The Memory of Blood (18 page)

‘Marcus Sigler is playing the murderer, isn’t he? Don’t some actors start identifying strongly with the characters they’re playing?’

‘If he did, that would mean Marcus was your main suspect. But actors are trained to know the difference between their roles and their own characters. It’s those who
watch
who become the most obsessed. Look at stalkers. Look at the history of murderers who say they’ve been influenced by fictional characters.’

‘Do you really think Robert Kramer could have murdered his own son?’

Pryce looked even less comfortable now. ‘There are people who say Noah wasn’t his son.’

‘Who’s been saying that?’

‘I try not to listen to backstage gossip. Besides, Robert is my employer, and if anything happens to the show I’m out of a job. But you can’t be too careful. His wife’s been doped up since Monday night. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t leave her alone with him.’

‘You say it’s like a theatrical performance. Doesn’t it take bravery to act before so many people?’

‘No, I think it just takes a form of anger.’

‘Thank you, Mr Pryce, you’ve been most illuminating. We may be in touch again.’ Bryant opened the door to let the writer out. ‘I think we need to put someone in there with her, John. Just in case Pryce turns out to be right.’

‘I guess we could spare Meera. Right now, Judith Kramer is the person we most need to talk to, and the only one we can’t get to. So?’

‘What?’ Bryant feigned innocence.

‘Your big theory, the one I’m going to hate. Are you ready to share it?’

‘Not yet. I’m revising my thinking in light of recent developments. I still have some more tests to conduct.’

‘What kind of tests?’

‘Bells. Mythomania—that’s pathological lying—and the cephalic index.’

‘I’m sorry.’ May shook his head. ‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Well, the bells—’

‘No, the last thing.’

‘The cephalic index is an index of head shape, the most popular component of racial studies. You get it by measuring the width of the head from a point over one ear to the opposite point over the other ear.’ Bryant waggled his fingers around his face. ‘Then you measure the maximum length of the head from a point in the middle of the forehead between the eyebrows to the occiput on the back of the head, dividing the width by the length and multiplying the result by one hundred. Most human adults range from seventy to eighty-five, and the range indicates whether you’re brachycephalic, mesocephalic or dolichocephalic. But this measurement is different from the cranial index. Eastern
European immigrants entering the United States were measured, and what they found—’

‘Perhaps I could just stop you there before I go mad and kill you,’ May suggested calmly. ‘I fail to see what on earth this has to do with the investigation.’

‘Well, of course you would, because I’m making sure you deal with all the boring bits. I get to do the fun stuff.’

‘Explain this in terms I can understand.’

‘Robert Kramer is a Bavarian Jew.’ Bryant raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

‘And what does that mean?’

‘Well, one of the more grotesque racial myths is that you can separate Jews and Gentiles by measuring the shape of their heads. Officials once thought that the way you folded your arms was also an indicator of ethnicity. Whether you folded your right over your left or your left over your right could reveal whether you were a Kurdish Jew or not, because the Kurds in Israel favoured right over left.’

‘Okay, I think I’m going to leave you to wander the untravelled highways of your mind a little longer,’ May said. ‘Let me know when you have something to share that makes the slightest iota of sense, will you?’

‘Absolutely, no problem at all,’ said Bryant, slamming open another dusty volume, entitled
Morphological Traits & Ethnic Physiognomy in ‘The Arabian Nights.’
‘Feel free to call upon me at any hour, but next time come bearing brandy—I’ll be here most of the night. Oh, and get ready for a train journey early in the morning. There’s something we need to see.’

T
he air smelled cold and green. It amazed her how quickly the temperature fell as soon as you stepped out of the city’s brick corridors. The swimming pool had closed for the night. At over ninety metres, the expanse of aquamarine water was one of the largest pools in Europe. The Tooting Bec lido was more than a century old, but still proved popular with South Londoners who loved the setting; a row of brightly coloured cubicles stood like nutcracker guards between rippling water and towering plane trees.

Longbright arrived at the entrance and flashed her ID card to the cashier, who was locking up.

‘Yeah, I’m Donna,’ said a dull-eyed girl who clearly spent her workdays researching hair care articles. ‘Why?’

‘Do you know someone called Anna Marquand?’

‘We went to school together. Has she done something wrong?’

‘I’m afraid she was taken ill on Monday night.’

‘But I saw her Monday.’

‘That’s why I’m here. She died not long after she reached home.’ Longbright explained the circumstances.

‘I didn’t see her very often.’ Donna stood with one arm suspended in her jacket, shocked into stillness. ‘We’d have a drink occasionally. She was seeing a guy who lived near here, some musician, but they broke up last year.’

‘Did she ever use the lockers?’

Donna became embarrassed and hesitant. ‘She asked me if she could use one, just for a couple of weeks. Well, there’s hardly anyone here yet, it’s too early in the season, so I said yes. They’re not for customers—the swimmers change in the cubicles. They’re for the staff, somewhere to keep our bags.’

‘And you gave her a key for it. When was this?’

‘The weekend before last.’

‘Was there an address on the key ring?’

‘Yeah, in case anyone takes it home by mistake they can post it back.’

‘Do you mind if I take a look around?’

‘No, go ahead, she was using number seven, just under the canopy round the other side of the pool.’

Longbright headed back toward the staff area. The sun had set, and a cold breeze ruffled the darkening water. Crows cawed in the tall planes, bobbing on branches as they watched her pass.

The lockers were set in a grey wall beneath a steel roof canopy open to the elements. Only the unlocked doors stood ajar. Locker number 7 stood open and empty. She was too late.

But only just so. A scuff of dead leaves behind made her turn. A young scrub-bearded man in a black motorcycle jacket and jeans was standing in the deep shadow. Without warning, he threw himself at her, slamming her against the lockers. Longbright landed hard but quickly caught her breath.
You can’t wind a woman who’s used to wearing a corset, pal
, she thought, punching him hard in the stomach. He released air from his thorax and
doubled, but quickly righted himself and set off along the edge of the pool.

She had almost caught up with him when he suddenly turned and tripped her over, catching her off balance and sending her into the cold chlorinated water. As she felt herself fall she grabbed out at him and seized a trouser leg, hauling him in with her. His hip cracked on the pool edge as he fell. He splashed down heavily on top of her, his weight pushing her to the bottom.

Longbright had had no time to take a breath. She kicked out and twisted around him, breaking to the surface, and gulped air. Moments later, his hand was on her head and pushing down hard. They were locked together, sinking into the deep end of the pool.

He kicked down at her, connecting with her thigh, but the volume of water between them prevented him from doing any real damage. But now she had no air left in her lungs, and his right fist was firmly twisted into her hair. Her chest started to burn.

I wish I was wearing my heels
, she thought,
I’d perforate the bastard
. Turning herself over, she brought up her knee and connected with his groin. The impact wasn’t as great as she’d hoped, but it was enough to make him momentarily release her.

She pushed away to the surface, swimming fiercely, and struck out for the side of the pool with him in pursuit. The concrete edge was wide enough to allow her purchase, but she knew that by the time she pulled herself out he would be on her again. Remembering her water polo days, she raised her body in the water, swung smoothly around and smashed her elbow into his throat.

It bought her enough time to reach the shallow end, and she was able to climb the steps. She grabbed his jacket as he came close and dragged him up, but his clothes were slick and slipped beneath her fingers. Digging into his T-shirt she hauled him onto the side and went through his pockets, but found nothing.

‘What did you take from her locker?’ she demanded. ‘What did you do with it?’

She was checking his jeans when he struck out at her with his left fist, catching her on the side of the head.

She fell heavily to the pool surround. By the time she had managed to raise herself, he had taken off around the end of the pool. She scrambled up and powered across the concrete, but the gap was already too wide for her to make up the difference.

Trying her radio, she found it dead and full of chlorinated water. There wasn’t much point in Dan creating new applications if he couldn’t make the damned things waterproof. Hurling the useless transmitter into the pool, she ran out into the deserted street.

Longbright squelched her way back to the tube. Now she sat in the warm carriage dripping. Her clothes and hair felt sticky with chemicals. Everyone was staring at her.

She tried to understand what had just happened. Anna Marquand had taken to using the locker presumably because she wasn’t happy leaving things at home. Which meant that her mugging had not been a spontaneous act of violence. Someone had stolen her bag in order to search it, knowing that she had the habit of putting more than just her shopping inside. Perhaps her attacker had been specifically after her key ring. But what had she kept in the locker? And what had he been looking for?

The answer was far from comforting. Anna Marquand had come by the lido on her way home. And the one item that was missing from her belongings apart from the cell phone and keys was Bryant’s disc containing the documents in breach of national security.

I
t was bloody inconvenient. Gregory Baine had been enjoying an excellent chateaubriand and a frankly sensational bottle of Rioja with Susan at The Square when the waiter stopped by and apologised for interrupting the meal, but sir had received an urgent message, just a few words but they were enough to send him hurtling toward a taxi—with Susan scowling furiously and asking what was wrong, and how dare he leave her in the middle of dinner? Did he expect her to get home by herself?

But what else could he do? And how the hell could anyone have found out? Cannon Street station—entirely in the wrong direction, but it couldn’t be helped. As he sat back in the cab, he tried to think who might know about the problem. His accounts files were password-protected, but the sound was so strange in that bloody theatre that sometimes people came into the office without knocking and nearly gave him a heart attack. He supposed someone could have seen him, but it seemed a bit unlikely. Even so, Robert Kramer would murder him if he
thought that anyone knew what they were up to. Cruikshank Holdings was their private nest egg if anything went wrong in Adams Street.

An even more alarming thought crossed his mind as the cab headed for Fleet Street. What if somebody knew about the debts? What if somebody knew that he had been robbing Peter to pay Paul, shifting cash from the pension fund to cover their expenditure? But no, he and Robert were the only account holders. How could anyone else know? Cruikshank Holdings had been kept well hidden, or so he had thought.

But it only took one person to overhear an unguarded conversation, and there had been a few of those lately.

Jaundiced reflections of the streetlights splintered across the windscreen of the cab as they passed St Paul’s and cut down toward Cannon Street. The sky had veiled itself once more and it was starting to rain again. The city seemed desolate after the madness of the West End, all those crowds standing around on the street corners by Leicester Square, trying to decide which awful tourist-trap pub or steakhouse to throw their money at. But the Square Mile out of office hours was like a morgue, despite the vulgar new mall they had chucked up at One New Change.