Bryant & May - The Burning Man (16 page)

The panel fitted exactly into his tool bag. He decided that six would be enough to do the trick.

The old lady was far from pleased. ‘I don’t know how you can expect me to concentrate on Our Lady’s advice with cold water dripping down the back of me neck,’ she told the verger.

‘Mrs O’Donnell, you know where the problem spots are,’ said the verger. ‘I’ve told you before not to attempt communion with the Holy Virgin while sitting under a precipitation; you’ll be catching your death.’

‘But this is a new one, right near the front.’ She pointed an accusing finger at one of the pews. Even from this distance the verger could see rain cascading down into the seats.
Dozens of Catholic churches in this city and barely enough parishioners to fill one of them
, he thought.
What a fecking godless time we live in.
He followed Mrs O’Donnell’s finger up to the roof and was shocked to see daylight coming in between the crossbeams. His next realization was far from charitable. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, digging out his phone to call the building firm. ‘The little bastard’s stolen the lead off the roof.’

He had turned the old garage under the arches into a workshop simply by breaking in and changing the lock, and had installed the bench and equipment from his father’s shed. This was revenge on a budget; he was completely broke. Worse, he owed everyone money. But he would not be turned from his path now. He had no home, no cash, no job, no friends, no future. Once you’ve decided to burn your remaining bridges and go to hell, he thought, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t take everyone else with you.

With tears in his eyes and the fire of righteous anger engorging his heart, he took out the lead slates, picked up the blowtorch and set to work once more.

A spiral of acrid smoke hung in the dark morning air like a corpse twisting in oily water. Most of the street fires were out for now, but a branch of Barclays, an insurance company and the offices of Eastcheap Financial Services all bore the blackened scorch marks of the previous night’s activities across their stone façades. There was a rhythmic tinkling as street-cleaners swept up broken glass, glittering on the roads like dropped Christmas baubles.

Superintendent Darren Link and his team had made numerous arrests, with accusations ricocheting from both sides about unnecessary force and provocations. The rest of the police stood around like builders waiting to be chosen for a day’s labour. Photographers were huddled in doorways, looking as if they were expecting a celebrity to stumble out of a nightclub.

The protestors had come prepared. With khaki flak jackets and backpacks, and their socks tucked into their trousers, they appeared to be planning a moorland ramble rather than confronting capitalists in the city’s financial epicentre. The aggression of the previous night had subsided into guarded politeness, but it was clear that everyone was waiting for the next clash to begin.

Bank and Mansion House tube stations had been trellised and nearly all of the surrounding roads were now closed off. Shop fronts had been covered in chipboard slabs, and windows were shuttered. The prime minister had been filmed disembarking from a British Airways flight looking as if he was about to sue his travel agent. A few minutes later he appeared on the BBC promising that the city would remain open for business, but as the Wednesday rush hour began traffic was almost non-existent. The networks were advising employees to work from home, and many had jumped at the chance to cancel their usual commute. Others relished the challenge of tackling a war zone and strode to their offices, daring confrontation. Sirens still sounded distantly, but at least the cacophony of car and office alarms had ceased.

Everyone was wondering how long the truce would hold. Several elderly ladies in matching red knitted scarves were seated by the side of the road on folding chairs, aged campaigners who looked as if they might be waiting for the start of the Lord Mayor’s Show.

Jonathan De Vere made his way between the barricades and swore when he saw that Bank station was shut. By some miracle he was able to flag down a taxi, and moments later was fighting off sleep in its back seat as it followed the makeshift detour signs towards Hyde Park. He had been working all night, keeping hackers’ hours, as he always did when Lena was away. She was in Amsterdam attending a conference on the restoration of medieval manuscripts, so he put in the extra hours writing presentations. She had insisted on going, even though she was heavily pregnant, so he figured the least he could do was work as hard. Besides, he lived close enough by to get three hours’ rest before having to go back and talk to the designers.

At this time of the morning, phalanxes of Filipina women were arriving in Belgravia to clean apartments. De Vere paid the cab and buzzed himself into the building. He stopped in the hallway outside his flat to sniff the air. What was that? It reminded him of something from his childhood: burned iron filings, the autumnal smell of Bonfire Night just after the last of the big rockets had gone off. It was the metallic tang of his grandfather’s factory floor, where lathes turned and sparks sprayed across the machinery like Catherine wheels. As a boy he would go with the old man and watch as the workers stepped back in deference. The industry that had brought his family a century of prosperity had finally vanished in 2005, a victim of low Chinese production costs, and his father had retired a broken man, but De Vere still recalled the sights and smells of the engine shed.

Pushing aside the memory, he unlocked the door and entered the maisonette.

‘Well, do you know where I can reach him?’ asked May, looking at his watch. It was 8.35 a.m. on Wednesday, and Dexter Cornell’s Spanish housekeeper had just informed him that her employer had gone away. He covered the phone. ‘It sounds like Burnham was right; Cornell’s gone into hiding.’

‘He’s got a bolt-hole in the country,’ Bryant mouthed. ‘Ask about Oakley Manor House in Burford. It’s northwest of Oxford.’

‘It sounds like that’s where he’s gone,’ said May as he ended the call. ‘The housekeeper wouldn’t confirm it, but he packed all the stuff he usually takes when he goes there. He told her not to talk to anyone. She’s worried she’s going to lose her job. Where did you get that titbit from?’

‘My chips,’ Bryant explained. ‘They were wrapped in a page from
Grazia
that showed the inside of Cornell’s country retreat.’

‘I thought he was going to continue coming into the bank.’

‘He can,’ said Bryant. ‘It’s a fast commute. We need to get a local officer there, preferably someone with a couple of brain cells. Check on Cornell’s security arrangements, find out how long he’s going to be staying out of town. I imagine he’s got a good alarm system but we’d better have them search the grounds. Right now he’s the most hated man in the country, which makes him the most obvious target. He got married at Oakley Manor House. He’s got a home cinema that seats twenty in the basement, and a lap pool.’

‘I never imagined you’d bother reading something like
Grazia
,’ said May.

‘Oh, I don’t just pore over the obituaries and the
Police Gazette
, you know. Besides, you need something to read when you’re eating a saveloy. I kept the page.’ He rifled through his coat and dragged out a ketchup-stained sheet, flattening it with exaggerated delicacy.

‘So he’s got a woman up there with him?’

‘Not sure. He seems to be in the process of a messy divorce. His wife – or ex-wife – is what they used to call “flighty”. Tends to party with her set in Gstaad. She’s Russian, a bit of a handful by all accounts. Last week when he was trying to play down his profits and keep a low profile, she flew her pals to the Hermitage in Monte Carlo for some kind of gorgons’ tea party that set him back thirty thousand pounds. Immaculate bad timing.’

‘I say, is this going to be the new you? Up on all the latest gossip?’

‘Dear God, no,’ said Bryant. ‘Meera told me that bit. Her mother’s been making her read bridal magazines and whatnot. I think she has plans for her daughter. I read it because you have to know your enemy.’

‘You’re not allowed to have enemies, Arthur. As a state employee you’re required to remain non-partisan.’

‘I’m speaking to you in private, John, not writing a report. I wonder if the Findersbury directors paid Cornell a kickback for the information. I suppose not, as he was meant to deliver the deal.’

‘You know they’re pleading innocence.’

‘To misquote Mandy Rice-Davies: They would, wouldn’t they? And now Cornell’s hiding away in a country house just like Julian Assange did in Ellingham Hall. I imagine he feels just as embattled. I need to talk to him.’

‘You have no right, Arthur. It’s outside of your jurisdiction, unless you can prove that he’s directly involved in the investigation.’

Bryant leaned forward, rippling his fingers as if trying to hypnotize May. ‘Come on, aren’t you the least bit curious?’

‘Only within the confines of my job.’

‘And that’s the difference between you and me,’ Bryant said. ‘You just want to catch the fish, and I want to study the ocean.’ With this he rose and strolled out of the room.

‘What the hell does that mean?’ May shouted after him. He waited until he could no longer hear his partner in the hall, then punched out a number. ‘Dr Gillespie, I need you to call Arthur into your office on some pretext. Tell him he needs a blood test or something. Sit him down and talk casually to him.’

‘Why?’ asked Dr Gillespie, coughing heavily into the phone. ‘Your partner is almost impossible to engage in normal conversation.’

‘He’s behaving weirdly. I mean, even more weirdly than usual.’

‘In what way?’

‘It’s hard to explain. He’s sort of – disconnected. He keeps wandering off. I think he’s trying to cover something up. You know how crafty he can be.’

Dr Gillespie blew his nose violently. ‘I’m sorry, I have a cold. What do you mean, cover what up?’

‘He’s having bits of downtime, as if he drifts away and comes back – little fugues.’

‘Like mini-strokes? Is he forgetting things?’

‘No, he’s always had an astonishing memory. But he’s getting confused. Talking in riddles. And he goes missing.’

‘Has this been happening for very long?’ Gillespie released another foamy blast into his handkerchief.

‘No, it’s only started recently.’

‘All right, I’ll drag him in and sound him out. He’s getting on, you know. He shouldn’t still be working at his age.’

‘His work is what keeps him going,’ said May. ‘We’re on one of our biggest-ever cases. There are lives at stake and I can’t afford to put anyone at risk. Will you let me know how it goes?’

‘OK, but you may not like my recommendations. Are there any other symptoms I should know about?’

‘He’s stopped playing his old Gilbert and Sullivan records. What does that suggest?’

‘It might not mean anything. Perhaps he’s just sick of
The Mikado
.’

May rang off and sat thoughtfully for a few minutes. There was something he could do.

‘Janice?’ He swung around the door of Longbright’s office. ‘I don’t want to let Arthur out of my sight while he’s on this case, but I can’t always be with him. Could you partner him when I’m tied up?’

‘I should be able to,’ said Longbright. ‘Everything’s covered here so long as nothing else comes in. Fraternity can take over for me.’ She looked around her desktop. ‘John, you didn’t take anything off my desk last night, did you?’

‘I’d have told you if I had. Why?’

‘It’s just … I’m missing some of the witness statements. They were here when I left.’

‘You might try Raymond.’

‘Land’s never read a witness statement in his life.’

‘About Arthur – can you do it?’

She gave up looking and concentrated on the question. ‘Of course. When do you want me to start?’

‘As soon as possible. Just find him and tell me where he is. I’m interviewing Freddie Weeks’s mother in ten minutes and Arthur’s in that strange mood he gets when he’s about to wander off.’

‘The things I do.’ Janice grabbed her PCU jacket and headed out to look for her boss.