In the final week of October, they got their wish.
On Monday morning, the clear skies occluded, and cataracts of cloud brought soft autumnal drizzle dampening the dusted pavements, misting the arched windows of the offices above Mornington Crescent tube station to give it the appearance of a disreputable sauna. The light level across London dropped until the city appeared to be lit by forty-watt bulbs.
“Well, I thought my lecture last week went rather well,” said Bryant, poking down the sides of his armchair for his pipe stem.
“Are you mad? They were ready to hang you.” Longbright was appalled. “You were pelted with plastic cups. Several of the parents are still threatening to lodge formal complaints.”
May shook his silver-trimmed mane in wonder. “I’ve never understood your ability to enrage total strangers.”
“It was a pretty spirited debate, I must say,” Bryant told his partner enthusiastically. “The head teacher was quite overcome with emotion.”
“Those pupils thought you were having a go at them,” the detective sergeant reminded him. “I warned you teenagers are sensitive.”
“I can’t imagine why. I never was. I didn’t have time to be touchy. Kids don’t understand that age and guile will always triumph over youth and enthusiasm. These days the former attributes belong to corporations, the latter to individuals, so of course any attempt at independence is suppressed. And we wonder why children write on walls.”
“Your cynicism is getting worse.” May agreed with Longbright. “You should never begin a sentence with the words ‘these days.’”
“That’s it, I’m making tea.” Sometimes the glamorous sergeant stopped behaving like a fifties starlet and became a fifties housewife, making tea whenever she was upset, great steaming brown china pots of it. Now, as she went to check on the kettle, she became annoyed about Bryant’s humiliation at the hands of teenagers who were understandably wary of being patronised. He had mentioned the occasion a dozen times in the past week, so the event was clearly preying on his mind. Any intelligent man could appear a fool without clear communication.
“You might as well say it; I know you’re dying to.” Bryant followed her into the kitchen, ready for an argument. “I’m out of touch with the general public. They think I’m a has-been.”
Longbright chose her words with care. “It’s not that exactly, but you have to admit that John’s right; you’ve stopped updating your mental software. You know what he always says – ‘Adapt or perish.’”
“And you think I’ve perished.” Bryant tightened his ratty green scarf around his neck. “I’m fully aware of the gap between myself and them. It’s not just age. I grew up in Whitechapel and Bethnal Green – they were raised in Edwardian villas beside the Thames, or in houses overlooking Hampstead Vale. My mother cleaned cinemas and was bombed out of her home. They’re the progeny of professionals. I can’t imagine their lives, Janice. I’ve never had children of my own. To reach them, I’d have to understand them, and I’m afraid that’s utterly beyond me. They’re a mystery race, some new form of protoplasmic alkaloid that looks vaguely human but isn’t. I see them standing in a group and assume they operate with a single sentience, like Midwich Cuckoos.” Bryant rooted in the cupboard for some ground ginger and added it to his tea mug. “Actually, I think I’m a little scared of them. Their references are as alien as map coordinates for another solar system. I mean, what is it like to be young these days?”
“Perhaps you need a refresher course,” offered Longbright, carrying the teas back to the detectives’ office. “This sort of thing doesn’t help.” She indicated the hardback books on his cluttered desk; crack-spined copies of The Life of Thomas Chatterton, Great Locomotive Boiler Explosions, The British Catalogue of Victorian Naval Signals, and The Fall of Jonathan Wild, Thief-Taker. “Your current reading matter. You should be flicking through Heat and Hello! and the News of the World.”
“Janice is right,” May concurred. “You need to watch Big Brother and Pop Idol and reality TV – that’s how normal people relax.”
Bryant was disgusted by the idea. “I would hate to think of myself as normal. What’s the point of working your whole life if you end up having to do what other people do?”
“You don’t have to do what they do, Arthur, just try to understand them a bit more. If a television show gets a bigger audience vote than the General Election, you should know about it. It’s simply a matter of reconnecting yourself.”
“What if I don’t want to connect myself to things I consider to be puerile rubbish? I want to be more knowledgeable at my age, not less. I plan to go to my grave with a head full of information.” His diluted blue eyes looked up at the pair of them in a bid for sympathy. “I’m not going to buy a television, if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s never too late to change your habits,” said May patiently. “Come with me to one of the Met’s ‘Meet the Public’ sessions. You don’t have to get into any arguments, just listen to what some of the street officers and their clients have to say.”
“Please don’t refer to victims of crime as clients. And anyway, if I did that, I’d end up wanting to kill everyone in the room,” Bryant admitted. “That’s what happens when you get older: You become irritated by the views of others for the simple reason that you know better, and they’re being ridiculous. If I go to a public debate, some silly man will stand up and start complaining about police brutality until I want to beat him to death with my stick.”
“You know in your heart that’s not true,” replied May, wondering if it was. “When you conduct your London tours, what’s the feeling between you and your audience?”
“Antipathy bordering on mutual hatred,” said Bryant glumly. “We usually can’t wait to get away from each other.”
“Then it’s time you started learning to empathise more.”
“You’re asking me to give up my carefully nurtured ideals and start reveling in humankind’s myriad imperfections.” Bryant took up the Chatterton volume and buffed its cover with his sleeve, scattering dust.
“If you want to put it like that, yes.”
“I won’t remember the names of pop stars,” he warned. “I’d prefer to keep my memory filled with useful data.”
“But how useful is the data you store?” May tipped back his leather armchair and raised his highly polished Oxfords to the desk. “You know precisely how many Thames crossings there are between Teddington Weir and the Tower of London – ”
“Of course, twenty-eight, everyone knows that – ”
“ – and you told me why there are metal pine-cones on top of half of the railings in London – ”
“ – the Georgians adopted the pinecone as an architectural motif because it was the Roman symbol of hospitality, that’s common knowledge – ”
“But it’s not, don’t you see? Yesterday you told Janice here that there are eight statues hidden underneath Vauxhall Bridge, and that they can only be seen from a boat, but most of the people we deal with don’t give a monkey’s fart about such architectural idiosyncrasies. Why should they? Such things have no relevance to their lives.”
“Rubbish. The details of everyday living enrich us all.”
“But they’re not useful. The majority is more interested in finding aspirational role models amongst celebrities, which makes you the outsider. And if you’re an outsider, they’ll never take you into their confidence.”
“Your utilitarian attitude is very taxing,” Bryant complained. “I don’t throw away knowledge just because it ceases to be of immediate use. Crimes are more complex now, so you never know what will come in handy. Remember how it used to be? An emerald robbery in Hatton Garden, a broken window, a clanging alarm, grassing spivs on the Mile End Road, a trip round to a safe house in Southwark, ‘Can we search the premises?,’ ‘It’s a fair cop, guv,’ on with the handcuffs and up before the beak.”