Standing beside one another in the cool shadowed corridors of County Hall, silhouetted by the tall, dusty courtyard windows, the detectives could have been mistaken for elderly councillors themselves, stopping to confer about arcane LCC rulings. Few would have taken them for policemen, but from their earliest years they had dedicated their lives to the rebalancing of inequalities.
Their official biographer (for there would eventually be a biography) felt that Arthur Bryant was driven by a sense of distilled outrage, perhaps over the loss of his wife during the war, and by the possession of a temperament that prevented him from ever finding peace with anyone else. Cherchez la femme had been the biographer’s maxim, but in this case nothing was quite that simple.
Bryant was an anomaly; a working-class academic who had positioned himself on the outside of humanity, beyond a moral viewpoint. The fact that he studied people as if they were insects or igneous rocks was cited as a fault, but it was also his secret strength. While the men and women of the Metropolitan Police mopped spilt blood and wiped away tears, comforted and calmed the fearful, and locked up those who were a danger to themselves, Bryant never truly became involved; he lacked the basic emotional mechanism to do so. But he was no mere machine; distrusting scientific proof, he preferred to follow humankind’s more overgrown paths, those instinctual routes he felt had been buried by modern reliance on technology. Criminals and victims were linked to the land, to history, and to their own irrepressible natures; it was an unfashionable view, particularly in a country that was fast becoming disconnected from its past, but it suited the government to employ such a believer, and proved ideal for the work of the Peculiar Crimes Unit.
John May, on the other hand, had successfully remained in contact with both his feelings and the tumbling mess of humanity surrounding him. In a sense, he was his partner’s only link with the outside world. In return, Bryant gave him something he never had: a sense of his place in the invisible world that lay beyond facts and statistics, a connection to the vanishing past.
“What do you think about this business?” John May asked quietly. “The case is clearly within our jurisdiction. If the public start thinking they’re not safe in museums and art exhibitions, the damage to other public institutions could be immeasurable.”
“Saralla White was hardly an ordinary member of the public, John. It will be important to stress that she was an employee of the gallery, and, from what I’ve heard, somewhat under the control of her ringmaster, Mr Burroughs. There’s no question that we should take it on. This is either murder or the most public suicide I’ve ever come across. One is apt to suspect that drugs will be present in her system. How else could she die so calmly? We can certainly rule out an accident, unless she had decided to hang from the light fittings in order to change a bulb.”
“We can’t afford another unsolved case at this point, Arthur. Any way you look at it, the scenario seems wildly unfeasible.”
“You always say that, but everything becomes unlikely when you analyse it. It’s unlikely the planet still survives without having blown itself to bits. It’s unlikely that society will reach a balance without murdering itself first, or that any of us will get through our lives without going mad. Open any newspaper on any day and you’re confronted with unlikely crimes. What about the seventeen Chinese cockle pickers who drowned in Morecambe Bay? Or that fellow in Norfolk who suffocated his work-mates in chicken slurry? What about that doctor who managed to kill over two thousand patients undetected, how likely is that?”
“All right, point taken,” agreed May, if only to head his partner off from a lengthy thatribe about the world’s ills.
“A tenner a ticket, that’s what the public are paying to be shocked at this exhibition, and now they’ve got something to be shocked about,” said Bryant. “We need to wrap this up quickly, before any details slip out. I want Oswald Finch to get the body opened as soon as possible. What do you know about any of these artists?”
“Just what I gleaned from the TV documentary and the article in the Guardian. Calvin Burroughs seems to be more than just their mentor. He has complete control over his protégés, because he’s invested a lot of time and money in his big three. They were all unknowns before he began grooming them for this new venture. His first discovery was also the oldest, Sharinda Van Souten. She’s half American, born in India, probably the most traditional member of the group. She built the giant entwined ceramic bodies at the far end of the gallery. She’s been re-creating classical Indian statuary in the context of modern Indian society for some years now. It was Burroughs who encouraged her to place her figures in updated sexual poses, something that has brought censure from the present Indian government. They’re pretty strong stuff for the uninitiated; the art pupils were allowed to see the figures but not to make sketches. Apparently the teacher was less worried about upsetting his kids than getting complaints from their parents. Van Souten also produced the Burning Bride statue that drew attention to attacks on Indian women by their husbands. She’s fighting for new legislation dealing with the problem.”
They turned and began to head off along the twisting corridor, moving deeper inside the great wooden honeycomb. “Burroughs’s second find was McZee,” May continued, “a former Glaswegian hiphop artist who switched to multimedia art after studying psychologically repressive regimes. He couldn’t get any more financial support in his native Scotland – some kind of long-running feud with his funding body – and came south. He’s exploring the links between fear and power in the torture of political prisoners. Good stuff, solid and committed to human rights, but shocking all the same, and the right-wing press don’t like some of the links he makes with members of the British cabinet. He also created a piece modelled on Picasso’s Guernica, about trial without representation, and entitled it Guantánamo, which has upset the American ambassador.
“Saralla White has the highest profile; since she started sculpting, she’s been living out her private life in the public eye, using various elements in her art: boyfriends, miscarriages, sexual traumas. She’s a mouthy East Ender with a couple of drug busts behind her, turned up drunk on TV, that sort of thing. Apparently, her mother was an illegal abortionist who was incarcerated in Holloway for a time in the sixties. The babies in the tank are intended to represent six abortions undergone by her friends, other artists whose lives would have been altered if they had become mothers. Saralla White is a liberal and naturally pro-abortion, which opens her to attacks by the religious right and pro-family hardliners.”
“You’re a mine of information; I’m glad you were paying attention,” Bryant said with a smile. “I tend to fall asleep within minutes of Alma putting her TV on. Think it was murder?”
“The fact that the PCU got the call suggests that somebody thought it was. Still, they delayed passing it over. It should have come through within minutes of the general emergency code going out, instead of sitting on a desk while the plods checked its validity.” The detectives made their way back along the passageways towards the main chamber. “But I also think we might be looking at some crazed form of suicide. Anyone who purchases illegal abortions and places them inside an art installation might be considered unstable.”