“Really?” Bryant’s eyes widened in innocence. “I had no idea. What a pity. I’ll let her out after midnight.”
“OK, what do we do now?”
“We know that our killer is in this room. I just have to come up with a way of drawing him out.”
“You mean you haven’t thought this through?”
“How could I? From the very first moment, this entire investigation has been an unmitigated disaster. Nothing has gone according to plan.” Bryant peered up his sleeve. “The little hand’s fallen off my watch. How much time do we have left?”
“Fifty-two minutes. This is the last time all of our suspects will be in one room together. It’s the only chance we have to put things right. We’re so close now.”
“John, we’re no closer than we were a week ago,” said Bryant. “God, it feels like we’ve been working on this case for a lifetime. Come on.”
The pair set off into the penumbral chamber of horrors, determined to catch an impossible murderer. Last week had felt like a fresh beginning. Now they could see it might have been the beginning of the end.
∨ The Memory of Blood ∧
2
Clairvoyance
“A fresh start!” said Raymond Land, striding into the Unit’s smart new open-plan office in the warehouse at the corner of Caledonian Road. Over the weekend it had been painted arctic white and filled with furniture, admittedly secondhand, but it provided the staff with a pleasant communal space.
Land was pleased to see that the holes in the floor had been repaired. The workmen had almost finished redecorating the building. Broken windows had been replaced. There were no longer bare wires hanging down from the ceiling. There was a door on the toilet and a banister on the staircase. The coffee machine was finally working. The funny smell had gone from the Evidence Room. He slapped his hands together with an approximation of good cheer and beamed hopefully around the place.
His joy was not reciprocated.
“What are you so bloody happy about?” asked Jack Renfield, not bothering to look up. The sergeant was crunching indigestion tablets and checking his emails, attacking his keyboard with great bearlike paws.
Land looked pathetically expectant. “It’s the start of a new week, the sun’s out, summer’s on the way, nice new paintwork everywhere, we haven’t been blamed for anything awful in nearly a month. Makes you feel glad to be alive.”
“There’s a bad storm coming,” said Meera Mangeshkar. “It’s going to be chucking it down by noon. We’ll have to put the lights on.”
Land felt he had every reason to be in a good mood. He and his wife, Leanne, were going on a sailing holiday around the Isle of Wight at the end of the week. His desk had already been cleared in readiness. His monthly budget had been met. The Home Office was leaving him alone. The crime figures were down. Only the staff seemed fed up, but they always looked like that when he came into the room. A more sensitive chap might almost doubt they were pleased to see him.
“Come on, you lot,” he jeered, “perk yourselves up a bit. You should be thankful. You’ve got a nice new office, and the mean streets of King’s Cross are quiet for once.”
“We’d rather be busy,” grumbled Mangeshkar, flicking a rubber band at the cat. Colin Bimsley was making a paper sculpture of a flamingo from old witness statements. Dan Banbury was reading Forensic Analysis in the Home – Volume 4: Drains.
Land found it hard to share Meera’s sentiment. Being busy at the PCU usually meant risking his career, health and sanity. He still fantasized about running a police department in a sleepy Spanish village, the kind of place where the most exciting thing that ever happened was a cow wandering into a shop.
London was not much smaller than New York but averaged around 130 murders a year, compared with the Big Apple’s rate of over 460 in the same period. Most of the London cases were handled by the CID, but the more troublesome crimes were reluctantly placed in the hands of the PCU. Raymond Land had inherited the worst of both worlds; the cases that the Home Office preferred the CID not to handle were the most awkward and unsolvable, and were also the least likely to win public praise for their solution. The PCU received no help from the Met divisions, which meant that they effectively operated in a vacuum.
Land liked order. He liked graphs and bar charts and Venn diagrams, and Excel spreadsheets of policing figures, even though he didn’t really know how to use them. He didn’t understand waffling academics and weirdos, and disorganization and mess, and strange, elliptical ideas that led to investigative dead ends.
He didn’t understand the PCU.
Sticking his hands into his pockets, he wandered over to the window and sat on the ledge. “I thought you’d all be happy,” he said plaintively. “For once, everyone thinks we’re doing a good job. You can take it easy. You don’t have to spend the week going through someone’s rubbish or sitting in a car all night staring at a front door. You can go home at the normal time, catch up on your emails, watch some telly, cook a meal that doesn’t come in a plastic tub. For once, you can get on with your lives.”
But as soon as he said that, Land realized he had made a mistake. Working at the PCU meant surrendering all thoughts of a normal private life. It meant abandoning loved ones, working unsociable hours, falling out with friends, never having time to do the comfortingly habitual things civilians did. His staff barely existed beyond their working lives. Their refrigerators remained empty, their bills piled up, their houseplants died and their voice-mails were never played back. Even their pets gave up on them. Apart from a brief, disastrous stay at Raymond Land’s house, Crippen had spent his entire nine lives in the office.
“Well, I feel good about today, and I’m not going to let you lot put the mockers on it,” Land said, rising and turning.
He looked back and found that suddenly everyone seemed to have brightened up a little. Perhaps his positivity had proved inspirational after all. Bimsley was trying to suppress a laugh. Meera was smiling and shaking her head. “Right,” said Land, “we’re going to use this week to get organized and learn to behave like a proper police unit.” He looked down to discover a thick arctic-white stripe across the seat of his new black trousers. “You can start by getting the workmen to stick a bloody Wet Paint sign on this ledge.”
Bimsley burst out laughing.
A dark thought crossed Land’s mind. “And where are Bryant and May?” he demanded to know.
“Look here, can somebody give me a hand with this?”
Bryant appeared in the doorway right on cue. If Land hadn’t known better, he’d have suspected that his most senior detective had been waiting outside to make an entrance. Bryant moved to reveal a crimson-painted wooden case. It was about five feet tall and covered in cobwebs. “I found her in the attic.”
“What is it?” asked Land. “How did you get it down the stairs? Must you bring it in here?”
Bryant leaned against the case with a mischievous smile. He removed his battered trilby, leaving his hair standing in a frightened white tonsure. “I hear we’ve got no work on – this is total disaster. What are you doing about the situation, Raymondo?”
“Don’t you understand, Bryant, it’s good news. Nobody’s doing anything they shouldn’t be doing.”
“Of course they are, it just means the Met are picking up the cases before they get to us, which will make us redundant.”
Redundant. Land rolled the word around in his head, savouring it. Redundancy pay. An image sprang to mind; he was lying in a beach hammock in the Maldives with Leanne serving him a cocktail in a coconut.