Bryant & May - The Burning Man (47 page)

Chuckling to himself, he fell asleep and dreamed of Londons yet to come.

On the Sunday morning that the case was officially closed, the rooftops of King’s Cross were erased in a thick grey fog. Having barely slept, the staff members of the PCU arrived to hand over their documents to the City of London Fraud Squad. The investigation had ended up involving Dexter Cornell, who, together with his fellow directors, was eventually indicted on nineteen counts including fraud and conspiracy. A new company was appointed by the minister of state for international development, who promised ‘total transparency’.

Once the public realized that the financier had not been burned alive, and was rather more prosaically awaiting charges in a police unit, the crowds milling around the Bank of England started to disperse as if they had reached the end of a noisy but ultimately unsatisfying Coldplay concert. It didn’t help that Cornell issued endless statements through his lawyer about how badly he’d been treated. The more the banker tried to blame others for his predicament, the less interested people were in him.

Finally the revolution fizzled. The tents were folded up and the placards were taken down, and everyone went back to doing the things they felt more comfortable doing: queuing for trains; standing at bus stops; wandering around shopping centres; complaining about the weather; and tutting over the sex lives of politicians.

The city cleaned itself up. The mayor was photographed holding a broom. MPs made impassioned speeches about ‘why it must never happen again’. Life went on.

The fog descended like a veil of forgetfulness, covering the windows of the Peculiar Crimes Unit with racing rivulets and softening the contours of the buildings, turning London into a city of pallid ghosts. Traffic slowed and sounds faded until it felt as if everyone had glimpsed the limbo outside and gone back to bed.

The meandering towpath of the Regent’s Canal, which curled from King’s Cross to Camden Town, tapered away into oblivion at either end, and the sphere of fog enclosed them as they walked.

‘You haven’t said anything about my offer,’ Renfield remarked in the most casual tone he could muster.

Longbright kicked a stone into the still green reflections. A duck answered and took off, the tips of its wings tapping the surface of the water. She wore a baseball cap over her burned scalp. It would be the first and only time she would ever do so.

‘I was mortified when Darren Link came in and saw my Halloween outfit on the coat stand,’ she said. ‘It reminded me of when I was fifteen. My mother let me go to my first Halloween party at a school friend’s house, and I worked on my outfit for weeks. I was a bit obsessed with naval heroes at the time, and somehow decided I should go as Sir Francis Drake. I made the whole outfit, working from a painting I’d seen in a book, except that the tunic was designed to completely cover me, leaving the starched ruff at the top with just a bloody stump sticking out, and I carried Drake’s severed head, made out of papier-mâché, under my arm. When I got to the house, I realized I’d entirely misunderstood the purpose of a Halloween party. I was the only girl there who wasn’t dressed as a sexy witch. That was when I decided I’d be sexier than the rest of them, and stronger too, just like my mum.’

She stopped and turned to Renfield. ‘You see, Jack? I’m still like my mum, still in the force. And I know you. You asked me to marry you for the wrong reason. You thought you’d lost me. I’m grateful you came for me, but I’m not going to change. I’m always going to have this job. I’m always going to be a pain in the arse.’

‘I didn’t ask you to give it all up,’ he said, taking her hand, ‘just take something safer, where I can keep an eye on you.’

‘Can you honestly see me in some MPS admin role?’ She tugged her hand free. ‘Look at me, Jack! This is who I am. And I love what I do.’

‘You love it more than me.’ It was a simple statement of fact that he challenged her to deny.

‘I’m really sorry.’

‘No, I’m sorry, Janice. I should have known better.’

He kissed her lightly on the cheek and took a step away. ‘I’ve sort of enjoyed my time at the unit. It’s been like sitting on the set of some really strange horror film, where you watch things going wrong and don’t know whether to laugh or beat someone up. But I have to tell you: I’m not like Bryant and May. And I’m not like the rest of you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to transfer back.’

‘Jack—’

‘We’re just different people, Janice.’ Renfield shook his head and smiled to himself. ‘I know you all used to make fun of me. I wanted to earn your respect.’

‘You did,’ she said.

‘But I shouldn’t have had to.’

‘It’s not like you’ll be gone forever. I’ll still see you around.’

‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’

‘Well, you could at least give me a goodbye kiss.’

‘Look after yourself, Janice.’ He put his hands in his pockets and turned away, walking back up the canal path. His place was taken by a duck.

‘Take care, you,’ she called, watching him go. She dug out a tissue and blew her nose. ‘I don’t know what you’re looking at,’ she told the duck.

The following week, Jack Renfield applied to be transferred from the unit, and returned to his old position as a Metropolitan Police Service desk sergeant.

Back at the unit, one of the Daves scratched his arse with the end of a bradawl. He peered down between the uprooted floorboards, into the great hole they had made in the hallway. ‘Stone me,’ he said. ‘How deep do you reckon that is?’

The other Dave stuck his head up from inside the pit they had created. ‘I’m on the top step of the staircase,’ he replied. ‘I can’t see the end of it from here. Bung us a torch.’

The first Dave poked about in his tool bag and handed down a rubberized flashlight.

‘Jesus and Mary, you won’t believe what’s down here,’ he shouted up from the darkness. ‘You’d better call someone, fast!’

Colin Bimsley stacked the chairs in the common room and cleared away the last of the cups, but overloaded the tray and managed to drop it, smashing the lot and sending shards of china all over the room. ‘Don’t come in here!’ he shouted, throwing out his hands in warning as Meera appeared in the doorway.

When no sarcastic reply came, he glanced up. She looked as miserable as London in February. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yeah,’ she said, scuffing at her cheek with the sleeve of her sweater.

‘Sure?’ Colin set down his dustpan with a clang. ‘You should be happy, what with getting married and everything. You’ll soon be in Delhi, riding a painted elephant while everyone pelts you with marigolds. Big party, crying rellies, wedding singers, lots of dancing, pat the dog and screw in the light bulb.’ He did a Bollywood bop. ‘Crazy old mother-in-law, half a dozen nippers, learn to cook dahl, the works.’

‘I’m not marrying Ryan.’

‘You’ll be able to say goodbye to this place—’

‘
I’m not marrying him, Colin.
The wedding’s off.’

‘What are you talking about? It’s what you wanted.’

‘No, it’s what my mother wants.’ She threw her coat on to a chair and bent down to help him pick up the broken crockery. ‘The two of them have been organizing the whole thing behind my back. He’s become a total control freak.’

‘They’re probably just trying to take the pressure off you. They know how busy you are with the unit—’

‘For God’s sake, Colin, will you stop being so bloody
nice
for a minute?’ Meera all but shouted. ‘I’m trying to tell you something. I don’t love him.’

‘But you grew up together. You’ve got all these things in common.’

She released a weary sigh. ‘It’s not enough of a reason to marry him. I can’t just do it to please my mum and my sister. I’ve got to want to be with someone so much that I can’t imagine being with anyone else. I grew up with all those stupid romantic Indian movies like
Devdas
and
Veer-Zaara.
All they do is show you what you’re never going to have. Ryan’s like someone out of one of those films, and it’s not what I want. Being with him – it’s like being with a bloody Valentine card all the time. Every time he calls me sweetie I just want to punch him in the balls. That can’t be love, can it?’

‘Not when you put it like that.’ Colin winced as he emptied more pieces of china into the bin. ‘I’m really sorry, Meera.’

‘So I guess you’re stuck with me.’ She gave a tentative smile.

‘I never wanted anything else.’ He smiled back. ‘I’m dead boring like that. I’m never going to change. I’ll always be here.’ He spotted another piece under the table and stooped to pick it up. As he rose, she gave him a kiss on the cheek. Her touch was such a surprise that he gripped the fragment, cutting his thumb.

She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped away a single scarlet drop of blood. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

His smile became a grin. ‘You could never hurt me. I’m like a tree, rooted and solid. I’ll keep the rain off you, Meera.’

She put her arms around him. Her head only came up to his chest. They stayed like that for some minutes. Outside the fog thickened, so that the sound of the traffic was completely lost, and all she could hear was the beating of his heart.

Down at the river it was hardly possible to see at all. Waterloo Bridge looked as if it was only half built. The far side had simply vanished. A barge drifted silently underneath, barely causing a ripple. It was loaded with building materials, but it might have been carrying Queen Elizabeth I and her retinue. One expected to hear only oars dipping into mirrored water, but all sound was now so muffled that it seemed as if someone was holding a pillow over the city.

John May walked slowly towards the centre of the bridge. As he did so, a lone motionless figure slowly came into focus, leaning on the east-facing balustrade. May quickened his pace, gladdened to find his partner waiting. Of course he had been drawn back there, to the Thames, where his wife and brother had both tragically perished.

As he approached, Bryant seemed to sense that someone was coming and turned around to face him. He had a look of utter desolation on his features.

‘I don’t know why I came here or what I’m doing,’ he warned, raising a hand. ‘I think I caught the tube but I don’t remember anything. I don’t know what day it is, or where I am. How could I have caught the tube? I can’t even find my pass.’

‘You were all right earlier,’ said May. ‘You were in your office at the unit. I went to a meeting and when I came to look for you, you’d gone.’

‘Then why am I here?’ Bryant gestured at the river in puzzlement.

‘We’ve always come here to think.’

‘But where am I?
Who
am I?’

‘You are Arthur Bryant,’ replied May. ‘And this is Waterloo Bridge.’

‘I’m in London.’ Bryant’s cornflower-blue eyes widened in amazement. He leaned over the balustrade and looked down. A piece of driftwood passed beneath them with a seagull sitting placidly on one end. It flicked itself into the air and lolloped away across the gelid surface of the river.

‘How does it feel?’ May asked.

‘It’s hard to describe,’ Bryant answered as he watched the bird evaporate into the gloom. ‘I’ve used up the last of my strength. Everything is just falling away. It’s like being a lost child. I can’t recognize anything. But I’m not frightened any more. It all feels very peaceful.’

‘That’s because you know a secret now,’ said May gently. ‘You know that you’re unassailable, and you don’t have to worry about anything.’

‘I wish someone had told me about this earlier.’ Bryant smiled. ‘The sense of fearlessness. It’s very liberating. And once you can see that those closest to you aren’t scared either, you can do anything you want. You’re not scared, are you?’

‘For you? I was earlier, but now I’m not.’

‘That’s good. You’ve no reason to be, John. It’s like this.’ He leaned his walking stick against the balustrade and held out his hands. ‘Like gently walking into the fog.’ He looked May in the eye. ‘I’m not going to come out of the other side this time.’

‘You can’t know that.’ May felt a terrible loss opening inside him.

‘This time it feels different.’

‘Arthur—’

‘You know I’ll still be with you. Here, on the bridge,’ Bryant said. ‘Whenever you come here, you’ll be able to find me.’

‘Arthur, don’t go,’ said May. ‘We haven’t completed our work.’

Even the fog could not hide Bryant’s white smile now. ‘Nobody ever completes their work,’ he said. He felt for his walking stick and picked it up. ‘Have I been very annoying? I mean, over the years.’

‘Quite annoying, yes,’ said May.

‘Sorry about that.’ He rooted about in his overcoat pocket and produced a creased fold of paper. ‘Do you remember when we first met, I got you to translate a code made from butterflies?’ He handed May the page. ‘See if you’re still up to it.’

May took the offering, puzzled.

‘Well, I’d like to stay but my bones are getting cold.’ Bryant rubbed his bare red hands together and looked out across the water. ‘There’s someone I have to go and say goodbye to.’