Bryant & May - The Burning Man (13 page)

‘A sign of cowardice,’ Bryant explained to his partner, slapping down the email he had just laboriously printed out from Kershaw. ‘Tarring and feathering started as a uniquely British punishment, an act of humiliation inflicted on betrayers. Look at this.’ He clambered behind his desk and dragged down a dust-crusted volume, banging it open. ‘Here you go. Tar and feather. Asphalt emulsion. It has a low melting point, just like the pine tar they used to use on victims.’

‘I thought it was an exclusively American technique,’ said May, batting aside the flying dust.

‘No, only in vigilante use,’ Bryant explained, ‘and much later. Richard the First allowed it as a punishment in his navy as early as 1189, and we think it continued for centuries. Over four hundred years later it was found to be used in Madrid monasteries. There was a nastier version called pitchcapping, which involved pouring boiling tar into a cone-shaped paper cap. The cap was fitted over the victim’s head and allowed to cool. Then it was quickly removed, tearing off the skin. That was used by British forces against Irish rebels during the period of the Irish Rebellion back in 1798. Sometimes they shaved the head before tarring and feathering it, or they held a match to the feathers to keep relighting the tar. It’s all here.’ He tipped up the grubby gold-trimmed volume, entitled
The Origins of British Military and Religious Chastisement
. How Bryant came to have such a book at his fingertips in the office was the sort of thing May knew better than to ask.

‘The French and the Irish used it on women they suspected of having sexual relations with the enemy. And more recently it’s been used to humiliate drug-dealers. It’s a form of punishment that resurfaces every few years, usually in connection with street mobs.’

‘Well, we have plenty of street mobs roaming London at the moment,’ May pointed out. ‘Right now I think we need to concentrate on the practical problems. Let’s have a proper briefing session.’

‘Good,’ said Bryant, rubbing his hands. ‘I’ll get everyone together.’

‘You’d better suggest it to Raymond and let him do it,’ May warned. ‘You know how he likes to fantasize that he’s in control.’

After Banbury had returned from the St Pancras Mortuary, the unit members gathered in the first-floor briefing room for assignments. Armed with tea and a plate of stale biscuits, Bryant seated himself on one of the room’s uncomfortable orange bendy chairs, leaving space for Raymond behind the only desk. It was always fun watching Land pretend to know what was going on. As soon as everyone had assembled and settled, the PCU’s nominal chief arrived with a fat sheaf of papers which he carried for show, shuffling and re-ordering them with an air of importance before asking his detectives what they thought he should do first.

‘Do you want a Jammie Dodger?’ Bryant asked as Bimsley sat down.

Colin peered over. ‘Have you got any Garibaldis?’

‘No, the raisins get under my dentures. I had some Custard Creams in my drawer but Crippen had a wee on the packet. She’s been a bit incontinent since she had all those kittens. Pass them around.’

‘Right, you lot,’ said Land. ‘Can somebody tell me what’s going on?’

‘Shall I start?’ May offered, rising to his feet. ‘Glen David Hall, a thirty-seven-year-old corporate banker found dead in Unit 72, Brixton Market, this morning. He was discovered by a Mr Metish Kapur, proprietor of the New Delhi Express Diner, the café that diagonally faces the shop. Kapur was opening up when he saw someone inside and thought he’d go over to introduce himself. The site is regularly rented out on short leases. When he entered, the person Kapur saw had gone and Mr Hall was lying in the centre of the room, cemented to the floorboards with burning tar. He was also covered in feathers from a split pillowcase, which we found in the attic above the shop. There were several gawkers, and we’re trying to trace them now. Giles Kershaw puts the time of death between eight thirty and nine a.m., so Hall should have been heading from his flat on City Road to his office in Crutched Friars, which means he was well outside his usual commute. Why did he go there? Witnesses say the shop contained rare movie posters.’

‘Rare? Somebody say that?’

‘Just not the usual images. The idea being that these were valuable originals.’

‘Not necessarily real ones,’ Bryant threw in.

‘Probably not,’ May agreed. ‘We think it was likely that Hall was lured there on the promise of a sale. He’s known to have collected graphic art. We’ve got his mobile, but there’s nothing on it.’

‘What about websites?’ asked Longbright. ‘Suppose he belongs to some kind of a group, I don’t know – specialist art galleries – and found this address?’

‘The problem is getting a trace,’ said May. ‘He could have logged in from anywhere under any name. Mr Kapur thinks the unit has been let as a pop-up art gallery before, because he remembers seeing colour on the walls, so we’re checking out the previous lessees. By the time we got there we only found a few pinholes, so the attacker must have taken the posters away with him. We’re examining the CCTV at Brixton tube station, but it’s possible that he had a vehicle in the area. The market is pedestrian-only, so he’d have to have parked in one of the backstreets. He left behind the tar bucket and the pillowcase, no prints, so we need to trace their origins. Also, someone must have seen him moving the gear in, even though the market stores weren’t open. This took a fair bit of planning, so while it’s reasonable to hope that he left a trail, the likelihood is that he’s thought carefully about covering his tracks.’

‘Then why don’t we go to the other end and start with the victim?’ asked Land.

‘That’s what we’re doing,’ said Longbright. ‘We’re talking to Hall’s colleagues and trying to track down his family, but we have to do this under conditions of press secrecy so we need to proceed carefully.’

‘Good, we don’t want
them
splashed all over the pages of the tabloids again,’ said Land, pointing at his detectives.

‘I can’t help having a following,’ said May. ‘I’m a grey icon.’

‘About the link between Hall and Freddie Weeks,’ said Bryant, sniffing his biscuit with suspicion.

‘There isn’t one,’ snapped Land. ‘We’re getting a crack at this because Brixton doesn’t want it.’

‘Excuse me, but there is most certainly a link—’

Land raised a firm palm. ‘No, one man died during a protest and the other was targeted for some kind of stunt that went wrong, that’s all. You always think everything is connected.’

‘Everything
is
connected: the riots, the deaths, all of it,’ Bryant insisted. ‘Like Herodotus, we can’t understand the histories of kings without first knowing about the Three Dynasties of the Earth.
The Taming of the Shrew
came from
A Thousand and One Nights
. Columbus’s belief in Eden led him to the Orinoco. Christopher Wren led us via the Freemasons to George Washington. And without Dionne Warwick, Cilla Black would never have had a hit.’

‘Just once I would like us to get through a case without you dragging in all sorts of irrelevant tosh,’ erupted Land. ‘Why did you decide to become a copper? All you do is question everything.’

In the silence that followed, Bryant carefully replaced his uneaten biscuit on its plate. Then, as if suddenly remembering where he was, he treated the room’s puzzled occupants to a long-range smile of eerie beatitude. ‘Do you know, I think … I’m going out for a walk.’ Having made this proclamation he rose and toddled from the room as everyone stared after him.

‘Is he all right?’ asked Land, shocked by the absence of an insulting rejoinder, but nobody could give him an answer.

‘Where the hell did he go this time?’ May demanded as soon as the briefing ended and Land had left the room.

‘He’s not showing up,’ said Banbury, checking the screen of his mobile.

‘But that was the whole point of resetting his phone, so that you could track his GPS. We have to keep tabs on Arthur from now on.’ He was more fearful than angry. Bryant’s otherworldly air had always protected him on the London streets, but to wander about in King’s Cross with an aura of innocent confusion was inviting trouble.

‘I’m not getting a signal. Maybe he’s microwaved it again.’ Banbury tapped at his screen. ‘I don’t understand why you suddenly feel the need to keep tabs on him. He’s your partner.’

May ignored the question. ‘If the press get any kind of idea that the two investigations are connected, they’ll link them to the riots and they’ll find a way to him. They know he’s our weakest link.’

‘When Mr Bryant reappears I’ll put another trace on him,’ Banbury promised. ‘He always wears that disgusting tweed overcoat, doesn’t he? I’ll stitch it into one of the pockets.’

May went to find Longbright. ‘Janice, I want you to come with me. We need to interview as many of Hall’s colleagues as we can – every ally and enemy – before they get a chance to collaborate on their statements.’

‘Why? You think they’re hiding something?’

‘With all the media attention Findersbury is getting right now, I imagine they’re all on standby for damage limitation. One of his workmates must have seen or heard something. Did you get anything on his family yet?’

Longbright tapped her notepad with a Biro. ‘His parents live in New York, no siblings, no obvious personal relationships. There’s talk of a “close friend” but no direct ID so far. I can keep going.’

‘Get Jack to take over. Let’s see what’s happening in the Square Mile.’

‘I have an online feed open to the site.’

‘No, I want to do this the old-fashioned way,’ said May. ‘We’ll go over there. If Arthur’s convinced it’s all connected and Raymond’s sure it’s not, I know who I’d put my money on. Although I question the link between Christopher Columbus and Cilla Black.’

Twenty minutes later the pair emerged from Bank station and found that the streaming rain had failed to dampen the enthusiasm of the anti-capitalist marchers. The crowds had grown shockingly. Many of the placard-holders were now sploshing about in yellow slickers printed with a crimson ‘Break the Banks’ logo. The mood felt different. Gone was the atmosphere of novelty, and in its place a darker determination had dug in.

The drone of helicopters had become a continual underscore to the city’s soundscape. Police choppers hung motionless in the clouds like aggressive dragonflies. There was a feeling of pressure building in the air that might at any minute burst out in a storm of temper, bringing real, lasting chaos to the city.

‘Darren Link’s over at Bishopsgate Police Station,’ said May, checking his emails. ‘He’s holding a meeting with security strategists to see how they can best contain this.’

‘He’s a hard-liner,’ said Longbright, stepping on to the kerb to avoid a group of angry-looking teens. ‘He’s bound to escalate the situation.’

‘The trouble is everyone knows where the central banks are,’ said May, turning up his collar as they followed the line of barricades. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t cordoned off the Bank of England.’

‘What kind of message would that send? Britain’s not open for business. You think there’s someone coordinating the social-network feeds?’

‘You mean some kind of Moriarty at work? I don’t see how. The sense of injustice is easy enough to understand. How many more Dexter Cornells are we supposed to put up with? The guy’s a liar and a crook, and doesn’t care that he got found out. It’s a catch-22. Cornell can’t be investigated without proof, and there won’t be proof without an investigation. At least the prime minister’s cancelled Barbados. I bet that hurt.’ He looked down at Longbright’s patent-leather heels. ‘If any trouble kicks off, you won’t be able to run in those.’

‘Now you’re sounding like Jack,’ she said. ‘Trust me, I can move faster in these than I ever could in flats.’

They made their way to Crutched Friars and found the road barricaded at either end. One of Link’s officers eventually allowed them access, and they were buzzed into the Findersbury building. The 1920s exterior of Portland stone proved to be a shell masking a far older suite of dark walnut-panelled offices, but as they ascended from the reception area to one of the meeting rooms on the third floor, they entered a newly constructed cocoon of glass and steel.

The Findersbury Bank had survived for over four hundred years in an architectural patchwork that reflected London’s tumultuous times. It had weathered the collapse and disgrace of its rivals, successfully skirting the sub-prime mortgage scandals, only to stumble on a more nebulous threat: suspicion of endemic corruption. Through acres of glass May and Longbright could see staff members hunkered at terminals, never raising their eyes, perhaps in fear of witnessing some fresh hell.

‘Siege mentality,’ said Longbright, fascinated. ‘I wouldn’t want to be at one of those desks.’

‘You have in the past,’ May replied. ‘How many times has the PCU been in lockdown?’

‘That was always due to external forces, never from within. We’ve always been able to trust one another.’ She held out her hand as a figure approached. ‘Mr Burnham, I’m Detective Sergeant Janice Longbright and this is Senior Detective John May. Is there somewhere we can talk?’