ground-floor outlet. Back in the sixteenth century, tiles and bricks had been kiln-blasted in the area. The reek of the tile kilns had permeated the buildings, but now the air was sweet with the scent of cardamom and curry. Not even the steady rainfall could dispel it. One end of the street was dominated by the Truman brewery, formerly the Black Eagle, now an art gallery, but the overall sense was of a seamlessly transplanted Indian community, which had replaced the Methodists, French Protestants and Jews who had occupied the area in succession. Signs of previous tenancies still existed: a packed 24-hour bagel store, a battered chapel; but mostly there were Muslims and Hindus, taxi-drivers and restaurants, cafes, leather-goods shops-and people, people everywhere, even in the pelting rain, dashing across the street with shirts in plastic liners, splashing through puddles with yellow polystyrene takeaway boxes and armfuls of hangers, even at this late hour.
‘Cover for me, old chap. This only works on mortise locks, so keep your fingers crossed that it’s not a cylinder.’ May slipped a titanium loop through the gap in the narrow brown door and lowered it over the latch bolt. He felt the latch lever raise against the bolt follower, and the door swung back with a faint click, admitting them into the dark hall corridor.
‘Hang about, I’ve got a light.’ Neither of the detectives owned firearms, but both were particular about their torches. May removed a large cinema flashlight from his overcoat. He had been given the red-tipped Valiant by an usherette at the ABC Blackheath in 1968. All he could remember about her was that she had slapped his face halfway through
The beam illuminated a corridor as twisted as a funhouse walkway. The damp brown stair carpet covered rotten wood; an acrid smell of mould filled their nostrils. The building had hardly changed since the arrival into the area of Huguenot silk-weavers. As they crossed the sloped landing, rainwater cascaded down the window, seeping through its cracked frame in tobacco-coloured streams.
‘It doesn’t have the smell of a man with money,’ said Bryant. ‘I wonder how he can afford to pay Greenwood?’
‘Perhaps we should let Janice know where we are. I left my mobile in the car. Have you got yours?’
‘I’m not sure when I had it last.’ Bryant studied the cracked ceiling as he tried to think of a way to explain that he had mislaid it. By way of diverting attention and taking a breather on the gloomy stairs, he paused to unscrew the cap from his engraved pewter flask. ‘That coffee gave me the taste. Here, have a tot of this-buck you up.’
May took a swig and choked. ‘What on earth are you drinking?’
‘Greek Cherry brandy goes surprisingly well with fish,’ said Bryant, taking back the flask. ‘Confiscated from an unlicensed Cypriot restaurant with asbestos ceilings in the Holloway Road. They were mixing it in a tub at the back of the shop.’
‘Your sense of taste never ceases to amaze me.’
As they continued climbing, the stairs grew darker. ‘Careful-there’s a broken floorboard here,’ warned May.
‘Hang on.’ His partner had paused on the landing to regain his breath.
Because his mind was so active, May sometimes forgot that his partner’s body was failing. Arthur’s heart attack had occurred eight years ago, in the middle of an exhausting investigation. His doctor had warned him to cut back on his office hours, but he seemed to be spending more time than ever at work. The truth was, he hated the lack of structure that came with being alone. Having toiled with no holiday longer than a fortnight since he was eighteen, he found it impossible to break the habit of putting in punishing shifts.
‘Don’t worry, there’s no need for both of us to go up,’ said May gently. ‘If there’s anything special you want me to look for-’
‘Don’t patronize me, I just need a minute.’ They waited together, listening to the crackling rain. Something scurried on tiny feet across the floor above.
‘Wonderful, rats as well. I wouldn’t let you go up there alone, John.’ Bryant reached the top of the steps as the unhealthy warmth spread from his sternum to his shoulder. Sam Peltz, the unit’s doctor, had tried to put him on a treadmill once a week, but had given up with him after Bryant dropped pipe tobacco into the mechanism, jamming it.
Pressing a palm over his ribs, Bryant detected the muscles of his heart flexing with considerable violence. Strangely, the problem only occurred in overheated rooms. Placed in a cold wet environment, he developed the stamina of a salmon in a stream. The irony of it was that he always felt cold, and, being forced to wrap up, risked further health problems. The elderly, he decided, thought too much about illness. Weak health accompanied seniority, and debilitated further by being dwelt upon. Still, he was glad when the floor levelled out before them into a short corridor.
There were just two doors, neither locked. The first opened into a cluttered office that appeared, with the exception of an elderly computer, not to have been modernized since the 1950s.
‘Looks like Mr Ubeda is bankrupt,’ said May, shining his torch into the top drawer of a grey filing cabinet. ‘These are all unpaid bills, threatening letters, legal warnings. He’s just shoved them into folders, as if he doesn’t care.’
‘He’s relying on the outcome of his venture with Greenwood to bail him out.’
‘What’s in the other room?’
‘It’s just the toilet,’ called Bryant. ‘How do we get up to the shed?’
‘Hang on.’ May checked the landing ceiling. ‘It’s a pull-down ladder. There should be a pole around somewhere.’ He found it leaning in a corner, and hooked the end through the brass ring in the trapdoor above him. The hatch opened, and a set of steel steps telescoped down.
‘I won’t be following you up there with my legs, I’m afraid,’ said Bryant.
‘All right, I’ll report back.’
May climbed up and vanished. ‘My God,’ he called down. ‘You won’t believe this.’ Then an uncomfortable moment of silence.
‘What is it?’ asked Bryant impatiently.
‘Some kind of shrine. There are statues everywhere-all the same figure, but all different sizes. I wish you’d come up.’
‘I wouldn’t get back down.’
‘You’d make more of this than me. I recognize the image.’
‘Can you show me one?’
‘Here.’ May reappeared in the hole, smothered in chalk dust. He shifted the torchbeam on a foot-high plaster figure, broken at the neck. In his other hand he held the head of a jackal.
‘Well, that’s Anubis,’ said Bryant. ‘Ancient Egyptian god of the underworld, protector of the dead and the embalmers, guardian of the necropolis.’
‘There must be thirty or forty identical statues up here. They’re all broken, every single one of them.’
‘Let me see that one in your hand.’
May passed it down to his partner.
Bryant ran a finger across the figure’s snout and around its long pointed ears. ‘It’s a cheap replica of a genuine artefact,’ he sniffed dismissively. ‘The paintwork is far too vivid. Very few of the real article still have this kind of dense black colouring. What a pity. And they’re all broken? It’s easy to find replicas in one piece. How odd.’ He handed it back. ‘The Egyptians gave their god the head of a jackal because so many of the animals wandered about their graveyards. Priests would wear jackal masks during the mummification process. He’s inspired all kinds of worshippers. Perhaps our Mr Ubeda belongs to some kind of a cult.’
‘This is giving me the creeps,’ said May. ‘I don’t like dealing with obsessives, they’re unpredictable and dangerous. These things are on the floor, on shelves, everywhere. There are some on the walls, too, painted on papyruses. There’s even what looks like a mummified dog up here. Its head is severed from its body as well. What’s the point of collecting this sort of stuff if it’s damaged and worthless?’
Bryant had walked back into the office, and was trying the cupboard doors. ‘I think we’d better go before he returns,’ he called.
