Bryant & May - The Burning Man (33 page)

‘A religious legacy, perhaps. As soon as I saw that someone had tried to burn down the bank, I thought of the monastery. There’s so much about arson that’s identifiable now. We can tell how, where and when a fire starts and what flammable substances were used. We can plot its spread, we know what accelerates and retards it. But the one thing fire does is eradicate the culprit. It’s a coward’s weapon. We’re looking for someone bitter and angry, impulsive and cowardly. Or at least, that’s what he wants us to think. Because if he was
really
clever, he’d be none of these things.’

Faraday groaned. ‘I’m all at sea here. Who are we talking about now?’ He looked to May for help, but found none.

‘Leslie, I assume even you know about the recent secret reports into the corruption of the criminal justice system,’ said Bryant, ‘the threatened juries, the collusion of Freemasons, the “Get out of jail free” cards?’

‘Scotland Yard is apparently putting its house in order.’ Faraday gestured vaguely.

‘You can believe anything you want, but I suggest you look a little more carefully into Darren Link’s background.’

‘Link? He’s working under the jurisdiction of the Serious Crime Directorate.’

‘Who are themselves under investigation,’ said Bryant.

‘Why would Link get himself involved in something like this?’

‘That’s what I intend to find out. The first question I asked myself was the simplest: Who has the most to gain? While the City’s financial institutions remain engulfed in chaos, Dexter Cornell can virtually do as he pleases. And who can protect him?’

‘Link?
Really?
’ Faraday waved away the whole idea. ‘Well, I’m afraid it’s a bit over my head. The Chinese, the Africans, the government, plots and conspiracies, and now the police – I mean, such cover-ups aren’t very likely, are they?’

‘There has to be a reason why someone can keep getting away with murder without leaving any clue to his identity,’ said Bryant. ‘I’m not saying it
is
Cornell, but right now we know he’s committed a major felony. And he has one weak spot when it comes to the deaths: His alibis don’t hold up. To exclude him, I have to get his son to open up.’

‘His
little boy
?’ Faraday was aghast.

‘Cornell can keep fudging his whereabouts, but I think the boy is closer to him than anyone else. Let him assume I’m chasing alibis. What I really want is insider information. You know, the coming of fire has always been seen as a sign of the Apocalypse. Perhaps everything we hold dear is going to come tumbling down around our ears. Then where will we be, eh? I’ll see you later.’ And with that Bryant patted his homburg harder down over his ears, rose and slipped out of the boardroom.

‘Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?’ wailed Faraday, watching Bryant leave.

‘I think I should go after him,’ said May.

‘No, I need you here,’ warned the epicene liaison officer. ‘If all this is true, we’re not finished.’

‘But—’

May was desperate to stay with his partner.
The crafty devil
, he thought.
He’s used the meeting to get away. This isn’t an investigation any more
;
it’s an expedition into his mind without a map.

‘Janice, have you got a minute?’

Meera stood in Longbright’s doorway, waiting to be invited in, which was a first. Usually she just barged about wherever she liked.

‘Of course,’ said Longbright. ‘Grab that stool.’

‘Sorry to collar you so early, I just thought I could have a word before things got busy around here again.’ She looked sheepish and uncomfortable.

Longbright put down her pen and gave the DC her full attention. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Your mum was in the force, right?’

‘Yes, Gladys worked for Mr Bryant before me. And both her parents were in the Met.’

‘So there was never any doubt that you’d join up, too?’

‘Oh, there was doubt. But my happiest memories were with her at work, so I tried it and found that I liked the life.’

‘And you never regretted the path you chose?’

‘Of course I did. I left several times, tried all sorts of other jobs, but none of them was half as rewarding, and I always found myself coming back. Why? Are you thinking of leaving?’

Mangeshkar was not used to unburdening herself, and the words did not come easily. She swung about on the stool, looking for the right phrase. ‘It’s not me. My folks – they want me to start a family. They don’t think this is a healthy environment for me.’

‘Are they putting pressure on you?’

‘Yeah. Only because they care, but … there’s someone they’re keen for me to marry. I’ve known him for a long time. He’s nice.’

‘Do you want to be with him?’

‘That’s not really the question. It’s not about him at all, but me. Whether I want to stay here.’

‘And do you?’

‘Yes. I’m suited to the life. I know I bitch about it a lot, but it fits with who I am.’

Longbright shrugged. ‘Then stay. We’re not nuns. It doesn’t mean you have to give up everything else. You can have both, you know. Date a doctor – they keep difficult hours. And there are some lovely blokes in the force.’

Meera looked doubtful. ‘There are also some real dickheads.’

‘This isn’t about marriage, it’s about the job?’

‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘Then I can tell you that you have everything it takes to be a great detective.’

‘I think you’ve just answered my question.’ Meera smiled and rose.

‘Send the next one in on your way out.’ Longbright sighed. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

He knew she was alone in the ground-floor Bankside apartment because the other two girls had already left, a leggy blonde with the unearned superiority of someone in an inconsequential media job, and a dumpy, frizzed mess of a thing in a plaid woollen skirt and sweater that her mother must have picked out for her.

A ground-floor flat in a three-storey semi-detached house with six bells beside the front door. Obviously he couldn’t be buzzed in, so he would either have to wait for someone to come out or try to gain access through the rear. But he couldn’t risk waiting.

He had to catch Joanna Papis inside.

He was still deciding what to do when the front door opened and a young Chinese guy came out. He looked like a very conservatively dressed student, the type that would keep to himself and barely notice anyone around him. It was easy to get up the steps and catch the door before it fully closed. Stepping over a scattering of junk mail, he saw that front doors to the two ground-floor flats had been carved from the home’s old hallway; the plaster ivy entwined along the edge of the ceiling came to a sudden halt against a diagonal of painted plasterboard. Checking to be sure that he had the right number, he unloaded his tool bag and set to work, knowing that at any moment the door could spring open and she would emerge, ready to leave.

There was no letter box. That was why the mail had been left in the hall. None of the flats had letter boxes. OK, no reason to panic, he’d have to improvise. There was a narrow gap under the door. The bag yielded a roll of silver tape. He needed to keep the washing-up bottle higher than the tubing … There was a noise inside, and he knew that she had stepped into her hall. It was too late for anything elaborate. He would have to take a chance.

Shoving the end of the tube into the nozzle of the bottle, he pushed it through the gap and began to squeeze. The stuff was so pungent he was sure she was bound to notice.

Joanna Papis was running late. She shared the flat with two other girls, both of whom also had long hair, so they took ages in the single bathroom. Early on in their relationship a set of rules had been agreed upon. The first was that no one should spend more than twenty minutes in there each morning. That rule had been the first to be broken. Their second – whoever finishes a bottle of milk buys a new one – had resulted in the last few usages of each pint shrinking by ridiculous proportions.

Joanna had overslept and found herself third in line for the shower, and – gross – she had to clear the plughole of hair because Gretchen-the-top-media-PR-guru (a description she used on her LinkedIn page) was too grand ever to bother cleaning up, so by the time Joanna was ready to leave the flat the others had gone and she was already due at Southern Hub, the virtual workspace in Waterloo where she sorted out her clients’ accounts. It looked wet out but felt mild, and she had donned her favourite outfit, a white dress lapped in red and purple flowers, even though it was really too summery-looking to be worn in November. The radio DJ was trying to find the most annoying sound ever recorded, so she turned him off and packed her case, then slipped on a jacket and headed out.

In the hall she stopped to check her hair in the mirror, and was caught by the sudden pervasive smell of petrol. There was nothing in the flat that could have caused it. A truck outside, perhaps? Then she heard the trickle, saw the white plastic pipe extended beneath the front door, watched in puzzlement as it withdrew – and suddenly an undammed river of fire poured in, quickly spreading across the hall carpet and up the walls. It all happened so fast that she barely had time to move.

The plastic pipe reappeared at another spot, twisting back and forth under the edge of the door, spraying liquid fire everywhere. A pile of old magazines on the side table ignited, their pages lifting in the updraught, and she realized how dry and dusty everything was, how easy it would be to burn. The fire took hold in seconds, rising up the front door to produce a dense outpouring of oily black smoke. There was no other way out of the flat, and the windows in the lounge and kitchen had toughened glass.

But the flat had one weak spot.

Joanna dropped her bag and ran back to the bathroom, removing her shoe and thumping it against the small square pane until it cracked, the largest parts falling out.

The window was too high to reach. She needed a chair from the kitchen. Returning to the hall she was horrified to see how thick the fumes had become in such a short time. It was already hard to draw breath. She dragged the chair to the bathroom and scrambled up on it, pulling out the last shards of broken glass.

Wriggling through feet first and dropping into the yard at the side of the house, she tore her dress but landed safely. She tried to imagine who could do such a thing as this, and remembered the number she had added to the phone in her jacket pocket. She rang Colin Bimsley.

The DC was nearby, queuing for a sausage roll in a Southwark Street café when he got the call. He’d started the morning with some Xing Yi Quan training in the twenty-four-hour gym, and now realized that he was doomed to be forever interrupted in his pursuit of carbohydrates. It seemed he had only to step inside a greasy spoon to trigger his phone.

He tensed as soon as he saw that the call was from Joanna Papis. The girl didn’t sound frightened, just out of breath. ‘I guess I should have stayed in contact with you. He’s just set fire to my flat.’

‘Where are you?’

‘In the alleyway at the side, but I can’t get out past the front of the house without running into him.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘No, not yet, but I know he has to be just inside the main hall.’

‘What about the back of the alley? Any way out there?’

‘Maybe. I’ve never tried.’

‘Stay on the line, Joanna, I’ll get you back-up and then I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

‘Do you want me to see if I can get a good look at him?’

‘Hell, no! You need to get as far away as possible, OK? Go towards the river. I’ll find you.’

She slipped the phone back into her jacket and headed down the alley, but the rear gate was locked and it was too high to climb over. She vaguely recalled seeing a key for it in the kitchen, but she couldn’t get back in. As she moved towards the front of the house, there was a dull explosion of glass from within the flat.

She knew she would have to take a chance and risk running into him. The main door looked shut, so presumably he was still in the hall. As she ran into the deserted street, she heard the smack of boots on paving stones and knew that he was coming after her.

She needed to surround herself with people. Her best bet was to head for the walkway by Doggett’s Coat & Badge, the pub at the base of Blackfriars station, but as soon as she did so she realized her mistake; he could run around it and cut her off. He would guess she’d go for the river; it was the closest thing around here to open ground.

Sure enough, she saw him heading towards her, a figure in sweatpants, a hooded top and a white plastic Guy Fawkes mask. The awful thing was that because of the protestors and the fact that Saturday night was Bonfire Night, nobody thought twice about passing a man disguised as a gunpowder plotter.

He knew he had beaten her. At her back was the deserted tunnel that ran under the road. Going forward, the river walkway narrowed and she would be forced into his open arms.

Or there was Blackfriars station, the only London station built on a bridge, its new solar-powered roof shining through the rain-mist like the teeth of a saw. She backed up and ran inside, swiping her Oyster card and dashing to the great glass-sided platforms that spanned the brackish Thames. The main part of the rush hour had already ended. The platforms were vast and empty.