a cuddle, just a friendly hug.”
“No, Colin, that’s not a good idea.”
“Why not? We’re mates, aren’t we? What would it take to get a hug from you?”
Meera thought for a second. “Well, you know how we’re all technically in line for the throne? Like, if fifty-four million people died, you’d be Queen?”
“Y-e-es,” said Bimsley uncertainly.
“It would be like that.”
Colin looked down at his rain-splashed boots. “Are you telling me that you’d only give me a hug if every other eligible man in the country was dead? That’s really, really hurtful.”
“Why do you always have to show your feelings? People don’t want to see them all the time. Why can’t you be a bit more like me?”
“I can’t help it, Meera.” Colin looked crestfallen. “I can’t change, even for you. I don’t have any other face but this one.”
She looked at the rain dripping through his spiked fair hair and her heart started to melt. He looked like a Disney dog someone had decided to drown instead of rewarding. She reached out a hand to touch his shoulder.
“Colin – ”
Suddenly, the ground-floor door of the building opposite opened and Robert Kramer came out. Colin checked his watch. It was 11.42 p.m. “He’s leaving, look.”
“Where does he keep his car?”
“He has a space in the NCP at the next corner.”
“Back to my bike.”
They ran across the road, heading to Meera’s Kawasaki just as Kramer disappeared beneath the yellow neon of the car park entrance. A minute later Kramer’s black 500 Series Mercedes pulled up at the barrier and he fed it a ticket. Meera moved out behind him with Colin riding pillion. She stayed two cars back, hoping that the night and the rain would reduce their noticeability.
The Mercedes dropped to Victoria Embankment and headed along Upper Thames Street to the City of London. It clipped the lights on the one-way system at Tower Bridge, leaving Meera stranded.
“He’s over there in the far left lane,” shouted Colin. “Get closer or we’ll lose him.” Meera accelerated and skirted round the shining wall of oncoming traffic, catching him up.
She tailed Kramer over the bridge and left towards the Rotherhithe Tunnel. The Mercedes picked up speed. “I think he’s spotted us,” she called back, roaring ahead. Behind them, a police car siren sounded and lights flashed in Meera’s wing mirror. An officer was waving the Kawasaki off the road.
Meera had no choice but to slow down and park and the Mercedes sped off. The officer behind them strolled over. “Turn the bike off. You’re in a bit of a rush, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, and you’ve just ruined our night’s work.” She sullenly threw open her badge and waved it at the cop. The patrol officer peered at it but did not seem convinced. “Peculiar Crimes Unit? Is that a made-up name? Off the bike, both of you.”
“It’s a specialist investigation unit,” said Colin.
“Oi,” the patrolman called back to his co-driver, “ever heard of the Peculiar Crimes Unit?”
“Yeah,” called his mate, “they’re the bunch that put the mockers on one of our cases this week, the girl in Hadley Street. They screwed us over.”
The patrolman returned the badge. “In that case, I’m glad to return the favour,” he said with a grin, swaggering back to his patrol car.
