The more she studied the activity grid, the harder it became to discern an accurate pattern. Raymond Land was wrong – standard operational procedures would not be enough to unlock the investigation. She wondered how Arthur and John were getting on. They hadn’t yet been told about the discovery under Cannon Street Bridge. This latest development would either confirm their theories – or wreck them.
∨ The Memory of Blood ∧
24
Scaramouche
The detectives caught their train home and passed back through the Kent countryside, which was alternately sodden and sunlit. As they crossed the flat expanse of the Medway River, May made an admission. “All right, I can see why you wanted me to meet Dudley Salterton. We’re looking for someone who understands perfectly why Robert Kramer is obsessed with Mr Punch. This is a mind game between the two of them. It takes a special kind of arrogance to even contemplate attacking someone in that manner.”
“Oh, I think we’ve already met the killer,” Bryant replied airily. “The circumstances surrounding the taking of life are usually mundane or squalid. This was at a rather glamorous party. Ego, you see. The ego of someone who’s taking on the world and proving they can win. Kramer prides himself on being a victor. And the trouble with being a victor is that there’s always somebody waiting to challenge you.”
“No, it’s something more than that,” May insisted, watching the flashing greenery. The fecundity of the English countryside never ceased to amaze him. “This great anger is driven by something very powerful indeed. A need for revenge, a desire to right a wrong – it’s not just ego.”
Bryant sat forward with a crooked smile crinkling his face. “Ah, now you’re thinking like me. I wondered if you’d start to see things my way.”
“But I don’t understand how someone can maintain two states of mind. How can you kill and deceive, and yet still go to work and smile at your colleagues as if there’s nothing wrong?”
“Because that’s what the most successful killers do, John. They hold two entirely separate mind-sets as one, and don’t see any dissonance between the different states. Punch sees himself as a united persona, not a schizophrenic. He simply goes about his business, righting perceived wrongs and coming out on top, even if it involves murder. Killers have been known to operate in nursing homes where everybody loves them. In the 1940s, Dr Marcel Petiot injected at least twenty-seven people with cyanide while he was healing his patients. They say many successful City businessmen are trained to think in exactly the same predatory manner. Kramer sees himself as Punch, and so does the murderer. Punch wants to knock him down. You can’t have two kings in one palace, as they say.”
“Then how do we separate our suspects? What can we do to force them to open up? If our killer thinks like Punch, he’ll keep going, getting rid of anyone who gets in his way.”
“I have a few ideas. The sheer volume of suspects constitutes some kind of a clue. The killer is trying to cause anarchy, trying to break everything apart. And we are expected to watch. It’s an act of bravura from someone with nothing to lose.” Bryant opened his mobile and rang Longbright’s direct line. “I have to be quick,” he told her. “I think there are tunnels coming up. Did you do anything about Anna Marquand or did you forget?”
“I got thrown in a swimming pool,” said Longbright.
“Well, when you’ve finished messing about, could you go and see Judith Kramer? She’ll probably respond better to you.”
“We’ve been trying to get hold of you. Your phones are off.”
“No, John’s battery is flat and I put mine in the wrong pocket and got caramel fudge all over the aerial.”
“Gregory Baine is dead. He was found hanging from a noose under Cannon Street Bridge this morning. There was a Hangman puppet left beside him with one of our cards attached.”
“Baine? Are you sure it’s him?”
“Of course we’re sure. Why?”
“If there was to be another murder I would have expected it to be someone else. Judith was the obvious candidate, but I wondered about what’s-his-name, the fat theatre critic who upset everyone.”
“Alex Lansdale.”
“Yes, him. Scaramouche, you see – the artful clown, usually described in the commedia dell’arte as ‘sly, adroit, supple, and conceited’, although that would be favouring him with praise.”
“I don’t understand. Why?”
“Oh, simple. In the play, Mr Punch stretches his neck.”
May had been listening. “There’s that song by Queen,” he said. “You know, Scaramouche and something about fandangos?”
“That’s right,” said Bryant. “Traditionally, the hanged man dances a jig as he dies. But now you’re telling me it was the producer. Pity there isn’t one in the Punch story.”
“He’s more of an accountant,” Longbright pointed out.
“Well, there is one of those,” said Bryant. “You realize we gave PCU cards to everyone who was interviewed after the Kramers’ party? That’s why it was attached to the Hangman puppet. The killer wants us to know he’s part of the group.”
“But that makes no sense at all. Why?”
“Because if we’re unable to make a prosecution even with the help we’ve been given, Punch will have proved his point. We’ll be back soon. Get the kettle on. It’s going to be another long night.”
∨ The Memory of Blood ∧
25
Girltalk
Judith Kramer sat at her dressing table patting powder beneath her dark eyes. Dressed in a loose-fitting black V-neck sweater and jeans, she looked thinner and older than she had at the party. She had tied her hair back and donned plain silver earrings. The effect was severe and unflattering, like that of a New York hostess attending a charity function for want of something more useful to do.
“I’m expected to be presentable,” she explained, noting Longbright’s watchful gaze. “Robert likes his surfaces nice and smooth. He’s very conscious of his image.”
“You don’t approve?” Longbright asked, seating herself beside her.
“I support him.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? To make him look good?”
“Mrs Kramer, I don’t know you and I can’t judge.”
“Oh, but everybody else does. They see the younger second wife come in and watch her struggle to be part of the actors’ conversations. They’re a likeable crowd, you know, but insular. If you didn’t see Helen Mirren in Phaedra or Vanessa Redgrave playing Prospero in The Tempest they’ll happily leave you on the outside. I’m afraid I only know Sir Ian McKellen from Lord of the Rings. I never saw him in Waiting for Godot, so apparently I’m not worth talking to.”
She sat straight and studied her skin in the mirror, as if suddenly realizing who she was. “It seems odd not having to check on Noah every few minutes. Since last July he’s occupied nearly every moment of my day, and now – emptiness. It’s suddenly so quiet. I wasn’t much of a mother. Didn’t have the temperament for it.”
“Not everyone does. It’s no sin.”
“I’m keeping Gloria on for a while, even though there’s nothing for her to do. Robert blames her for taking the night off. And me, for letting the baby alarm turn itself off in my pocket. He has a long list of people and things he wants to blame, but Gloria and I are right at the top. He can’t bring himself to look me in the face. It will always be like this from now on, and I suppose it will break us up. The guilt, the recriminations. I see Noah’s face when I close my eyes, but it’s already changing. Just a crying baby’s face, you see, no real features. Like the horrible little wooden puppet of Punch’s Baby. I never wanted them in the nursery, but they were put there because the room was lockable. Insurance. It’s always about money with Robert.”