The Water Room (29 page)

‘They were built for the families of the men who built the railways. Little terraced boxes for the workers.’

‘So I understand.’

‘That’s why there’s no decoration, see. No mouldings. No panels or friezes. Workers don’t need to see beauty.’

‘Why not?’

‘Gives them ideas above their station. They won’t miss what they’ve never had.’

As he spoke, Tate lost his nondescript appearance and attitude. For a moment, Bryant was afforded a glimpse of the man inside. He wondered if Tate had once been a teacher. ‘Who are you?’ he asked gently.

‘Poor and old is a terrible combination.’ Tate shook his head, barely hearing. ‘You become so unimportant. Your past achievements are forgotten. No one believes you. Your life is trodden on by strangers. You’ve nothing to show anyone who you were.’

‘Then tell me.’

Tate glanced back at the window. This time, Bryant saw nervousness in his eyes. ‘I’m no one. Let’s wash it all away, wash the past away until there are only clean new things left.’

Bryant decided to try another tack. ‘You must know the streets around here very well.’

‘I know the streets, the houses, and under the streets.’

‘There seem to be lots of ghost stories.’

‘Because of the river,’ Tate agreed. ‘Is it any wonder? The roads were laid over the
Cloaca Maxima,
the Fleet sewer, a highway of corpses. Plague and pestilence. On its way to the witch of Camden Town, it flooded and rotted the timbers of the houses.’

‘You mean Mother Red Cap.’ Bryant remembered the pub of the same name that stood on the site of the infamous witch’s house, now pointlessly renamed and spoiled. It had been the reason why Maggie Armitage had based her office, the Coven of St James the Elder, on its first floor.

Tate’s voice grew fainter. ‘1809—the snow was thick, and suddenly thawed in bright sunshine. The torrent of the Fleet was forced between the river’s arches, gaining great speed until it burst into the houses of the poor and drowned them. It always drowned the poor.’ He rubbed his chin, thinking. ‘I had a book on it once. I haven’t got it any more. They’ve no books here, just magazines about football and telly. I miss the books. I’ve just my own special ones, but they’re not for reading. I’ve nothing to read.’

‘Look, if I could get you some books, would you talk to me again?’

For a moment Tate seemed pleased by the prospect. Then his eyes clouded. ‘Too late to talk. Look, my useless hands.’ He raised trembling red fingers. The thumb of his right hand had been broken, and the bone had knitted poorly.

‘I’ll bring some books anyway,’ said Bryant, rising. ‘Please, stay here at the hostel for a few days, so I can find you.’

Tate returned his gaze to the window. ‘I can’t leave anyway. The rain’s not going to stop until the river finds a path again,’ he warned. ‘Then it will all be too late.’

32

BREATHLESS

At half past one in the morning, Camden Town was almost as busy as it had been that afternoon. Many offices around the lock ran a twenty-four-hour day, light-industrial units refitted with technology, occupied by sound engineers, TV-camera operators, studio personnel, website designers, artists, writers, traffickers using so much electronic equipment that the town was a hotspot on the grid, an area that never cooled down or turned off. Factor in the clubs, bars, pubs, restaurants and all-night stores, the crawling traffic, the trucks blasting trash from the gutters, the teens looking to buy drugs and the tourists just looking, and you had streets that no amount of rain could clear. No witches ruled here now, just neo-goths and charity-muggers, no fishermen beside rushing brooks, just dealers selling grass and pills from the sides of their mouths.

But to step from the gaudy ribbon of the road into the backstreets was to shed a hundred years, among willows fringing wrought-iron gates, dim lights tracing draped windows, angled gables and broken tiles, crooked bollards, empty pavements. The roads were filled with parked vehicles, but otherwise had not changed; they still twisted in unreliable curvature, encouraging the lost to venture just a little further. The speed humps and one-way systems added a new layer of trickery. Nascent lanes led nowhere, amputated stumps of cobbled street were sealed off by railways, canals and housing developments, dead churches and wet green gardens remained in forgotten tranches of land.

Aaron cut a diagonal path across the maze of backstreets. He had been born here, and would have known the way blindfold, guided by the distant thrum of arterial roads. As he slipped through alleys toward Balaklava Street, he thought guiltily about his situation. He knew that what he was doing was wrong, but felt powerless to end what he had begun. He had tried to think of ways of stopping, but now it was too late, and whichever course of action he chose would hurt someone he cared for.

As he passed between high walls topped with broken bottles, it started to rain again. The hottest summer on record had produced a season of statistic-shattering storms. Thunder tumbled in a distant ragnarok of temper as he approached the house. The doused lights suggested that Jake had given up waiting for him and had gone to bed. The sound of his key in the lock was hidden by fresh falls of rain. He ascended the stairs in darkness, shedding his clothes on the landing. The bedroom was silent. At least he had delayed an argument until the morning.

Aaron carefully folded back his side of the duvet and slid into bed. Jake was on the far side, a cold shoulder turned against him. The window shone rivulets of rain on to the walls, as if the room was crying. Aaron settled against the pillow, listening. He thought back over the events of the evening, feeling ashamed of himself. Shifting closer, he pressed his hand against the small of his partner’s back, but there was no response.

Disturbed by the shifting weight on the mattress, Jake’s right hand thudded against the side of the bed and his head tipped to face Aaron. Even in the dark, Aaron could see that there was something wrong with Jake’s face. It seemed to reflect the light from the streetlamp, as though it was moulded from slick plastic rather than made of flesh.

Aaron leapt back and groped for the light switch. Jake stared up at him from the bed, his mouth stretched in a shiny concave ellipse, his hair plastered to his head as if he had been swimming. As Aaron finally realized what he was seeing, he screamed long and loud.

Bryant sat on the side of his tall brass bedstead, his feet swinging above the floor like a child’s. Yawning, he scratched his unruly tonsure back into place as he listened.

‘No, of course I’m glad he called you first. It’ll stop the Met teams from taping off the entire street and posing in their paper monkey suits. You know what they’re like, one whiff of this and they’ll be phoning in live interviews and getting their pictures in the
Mirror
.’

‘We need to play this by the book,’ warned May. ‘It’ll go high profile now, and we’ll be able to reopen Ruth Singh’s file whether there’s a connection or not. Everyone will be watching us. We can’t afford to make a single procedural mistake. Kershaw and Banbury are on their way. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. I’m assuming you hadn’t gone to bed.’

‘You assume wrongly,’ snapped Bryant. ‘Thought I’d have an early night for a change, read over my old case notes.’ He was writing a history of their investigations, but his old reports were out of order and handwritten, as well as being unreliable and libellous to a perverse degree. ‘The good thing is that Raymond Land will get off our backs now and leave us alone.’

‘You’d probably like to know how the poor devil who found his partner’s body is doing,’ May prompted.

‘I’m sure you and Longbright will take care of him,’ said Bryant dismissively. ‘Now kindly get off the phone. I have no intention of attending the crime scene in my Tintin pyjamas.’ Bryant showed little empathy for survivors. Survival was something he expected everyone to do as a matter of course; every life was punctuated with tests.

Less than twenty minutes later, he and May entered the little terraced house. They had hoped to arrive without fuss, but it seemed that the street’s other residents were expecting tragedy. Hall lights glowed. Some stood expectantly in their doorways, trying to understand what had happened.

Sergeant Longbright found Aaron in the kitchen with a dressing-gown pulled over his shoulders, his face hidden by his hands. ‘I don’t know why we always make tea in times of crisis, it seems so stupid,’ she said, filling the kettle. ‘Do you have any brandy in the house?’

‘I can’t go up there again,’ he told her.

‘You don’t have to. There can only be one route in and out of the crime scene, so the stairs are off limits now. Everything must be recorded.’

‘What happens next?’

‘We have to photograph and log everything as you found it. We’ll probably take some items away for analysis. Mr Bryant would like me to get a short statement from you now, though, because there are things you may forget later. The mind has a way of rewriting bad events, taking out details we don’t want to recall.’ She placed a mug of mahogany-shaded tea on the kitchen table and sat beside him. He wiped an eye with the heel of his hand and regarded her. Longbright’s maternal sexiness stood her in good stead during times of stress. She was a warm breast to lean on, an ear to confide in. Aaron felt the need to explain what had happened, and why he felt so bad.

Upstairs, Banbury was measuring distances around the bed and taking digital footage of the body. Jake Avery lay half out of bed, like Chatterton in death, a pale hand brushing the floor. His face was flattened and lined with fierce red creases, his mouth a bright oval rictus.

‘He’s drunk a fair amount,’ Kershaw said, kneeling beside the bed and triggering stills. ‘Those lines on his cheeks—the blood’s just under the surface. Smells like whisky.’

‘Where’s the murder weapon?’ asked May, looking about.

‘Here.’ Banbury raised a length of crushed clingfilm between the thumb and forefinger of his gloved right hand. ‘The boy took it off his face.’

‘You mean it was wrapped around his head?’ asked May.

‘Four or five times. He didn’t fight back. Tried to get his fingers through the film and failed. Bedclothes are hardly disturbed. Probably surprised in his sleep, caught at the base of a breath.’

‘Asphyxiation.’ May shook his head sadly.

‘Actually, no. This stuff attracts a terrible amount of static, as you’ll know if you’ve ever tried to wrap something up when you’re not in the mood. Judging by the haemorrhaging in his nasal passages, it stuck over his nose and mouth at the same moment. Make someone jump and they’ll gasp, drawing in air, so he would have found himself without a breath to take. Then quickly lift the head, wrap once, twice, again and again, he’s fighting for oxygen and finding none at all, all his concentration’s taken up with the need to breathe, his reactions are slow, he doesn’t put up much of a battle. He’s been drinking, his pulse is up, bing go the strings of his heart, a coronary thrombosis ten years too early, all over in seconds.’

‘How long do you reckon he’s been dead?’ asked Bryant, who found himself warming to the new forensics lad. He possessed a certain fervour.

‘Oh, a couple of hours before the boy found him—I did a quick rectal just before you got here, but I’ll get you something more accurate later.’

‘What kind of murderer enters his victim’s home armed with a roll of clingfilm?’ May wondered.

‘Weapon at hand,’ replied Bryant, hardly pausing to consider the question. ‘Unpremeditated.’

‘Not so. That would have entailed traipsing through the house to take the roll from the kitchen. Either way, it was planned.’

‘You think so? It smacks of improvisation to me. His face was uncovered when you got here?’

‘As you see it, Mr Bryant. Seems Mr Avery’s partner arrived home late and got into bed without turning on the light, then felt something was wrong. When he put on the bedside lamp he saw the plastic wrap covering the victim’s face and tore at it until it came off, as I’m sure you would. I’ll try to get some latents off it, but don’t hold your breath.’

‘Unfortunate choice of phrase, Mr Banbury,’ May remonstrated.

‘No disrespect intended, sir.’

‘Three,’ muttered Bryant, studying the body.

‘Sir?’

‘Three suffocations in three weeks, all in the same small street,’ he explained. ‘John, what would you say to the natural odds on such a thing occurring?’

There was an eerie glint in his partner’s eyes that May had seen before. It occurred whenever Bryant found himself faced with irrefutable proof of a highly unlikely murder.

33

UNDERCURRENTS

‘This isn’t a police station.’ Aaron looked around the unit office at Mornington Crescent, puzzled.

The only personnel to be seen were a pair of hungover workmen in the next room who were seated beside a hole in the floor, eating digestive biscuits. Crippen sat slumped against a filing cabinet, legs apart, licking itself, seemingly in no hurry to be returned to its rightful owner.

‘Good God, no,’ replied May. ‘It’s not even a detection unit in the traditional sense. That’s why I thought it would be a good place for us to have a talk. You can say what you like here.’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’ Aaron was sweating too heavily to be entirely innocent, fidgeting and placing his hands near his mouth in unconscious signs of discomfort. He had been allowed to rest in the living room until dawn, watched over by Bimsley.

‘I’m not here to judge you, Aaron. Your partner’s murder has raised the status of the investigation. We’re fighting to keep the press out; but if they do find a way in, your street will become a major tourist destination. Mr Avery’s killer has to be found before that happens. I know you gave DS Longbright a statement, but I want to talk about your movements last night. The ones you didn’t mention.’

‘I didn’t do it, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ll take a lie-detector test.’

‘That’s old technology. Subjects can defeat it by simply biting their tongues. It was never very reliable to begin with. These days we use an electroencephalograph that monitors brain-waves.’

‘You have one of those?’

‘No, of course not. It’s far too expensive. Besides, my partner prefers us to use the old psychological methods—non-verbal communication skills, studying your gestures and so on.’

Aaron dropped his hand from his mouth. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Quite an age difference between you and Mr Avery. About twenty years?’

‘Eighteen. It never made a difference.’

‘Happy, then? No rifts, no arguments?’

‘I wouldn’t say that; nobody would.’

‘Tell me about Marshall,’ May said casually. ‘Did you meet him at the Bondini brothers’ workshop, or somewhere else?’

Aaron grew pale, and finally sat on his hands to keep them still. ‘I’d seen him around,’ he said in a small voice. ‘I took a table into the workshop to get its leg fixed, and he was there.’ He started to panic. ‘You’re going to talk to him, aren’t you? His parents don’t know, they think he’s going out with a Greek girl—his father would kill him.’

‘When did you first meet?’

‘It was just a few months ago, but we didn’t—I mean, we’ve only gone out together a couple of times. Jake didn’t know anything about it. I would never have hurt him, he was wonderful to me, and now—’

‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t buy this “nice chap who made one small mistake” routine. You saw Marshall Keftapolis on over twenty separate occasions behind your partner’s back. Let’s take it from there.’

‘It wasn’t as often as—’

‘I’ve already talked to him this morning, Aaron. You met five months ago, and according to Marshall, you’ve told him on numerous occasions that you were going to leave Jake, but he didn’t believe you’d ever get around to doing so because you were dependent on him for money. So let’s be a little less disingenuous about your innocence.’

The boy sat forward, and lowered his head in his hands. ‘You’re making it sound more heartless than it was.’

‘The statement of simple facts has a habit of appearing heartless. I don’t doubt you feel bad, you blame yourself because you lied to him about where you were going, and you were out with someone else when he met a nasty end. Yes, I’d be feeling pretty guilty too. It’s why you left the lights off—you didn’t want to wake him up and face his questions. For the record, I don’t believe you did it.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know, perhaps because you took your clothes off in the dark before going into the room, and went to the trouble of neatly folding them. You’d have to be abnormally cold-blooded to do that before killing someone to whom you were emotionally attached. I suppose you could have folded the clothes afterwards, but to what end? Your past indiscretions are only interesting if they shed a light on Mr Avery’s murder. The best you can do now is think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him. Had he argued with someone, made any enemies?’

‘There were tensions at work; I don’t really know the details. And he’d fallen out with Randall Ayson. They had a shouting match about theology in the middle of the street. Ayson’s God-Squad, man is born to procreate, the Lord made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve, that sort of learned-by-rote rubbish. Ayson’s condescending because he’s got children, but it’s common knowledge that he was having an affair behind his wife’s back.’

‘What do you mean, common knowledge?’

‘It was the hot topic at the Wiltons’ party. Lauren, the girl who’s going out with Mark Garrett. Apparently she and Randall were an item. Your partner was there. He must have picked up on it.’

‘Fine, but I doubt Mr Ayson decided to murder Mr Avery simply because he wasn’t planning on having children. Anyone else in the street?’

‘Well, Garrett, I suppose. He gave Jake some duff property advice.’

‘Quite normal. Keep going.’

‘Jake had a row with Heather from across the road once.’

‘Do you know what it was about?’

‘I think it was Stanley Spencer.’

‘The artist? Why would they have argued over Stanley Spencer?’

‘Jake was researching Spencer’s life because his company was planning a documentary. She did PR for a Cork Street gallery before her husband dumped her, had some strong views about art.’

May was beginning to wonder whether his human approach to detective intelligence was less effective than Bryant’s lateral habits. He sighed and replaced his pen in his pocket. ‘Let’s assume for a moment that the assailant was unknown to Mr Avery. You’re sure nothing was taken from the house?’

‘Positive. You’ve seen how we live. Jake was into minimalism, couldn’t bear ornamentation, not even so much as a magazine lying about. We kept no money at home.’

‘You don’t think it was unusual for the back door to be unlocked?’

‘No. There are gardens on either side of us, and walls at the ends.’

‘And you can think of no reason—’

‘—why he was murdered? No, of course not, otherwise I’d tell you, wouldn’t I?’

They released the distraught Aaron in order to let him inform his partner’s relatives.

‘I still keep asking myself if it’s just an unfortunate series of coincidences,’ May admitted. ‘All kinds of tragedies occur in the average street. Couldn’t this be an extreme example? An old lady dies, a workman suffers an accident, an intruder kills a householder . . .’

‘There’s nothing coincidental about it,’ replied Bryant, pouring food for the cat. ‘The unusual configurations of London streets mean that there was always a lot of waste ground, and the Blitz bombs created more dead land than ever.’

‘What has that got to do with anything?’

‘You always think these things are about love and hate, John, but they’re really about frustration and poverty and anger, and that has a lot to do with the land. The developers push up property prices, the land is built upon, density increases dramatically, people are thrust into each other’s paths, privacy is eroded, tension flares.’

May had heard this particular tune of Bryant’s often enough to raise his hand in objection. ‘London has a lower population now than it had in the 1950s,’ he pointed out.

‘But it’s become concentrated in city hotspots. Where there are too many people, lives are forced to overlap.’

‘This is a pretty affluent street, Arthur. Everyone has a garden, their own space. You’re searching for connections where there are none.’

‘I’d take your point, old fruit, but for two things. First, Jake was asleep when he was attacked. The bottom half of the bed wasn’t even disturbed, which suggests to me that he was taken by surprise. He didn’t even have time to react by trying to fend off his attacker and kick himself into an upright position. Second, the attacker
knew
he was in bed, because he came upstairs already armed with the roll of film. Ergo, someone entered the house with the intention of killing its owner. Jake knew something about the deaths of Elliot Copeland and Ruth Singh, and was silenced before he could tell anyone.’

‘You don’t know that. His colleagues reckon he didn’t leave the studio all day. When do you imagine he was the recipient of this blinding epiphany?’

‘I don’t much care for your tone.’ Bryant rooted through his drawer, and began assembling a favourite pipe. ‘We know he arranged to meet Kallie Owen last night, then failed to show up. I think he’d been about to tell her something, but was sidetracked by the killer.’ He sucked horribly at the pipe stem, checking airflow.

‘Why confide in her? Why not tell us?’

‘Perhaps his discovery was of particular relevance to her, or this missing partner of hers who was currently last heard from in—’ he consulted his notes, ‘Santorini?’

‘Let’s assume for the moment that you’re correct, and that this is some kind of domino effect, in which case Elliot Copeland dies to prevent the identity of Ruth Singh’s killer from emerging, and Jake Avery dies to keep Elliot’s murderer hidden. There’s no driving force to the hypothesis—no motive. None of these people had the usual family ties.’

‘You forget that following my theory, we only need a motive for the first death, and that could be something terribly mundane. We know that Ruth Singh had been the victim of racism from the tape Kallie gave us, if thirty seconds of guttural filth on a bad line can be taken as racism. We know that, despite Mark Garrett’s claim to the contrary, she was visited by him the night before she died. Let’s assume she made an enemy, someone who found a way to take her life—’

‘—by flooding her bathroom and quickly draining it.’

‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, John.’

‘What’s wrong with a simple conk on the head? She was an old lady, all anyone would have had to do was push her downstairs. Why go to the trouble of drowning her on dry land?’

‘I think we have to set aside the “why” and concentrate on “how” for a while.’

‘How is it you always manage to sidestep the logical questions any normal person would ask?’

‘I never gave you any reason to assume I was logical. Have you ever known me to plan anything more than two hours in advance, or stay awake all the way through a committee meeting?’ Bryant reached back to his bookshelf and began pulling down some dusty, tattered volumes.

‘I suppose not,’ May sighed. ‘If you were logical, you’d have stayed with Alma as your landlady in the old apartment. She washed your socks for forty years. Any sane person would have bid you good riddance, but she’s terribly cut up about you dumping her. And I don’t think you’ll find the answer in any of those filthy old books.’

‘Well, of course, that’s exactly what you would say,’ Bryant bridled, loading them into his briefcase. ‘Anyway, what about your granddaughter? I thought you were bringing April in to help us. I thought you were going to have it out with her once and for all. Put your own house in order, I say.’

Stalemate,
thought May. ‘So what are the books for?’ he asked, giving in gracefully.

‘Ah, well. Seeing as we divided assignments, I thought I’d try adopting your methods for a change. Any word from Greenwood?’

‘Monica called to tell me that Jackson Ubeda and her husband are going off somewhere together tomorrow night, and that he’s not expected back until the next morning. I think it was her way of telling me that she’d be alone in the house.’

‘Thank God I don’t have your trouble with women. What a moral dilemma. Which duty will you choose, I wonder? To satisfy the unfulfilled wife or to rescue the good name of your rival? The unit can’t help you now, you know, not with Raymond having to report our every movement to Marsden and the rest of HMCO liaison.’

‘Then I’ll inform you of my decision,’ said May.

‘And I’ll do the same if my hunch with these books pays off.’

The axe is about to fall on this place and they’re behaving like children, guarding their essays from each other,
thought Longbright, watching them from the door.
They’re out of step, out of date, and it looks like they’re finally running out of time.

34

THE CONDUIT

Bryant unloaded the books at the end of Tate’s bed. ‘I’m afraid they’re rather esoteric,’ he apologized, ‘but you may find them interesting.’

The itinerant turned over the first volume and studied the title suspiciously. A gruesome face on the cover of
Dental Evidence in Body Identification. Volume One: Bridgework
stared back at him. ‘Thank you,’ he said uncertainly.

There was an unbearably terminal aspect to Tate’s little room. When he had mentioned the stripped-back bareness of the workers’ houses in Balaklava Street, homes that had been built for the poor, he could have been describing this, his own eventual residence. His knotted hands turned the pages with surprising delicacy. On the sill above his bed stood a row of syrup tins containing stunted geraniums. An overpowering smell of stewed beef wafted in from the corridor.

‘I wondered if we might talk a little more,’ Bryant suggested.

‘You want to know something, don’t you? There’s been another one.’

‘You heard.’

‘Everyone talks in here. But I saw.’

‘What do you mean, you saw?’

‘What you told me off for doing.’

‘You mean watching?’ Bryant sat forward. ‘You were watching the house?’

‘In one of my positions. Traffic warden uses it. Runs out from his hidey-hole to arrest the cars.’

Bryant knew that rough sleepers developed territorial habits every bit as strong as those with homes. ‘Where is that?’

‘On the waste ground.’

‘What did you see, Mr Tate?’

‘Saw the bedroom light go out in number 41.’

‘Did you notice who went in?’

‘No. You can only see upstairs from there.’

‘What about Elliot Copeland? Did you see him on the night of the accident?’