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 Vanity Fair. “Are you two going to do any work?” she asked.
“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 “If you’re reading this for tips on British society, it’s out of date.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 Greek Mausoleums: Their History & Meaning.
“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.”
“But books don’t hold the key to people.”
“They hold the key to society, and if we ignore that, we know nothing. Now put everything back in the same order.”
“There was no order.”
“Exactly,” said Bryant mysteriously.
“What about these, then?” Longbright held up a set of tattered blue volumes. “Conjuring & Tricks With Cards, volumes one to six. What are they going to teach you?”
“I’ll show you. Over there in the corner you’ll find a small corkboard.”
Longbright picked up the board, which was divided into nine panels.
“Stand it on the shelf behind John’s desk,” Bryant instructed, pulling out a pack of cards. “Now pick one of these. Look at it, then pick eight more.” Longbright drew the three of spades, and added eight more cards. Bryant gave her a handful of pushpins. “Shuffle your cards and pin them facedown on the squares of the board.”
“I’ve got more important things to do with my time,” the DS complained. She completed her task and turned to find Bryant pointing a gun at her. It looked like a Colt Single Action Army revolver. “Where did you get that?”
“Evidence room. Get out of the way. You don’t know which square holds the card you picked, do you?”
“No. Are you sure this is safe?”
“Of course. It’s a Victorian parlour trick.” Bryant aimed randomly, squeezed his eyes shut, and fired the gun. The explosion made their ears ring. “Check the board,” he instructed. Longbright found a bullet hole in the centre of one card. She unpinned it and turned it over.
“Is that the card you chose?” he asked.
“No. I picked the three of spades. This is the nine of clubs. What did you do?”
“You were meant to pick the nine of clubs. An identical card with a bullet hole was pinned to the back of one of the board’s squares. The square is on a pivot. When you pressed the card onto it, you activated a timer that flicked the square over. Persistence of vision covered the switch. The gun was loaded with a blank, obviously.”
“Well, if you’d forced the right card it would have worked,” said Longbright encouragingly.
Just then, Raymond Land came storming into the office. “What the bloody hell is going on?” he demanded to know. “Someone just fired a gun!”
“That was just a blank,” Longbright explained. “Mr Bryant was showing me a trick.”
“Blank, my arse! The bullet came straight through my wall. You could have killed me! It missed my ear by about two inches and exploded Crippen’s litter tray. Gave him the fright of his life. Look.” He held up a squashed slug.
“My mistake,” Bryant apologised absently. “I’m sure I gave you the nine of clubs. I think I’ll just step out to my verandah for a smoke and a ponder. Behave appropriately while I’m gone.”
“Wait, come back, you’ve got no right – ” Land began, but Bryant had slipped out.
After all this time he’s still trouble, thought Longbright. I like that in a man.
Land was looking for someone to blame. “And you, the way you encourage him…” he sputtered, shaking a finger at her.
“Don’t look at me, boss. Mr Bryant’s teaching himself magic.”
“Well, I’ll teach him how to disappear if he’s not careful,” Land concluded ineffectually, stomping back to his room.
Longbright replaced the books in their rightful places, but the dust was setting off her hay fever. Checking her watch, she noted that Liberty DuCaine’s funeral would soon be starting. Although the Unit had been warned to stay away, she felt that someone should represent them. Reaching a decision, she donned her jacket and set off.
∨ Off the Rails ∧
6
Best Boy
At first glance, the City of London Crematorium appeared to be nothing more than a pleasant London park. There were a great many rose beds neatly arranged like ledgers, and a variety of clipped English trees – elm, walnut, chestnut, beech. On closer inspection Longbright noticed the small rectangular plaques set at ground level in the grass. An aquamarine sky released soft patters of rain, accentuating the landscape’s greenness, releasing the fresh smell of spring leaves.
Feeling guilty because she had forgotten to change from her PCU staff jacket, Longbright turned up her collar and headed for the chapel’s anteroom. She could hear an organ recording of ‘From Every Stormy Wind That Blows’ coming to an end.