“What fireworks?”
“The metaphorical ones that will go off when I do my Hercule Poirot impersonation and announce who the murderer really is.”
“Wait a minute.” May stopped him. “You mean you know who it is?”
“I have a most definite suspicion. Have had for quite a while. But now I need proof.”
Raymond Land grabbed Bryant’s arm as he led the smoking pack through the room. “On the dot of midnight the street doors of this place will be opened and it will be over,” he hissed. “That’s it, investigation suspended, all files get packed up and shipped off to Islington CID.”
“There’s still another twenty minutes to go,” said Bryant, flicking the brim of his trilby. “Care to join me for a pipe?”
∨ The Memory of Blood ∧
47
Eleventh Hour
Bryant stood in the centre of the patio, watching everyone with a raven eye. He was smiling cheerfully, as rumpled as a mariner’s map, the battered ringmaster of a duplicitous circus revolving around him in a sinister carousel, and he missed nothing. He strained to hear all of the conversations at once, watched every gesture, every nuance, every flicker of the eye. When anyone glanced at him he returned their gaze and held it questioningly. When anyone brushed his sleeve he flinched theatrically and stared back. He spoke but was processing information. He was determined to keep all his senses aware.
Questions crowded his brain: why dress the dummy in the barn in women’s clothes? Was it meant to represent Judith Kramer? Why had Mona Williams been threatened? And how the hell did Noah Kramer fall from the window? Bryant had all the answers, but none of the proof. He needed the admission of guilt – one tiny movement that would lock the wheels of justice into place.
We saw what we thought happened, not what happened. We saw what someone else wanted us to see.
Bryant made a silent bet with himself. If you can’t solve this by midnight, you have to retire, it’s not fair on the others. Let somebody fitter, fresher and younger take the reins. He checked his watch. Just twelve minutes left to go.
♦
“By Godfrey, he’s cutting it fine,” grumbled Land. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“I’ve done everything within my power,” said May. “I don’t understand it. I keep asking myself the same questions over and over. The whole thing should have been wrapped up within minutes of Noah Kramer being found dead. The guilty party must have been on site, watching us and calmly carrying on as normal, as if it was just an acting exercise, a mannerism copied from TV footage of a serial killer. Do you know what I thought? When I heard that Marcus Sigler was the boy’s father, I became convinced that Robert Kramer had killed his own son. But then what? The killer knows that the elements of the case don’t make sense, which is why he’s safe.”
“It is galling,” Land agreed. “Someone has been telling us lies and there’s nothing we could do to stop them.”
“Unfortunately the electronic equipment hasn’t been invented that can properly prove a falsehood. The fundamental flaw in policing is its reliance on public information. If that information is corrupt, so is the entire case. It looks as if the criminals have finally learned to outrun us.”
“Well, we had a good innings. I must say, I’m very disappointed by your partner. He spent part of the day asking actors about their stage performances. What good could that do? Honestly, if Arthur had come up with something utterly outrageous right at the last second, I’d have forgiven him so long as it put this lunatic behind bars.”
“Oh, it’s no lunatic, that’s the problem,” May told him.
“He set out to destroy Kramer and did so. And now he’s walking away, happy in the knowledge that there’s nothing any of us can do to stop him.”
“Did you know, Gail Strong was sent away on Home Office instructions?” said Land. “Her father got her off the hook. What a scumbag.”
“There are so many different levels of guilt. Arthur was right, this entire city is complicit. Nobody is innocent.”
♦
Janice Longbright glanced at the watch Bryant had bought her for her thirtieth birthday. The date dial ran backwards for some reason, but the time was accurate. Seven minutes to midnight. Her nerve endings were buzzing. If we have to close the Unit for good, she thought, at least I’ll be able to place an accurate time on the moment when the decision was made.
When she couldn’t take it any longer, she headed for the bar and ordered herself a large gin and tonic.
“You’re not supposed to drink before midnight,” said Renfield, leaning next to her.
“Jack, I’m watching my career collapse here, and so are you.” Ignoring his protestations, she ordered him a beer. She raised her glass to his. “This should be a relief, but I just feel terrible. I can’t believe we failed. In the past we always managed to come up with something at the last minute.”
“Hey.” He stooped and lightly kissed her bruised cheek. “I’ve been wanting to do that for ages. Slap my face if you want, I don’t care. We won’t be working together any more after this. I just tendered my resignation.”
♦
“Hey, did you just see that?” said Colin Bimsley. “Renfield just got a snog in with Janice. What’s going on?”
“It’s four minutes to midnight,” said Meera. “We’re under orders to open the doors at twelve. The old man’s given up and gone outside with his pipe. And you were convinced he was going to crack it. I should have put money on this.”
“Don’t gloat, Meera, it’s really bloody ugly, OK?” He turned away from her, genuinely upset.
“I’m sorry, but I saw this coming. We should never have been given the case. It was a family problem, the husband and wife could no longer stomach the sight of each other, both having affairs, other people meddling, the husband kills the baby in a rage, kills the producer for nicking his funds, muzzles the old bag to shut her up – ”
“Then stabs himself to death with a pitchfork, thrown from the other end of a barn. In front of a life-sized dummy of his wife.”
“No, I saw the dummy – it didn’t look like his wife.”
“Then who did it look like?”
“His first wife.” Meera shrugged. “I found some photos of her online – very frumpy. Same Marks and Spencer skirt.”
“Did you tell the old man this?”
“No, of course not.”
“I think you should. He specifically asked us if we’d come across anything odd.”
“Well, it’s too late now. Almost midnight.”
“There’s still – three minutes left.”
“Right. Tell you what, if the old man pulls something out of the hat now – ”
“You’ll what? You’ll go out on a date with me?”
“No, stupid. Just – ”
“No, come on, Meera, put your money where your mouth is, he’s got the time it takes to smoke a cigarette left. If he still manages to nail someone before midnight, you’ll go on a date with me.”
“All right,” agreed Meera, safe in the knowledge that she had already won, “you’re on.”
♦
Bryant pulled on his pipe and watched the embers turn crimson. “That stuff will kill you,” said Ella Maltby, joining him in the courtyard.
“Doesn’t matter, I’m ninety-five per cent dead anyway,” Bryant replied. “Our brains start atrophying when we turn eighteen. Can I ask you something?”
“Fire away.”
“How did the dummy get to the barn? I mean, it’s a bulky objectj not heavy but awkward. Did you take it there?”
Maltby held his eyes for a long moment. “I guess we must have done. At least, our delivery firm would have. It was bulky because it was one of our pregnant models.”