“It’s funny, he starred in the biggest-selling health and fitness DVD in Britain, but look at the state of him. He must have worn a corset for the cameras.”
“How do you know it was a heart attack?”
Banbury knelt beside the body. “Without Giles, it’s a bit of a guess. The high sclerosis, the fact that he’s quite a few kilos overweight and was exerting himself. There’s booze on his breath. There’s also blood in the eyes. Heart attack victims feel a pressure, a squeezing sensation in the centre of the chest that stays for a few minutes. They tend to sit down and wait for the symptoms to go away, but the pain spreads to the shoulders, neck, and arms. They get light-headed and feel nauseous, sweat, or get short of breath, so Martell might have figured it was the effect of the workout. But then there’s this.” He carefully lifted Martell’s right hand to reveal a small triangular mark on his forearm. “There’s another on his left arm, and one in the middle of his chest.”
“They look like burns.”
Banbury pushed back the left sleeve of Martell’s sport top and turned the cuff inside out. “I think they were made by the heads of the zips on his workout gear, one on each sleeve, one running up the middle. They’re all welded shut. Extreme heat.” He pulled down the neck of the top to reveal a livid crimson scar across Martell’s throat. “He was wearing a medallion on a chain. That’s left burn marks, too. In light of these, I’d have to say we’re looking at signs consistent with electrocution.”
“So he was sitting on the seat – how do you operate this thing?” Bryant peered around the back of the machine. “What on earth does it do?”
“Builds the pectoral muscles, sir, like this.” He held his arm with the radius bone at right angles to the humerus. “You raise your hands and hold the grips above your head on either side, pushing the pads forward with your forearms until they meet in the middle, then slowly releasing them.”
“What on earth for?”
“It’s good for the chest.”
“Not in his case. Looks as if he was seated here and fell forward after overexerting himself.”
“That’s what I thought, sir. In which case the burns make no sense. I don’t see how he superheated so suddenly.”
“There have been numerous documented cases of spontaneous combustion,” suggested Bryant. “Nothing left of people but their shoes.”
“Beg to disagree, sir. None ever properly substantiated, bit of a folk myth.”
“But I’ve seen photographs of the process occurring,” Bryant insisted.
“With all due respect, you’ve seen pictures of the aftermath, charred remains. It’s an old wives’ tale stemming from a single photograph of a woman who fell into a fire, taken in the 1920s, although it’s true that the body can change its temperature very quickly. We’re extremely adaptable machines.”
Bryant wasn’t happy about being corrected but was willing to concede the argument. “Do you have a workable theory about this?” he asked.
“Think we should talk to the witnesses now, sir. They can shed some more light.”
Channing Gifford and her partner whose name Bryant failed to catch, lived in a first-floor apartment of such minimalist design that he thought they must have been recently burgled. Thieves had made off with most of the furniture, leaving bare floors of black slate and tall, clear vases of calla lilies perched starkly against hard white surfaces. In a thin blue tank running the length of one wall, a single angelfish hovered listlessly. Bryant and Banbury were ushered in, but there appeared to be nowhere to sit. Channing wore a white leotard with a black shift over the top, and looked as if she had got dressed twice. She was as elegant as an ostrich, minus the exuberance of plumage, and clearly adored her partner, who was giraffe-tall, and moved with the same loping gait.
“We teach modern dance, you understand,” Channing explained. “We were warming up at the window, doing some gentle stretches – ”
“ – very gentle stretches – ” confirmed the partner unnecessarily.
“ – and watching the storm break. There were quite a few flashes of lightning, but far away, in the direction of Lambeth.”
“ – Lambeth. Then we saw the flash inside,” said her partner, whipping her long head in the direction of the gym opposite. “A lightning flash, and we – ”
“ – we saw him.”
“You saw Danny Martell?” asked Bryant.
“We know he works out there because fans sometimes wait – ”
“ – they wait outside the door of the gym. They call his catchphrase up at the windows.”
“We’ve had to get your officers out on numerous occasions, but you never do anything.”
“ – do anything at all.”
Bryant didn’t notice their sudden accusatory tone. He was too busy wondering how anyone could live in a lounge without seats. “And you saw him in the room, working out?”
“We weren’t looking,” said Channing hastily, “but a man that size is hard to miss. He blew up after his wife left him.”
“ – blew right up,” her partner agreed. “Poor diet.”
“We saw the lightning flash inside the room. It looked as if it came from the ceiling, a thin blue streak.”
“Or perhaps through the window,” added her partner. “But it hit him.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Most definitely,” said Channing. “He screamed and fell forward. That’s when I called the police.”
“You didn’t think of going over to see what had happened.”
“No, we have a history with that gym – ”
“ – an unpleasant history.”
“It would be a great help if only one of you spoke at a time,” snapped Bryant, who hated couples completing each other’s sentences.
Channing looked at her partner and silently acknowledged an agreement to take over the story. “We went to the window, to see what was happening, and – ”
Channing’s partner opened her mouth. Everyone held their breath. Bryant shot her a filthy look. She shut it again. Channing continued. “ – and we saw this man leaving the building. He was closing the main door behind him.”
“Why did you notice him particularly?” asked Banbury.
“He was a tall man. But it was the way he was dressed; you couldn’t help noticing. At first I thought he was a motorcycle courier. You know, a black leather suit, tight-fitting, big black boots. But he was wearing a black half-mask that stopped at his cheekbones, and above that he was wearing a black hat, but quite small, like a futuristic version of a traditional highwayman. We once did a modern-dress production of The Beggar’s Opera, with Macheath wearing something similar. And he had a little pigtail, like they used to, at the back. It put me in mind of that dreadful poem.”
“Have you seen any pictures of him in the press?” asked Bryant.
“No, we don’t buy newspapers; they’re full of lies. Why?”
“Did you see where he went?”
“He looked around, then ran off in the direction of Farringdon Road.”
One of the busiest thoroughfares in central London, thought Bryant. Somebody else must have seen him.
“If you think of anything else – ” Banbury began, closing his notepad.
“Well, of course we did, because of being dance teachers.” Channing’s partner could not resist speaking out. “It was the way he moved. Great strides, unnatural and awkward, as if walking hurt him. You see it in dancers all the time when their muscles are healing.”
Bryant moved to the window and looked down into the shining yellow puddles below. In his mind’s eye, he saw the Highwayman turn from the deep grey shadows of the building’s archway and lope away towards the lights. Almost as if he wanted to draw attention to himself.