The Victoria Vanishes (28 page)

'He was trying to get away and made a mistake.'

'No. You saw him hesitate and look back. He knew that we couldn't be allowed to take him alive. If we did, he would find himself charged and interrogated, and he couldn't afford to let that happen.'

'Why in God's name not?' asked May, mystified.

'Because under interrog
ation he would incriminate some
one else,' said Brya
nt, looking out into the incomin
g mist.

'But Arthur, there
isn't
anyone else. He operated alone, acting for the private gratification that he alone could receive.'

'So it would seem. And we are presented with the textbook apparatus to understand his motivation. In fact, there's little left for us to do beyond conducting a few scientific matches and placing the case in archive. The Broadhampton's medical faculty will be at great pains to justify their decision to release Pellew into the community. Everyone walks away with their hands clean.'

A police launch passed be
neath them, a white arrow cleav
ing sepia waters.

'And there's something else. I thought about the drawing Bimsley found on the floor of Pellew's makeshift hiding place at the Angerstein Hotel. That scrappy rendering of a black-and-white bird with a long tail, sitting on a tree stump. Bimsley gave it to me when I visited him at the hospital.'

'What of it?'

'It only took me a few moments to come up with the pub name, the Magpie and Stump, opposite the Old Bailey, but I was a little slower in making the connection. Pellew left us a more deliberate clue than any of his clumsy earlier attempts. What does the name Thomas Spence mean to you?'

'The Cato Street Conspira
cy,' said May. 'Spence was a for
mer schoolteacher who believed that if all the land of Britain was shared out equally, every man, woman and child would get seven acres each.'

'Very good;
you know your history. Did you also know that Spence founded the Society of Spencean Philanthropists? They believed that instead of a centralised governing body, Britain should be run by small groups based in London public houses. I made a list, hang on.' Bryant rooted out another of his scraps of paper and squinted at the huge lettering on it. 'The Spenceans met at the Nag's Head in Carnaby Market, the Carlisle in Shoreditch, the Mulberry Tree in Moorfields, the Cock in Soho, the White Lion in Camden and a host of other pubs. In rented rooms in Cato Street, they hatched plans to assassinate a group
of government ministers attend
ing a dinner party in Grosvenor Square. The conspirators were caught by police and tried at the Old Bailey, while their supporters watched from the windows of the Magpie and Stump public house. Some of the accused were executed, some transported. So, we get a second "seven" after the Seven Stars pub, a third with the Seven Bells, the former name of the Old Bell pub, and on top of the other keywords Pellew has given us, we must now add "conspiracy."'

Bryant balled the paper and tossed it down into the fast-flowing river. 'Look at the view we take so much for granted. Politicians are fond of telling us how much cleaner the Thames is now, how you can catch dace and sole in its reaches once again. Everyone wants to believe in appearances. What was the Thames ever but a gigantic sewer, somewhere to empty the waste of a wealthy nation? The steamships churned up so much shit that the fine people crossing this bridge died of cholera. You can burnish a cit
y's image, but you never really
change its nature. There's something hidden and corrupt running beneath it, there always is, and this time it's not just the acted-out fantasies of a lost soul.'

'Oh, really,' May complained. 'You're saying you see some kind of citywide conspiracy at work?'

'Most definitely.' Bryant nodded with vigour. And I intend to discover exactly what it is.'

'If you're wrong, our reputations will be ruined once and for all.'

'Given the nature of my suspicions, I pray I'm wrong,' said Bryant gloomily.

34

GAZUMPED

R
aymond Land was uncomfortably perched on the cracked red leather seat of a nineteenth-century tapestry-backed chair in Leslie Faraday's office, nervously
waiting for the minis
ter to return.

As he toyed with a loose thread, he wondered whether he would be able to curry favour from the case's fast conclusion. His superiors would see that the PCU could compete with the Met in terms of efficiency, and as he was acting head of the division he would surely be
commended for resolving a situa
tion that might well have cau
sed a national panic. The monot
onous regularity with which the HO attempted to shut down the unit would be ended, and its officers would finally be allowed to continue in an atmosphere of mutual respect.

He looked down and realised that the tapestry thread was wrapped around his fingers. Peering over at the back of the chair, he saw to his horror that he had unravelled a substantial portion of the ancient design. The shepherdess now had no head, and two of her sheep had partially evaporated.

Faraday waddled into t
he room rubbing his hands. 'Ah,
there you are, Land,' he boomed cheerfully.
'I'm having Deirdre rustle us up some tea. You're white with two sugars if memory serves.' Faraday's memory always
served. Indeed, it was his sin
gular talent, and all that kept him from being booted from his fine Whitehall office into the gutter. Faraday was as slow as treacle but remembered where all the financial corpses were buried, and therefore it was
expedient to keep him where min
isters with more competence and cunning could keep an eye on him. 'I must say you've done jolly well to put this frightful business to bed. I thought it would be a good idea to tell—'

A chill breeze trembled through Land's heart. He suddenly knew who Faraday had told.

'—Mr Kasavian,' said Faraday, holding open the door. 'He wanted a word with you himself.'

This could not be good. Whenever the cadaverous Home Office security supervisor becam
e involved in their affairs, ba
bies cried, women cowered, innocence was punished and blame was wrongly apportioned. As he entered the room, Land fancied he heard the distant sound of noosed bodies falling through trap doors. Certainly the sun went in and drained all warmth from the room.

Oskar Kasavian did not smile so much as bare his lower teeth. As Land rose and held out his hand, he realised that his palm was still filled with material from the damaged chair. Like a shamed schoolboy, he let it drop onto the floor behind him.

'I understand our public houses are once more safe enough for the populace to become drunk in,' said Kasavian, waving Land back into his seat, 'alt
hough it would have been prefer
able to bring the malefactor to justice rather than spreading him all over the A102.'

'My officers risked a great deal trying to prevent the flight of a mentally unstable man,' Land explained.

'Quite understood.' Kasavian examined his nails as though checking for evidence that could link him with murder.
'Trying circumstances for everyone involved, and I look forward to reading your full report. But I am here about another matter entirely. The Peculiar Crimes Unit currently occupies the site at 1b Camden Road, does it not?' Kasavian opened a folder and produced a photocopied
map of the area, with the foot
print of Mornington Crescent station marked in shaded lines.

Land was bewildered. He leaned forward, peering at the proffered document.
'That is correct.'

Kasavian tapped a long hard nail on his front tooth. It made a sound like water dripping from a corpse onto an upturned tin bucket.
'You see, the thing is
, there has been a rather unfor
tunate oversight. Probably no more than a clerical error, but an error all the same. Your lease—'

'—extended to 2017;
I signed the documents myself,' said Land hastily.

'Indeed you did, but for some reason I can hardly begin to fathom, the document was never notarised by the Land Registrar. Which means that th
e lease was never officially ex
tended.' Kasavian had employed his legal team for over a month, searching for some loophole by which to remove the PCU from his sight. The unratified lease had fallen into his etiolated hands like disinterred treasure.

'Then surely it is simply a matter of presenting the lease once more,' said Land hopefully.

'Would that things were so simple.' Faraday wrung his hands together so tightly that Land expected to see drops of blood fall from them. 'With the lapse of the lease, all existing documentation between the former leaseholder and the Crown Estate, which owns the site, is voided.'

'Can't we draw up new documents based on the previous arrangement?' asked Land, already knowing the answer.

Kasavian gave him a dry, hooded look that suggested he could not be bothered to come up with any more excuses.
'The unit is required to vacate the premises at noon on Monday.'

'But tomorrow's Saturday,' squeaked Land. 'Where are we to be rehoused?'

'Alas, we do not have the fa
cility for rehousing such a gov
ernment unit at present.'

'Then what are you suggesting we do?'

Faraday pretended to spot something of great interest out-side the window, which was unlikely as he was facing a brick wall in Horseferry Road. 'Mr Kasavian has kindly agreed to placing all members of staff on partially paid leave until the situation can be sorted out,' he said.

'We hope to find new premises for you within three to four months. Meanwhile, we will be offering a generous "opt-out" scheme to your staff, for those members who feel unable to continue with the unit.'

'Do you know how many times the Home Office has tried to disband the PCU and failed?' said Land hotly.
'Without us, this type of crime would go undetected and unsolved.'

'That remains to be seen,' said Kasavian. 'The unit has clearly had its fans in the Home Office, but many members of the old guard are reaching retirement age and handing over the reins. There are reasons
why you never made superintend
ent, Land, just as there are now reasons to assume that the Metropolitan Police Force could handle this kind of work with greater cost-efficiency.'

'So that's what it comes down to?' asked Land.
'Money?'

'It's a matter of security. It may have escaped your notice, but the capital is on a permanent "Severe" terrorism alert. There is no room for your little cottage-industry detection unit. You're an anachronism, an unacceptable security risk; you've admitted so yourself.'

'That was in the past, before—'

'Before your detectives won you over? Ask yourself, Land, what has changed? The answer is
nothing,
and that's the prob
lem.'

'Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?' Land pleaded. He glanced b
ack at Faraday, who had just no
ticed that his tapestry chair was ruined.

'It's too late for that,' said Kasavian.
'I'm afraid the building has already been sold. Tomorrow is your very last day at Mornington Crescent. You'd better go and tell your staff to pack up their belongings.' His smile was as mirthless as any carnival huckster's.
'Don't worr
y, we won't do anything as dras
tic as changing the locks. I remember only too wel
l what hap
pened the last time we tried that. We're all civilised adults, Mr Land, I'm sure we can reach an amicable agreement.'

'You mean you'd like us to reach a compromise on the terms of moving out?' said Land hopefully.

'Good God, no,' said Kasavian. 'It's merely an expression. There's nothing you can do now except go.'

35

INTERPRETATION

A
pair of disembodied legs sealed in black fishnet tights and crimson satin garters was balanced gracefully on a mound of red plastic poppies. Nearby, a torso clad in a basque with lavender rhinestones se
t in its staves glittered menac
ingly.

DS Janice Longbright peered into the shop window and sighed at the clothes she could
not afford. She was tired of be
ing broke and unloved. Checking her watch, she realised that she was running late. Carol Wynley's partner was awaiting her arrival in the flat beside the shop.

Shad Thomson had suffered a stroke in his late fifties, three years earlier, and the apartment he shared with Carol Wynley had been adapted to allow his motorised wheelchair to pass easily from room to room. Although she was unsure how much help she should offer her host, Longbright suggested making tea for them both, and he comfortably acquiesced.

'I suppose I got lazy living with Carol,' he told her. 'It's s
ur
prisingly easy to let someone do everything for you.'