Ten Second Staircase (47 page)

Janet Ramsey's recorded telephone call, picked up by DS Longbright. Not 'he's not male,' as Banbury had reiterated, but 'it's not a man.'

The echo of the Ripper graffiti, conveniently located along the walls of the estate staircase.

Murder committed on a spot connected with the executions, the Knights Templars, and the blood of Christ.

Brilliant Kingsmere's lectures about his father. Why this school, these pupils?

The mythical connections between Robin Hood, the Leicester Square Vampire, and the Highwayman.

The Saladins.

The desire for celebrity.

Checking from the window, he saw that May had taken the unit

staff car. It was too late to call him back now. Bryant climbed woozily to his feet, left the evidence on the desk, and walked around the classroom, trying to focus his mind. This was where Kingsmere took his extracurricular lessons.

He checked the cupboards and desks one by one, but all personal items had been placed in lockers for the weekend. There was nothing more to be found here.

Walking back through the still-darkened assembly hall, he noticed that its ceiling skylights were streaked with rain that made the walls weep. He felt drugged.

Ahead was the stage, and the pale oak podium from which he had made his disastrous speech. His first contact with St Crispin's Boys' School. He climbed to it now and balanced behind the lectern, looking down into the empty hall.

There was no speech lying here this time, just a discarded recruitment brochure for the school, aimed at wealthy parents.

He flicked it open, found his spectacles, and squinted at the introductory paragraph:

St Crispin's was founded in 1623 by the Right Honourable Sir Thomas Lindsay. For almost four hundred years the institution has prospered, its pupils bestowing honour and glory that reflect the talent and diversity—

The usual waffle designed to open wallets,
he thought, skimming.

—many of its Old Boys have gone on to great achievements in the world of politics, sport, and the liberal arts, although one particular former pupil is remembered for a different reason, and has become a part of London's mythological fabric. When the young Richard Turpin first arrived here—

The Thieves' Key. The key was the thief.

Dick Turpin opened the lock to the entire investigation.

But even as he became aware of the truth, he knew that the Highwayman would have the means to escape justice.

The opening bars of Offenbach's
La Belle Hélène
played in his overcoat pocket. Bryant dragged out his mobile, flicked mince from its keyboard, and managed to access the message before it cut out completely.

'—tried to reach Granda—there was no rep—I think his and Jan—mobiles—still locked inside the unit. I know your phone never w—Arthur, but I thought I sh—tell someone where I'm going, ju— be on the safe side. I'm on the Ro—P—'

Bryant slipped out into the rain with his car keys, heading for the Roland Plumbe Community Estate.

47

THE MOON CURSER

April looked at the rainswept green quadrangle with the darkened street running around its edge and felt uncomfortable. The old panicky fear of open spaces settled over her. 'Where are we going?' she asked Luke, but he had already moved on ahead.

'You want to find out the truth, don't you?' he called back. He seemed so thin and vulnerable that she found it hard to imagine his involvement with anything sinister. If he had lied because he was being threatened, why had he not confided in someone who could help him?

They entered the dim corridor of concrete and made their way to its rear staircase. 'The lift's not working,' Luke explained, climbing the steps. April felt safer away from the bare breadth of the estate, but when Luke continued ascending, she realised with horror that they were heading for the great flat roof of the building's central block.

'Luke, I can't go any further,' she warned, stopping outside the fire exit as he pushed it open.

'You don't have to,' the boy promised, coming to a halt.

Ahead, a terrible wide sky beckoned, drawing her forward into the effulgent mist and rain.

She did not see the gloved hands dropping on either side of her. They held a roll of nylon rope that pinned her arms to her sides before she could make a move. The Highwayman stepped forward, dragging her out onto the gravelled roof. She tried to twist around and study him, but he kept her facing forward.

April felt the scudding grey sky bellowing down above her head in a funnel of wind, until it seemed as though it would pull her out into the moisture-laden air.

As the Highwayman began dragging her towards the far side of the roof, she dug the heels of her boots into the gravel. His grip on her arms tightened. She screamed just once before realising that it would make no difference up here. Gradually, her fear of the vast open rooftop was replaced by the sinking knowledge that no-one from the unit knew where she was.

April was in greater danger than she realised, for in her headstrong haste she had duplicated the fate of her mother, unwittingly running into the arms of a killer.

Arthur Bryant dragged on Victor's handbrake, but the rusting Mini Cooper was difficult to bring to a halt, and the engine continued to chumble on after he had removed the keys. The engine had never run smoothly since Maggie Armitage had poured her own blend of sealant into the radiator in an effort to consecrate the vehicle against accidents. Miraculously, his mobile was finally working once more, and he called his partner as he walked towards the estate's central block.

'John, is that you? Have you finished with Kingsmere?'

'I'm just about to take his statement,' came the reply. 'Congratulations, you're using a mobile.'

'Yes, but you won't like what I have to say on it. I need you to leave him and get over here. I know who the Highwayman is; I just don't have a reason why.'

'Where are you?'

'I'm at the estate, heading for the roof where you saw the graffiti. I'm going to need your help. Banbury was right; the Highwayman isn't a man at all. He was hidden in plain sight right from the start. You encouraged me to be sensible and practical, but I should have followed my instincts.'

'I don't understand what you mean, Arthur. Don't do anything until I get there, all right? Promise me?'

But Bryant had already closed the mobile and set off into the estate. His legs were failing, but his long-distance eyesight was excellent. And he had just spotted the windswept black figure striding across the roof of the central block.

The Highwayman threw April to the ground, where she lay gratefully hugging the gravelled roof. When she finally summoned the nerve to look up, she saw that he was disrobing, splitting the tricorn hat into two black baseball caps and casting them aside before shucking his gloves. The tall boots, she noticed, had heavily built-up heels and soles, and appeared to be stuffed with old newspapers. She could hear the murmur of other voices beneath the rising wind. As the Highwayman turned to face the boy who had led her here, she recognised her captor.

'You brought the wrong one, Luke,' he said tonelessly.

'I thought you said the old man would come to you.' Luke dropped to the floor cross-legged and dug a pack of Marlboros from his blazer, oblivious to the falling rain.

'I guess he's not so smart after all. We can still do seven in seven days and set a new house record. You don't need to know about the backup plan.' He crouched down beside April and smiled. 'You do see now, don't you? I mean, why there's no such person as the Highwayman. You can't catch a murderer who doesn't exist.'

Arthur Bryant stopped to catch his breath on the staircase. T
rust the lift to be out of action on the one day I need to reach the roof,
he thought. Leaning on his stick, he studied the sprayed graffiti. He should have read it as a series of arrows leading him towards the truth; that was what had been expected of him. What he still didn't understand was why this had happened. If not for revenge, then what? When he looked down, the stairs retreated in a spiral, like an unwinding clock spring.

In the poem by Alfred Noyes,
he thought,
the highwayman was saved by his lover's sacrifice, only to die on the road and be resurrected as a ghostly apparition. In this way, he achieved a form of immortality.
Bryant held out his right hand and studied its liverspotted back. He was shaking, either through anticipation or sheer exertion. He pushed on to the roof, frightened of what he might find but unable to stop himself. Understanding the truth had become more important than anything, even survival into an uncertain future. He and John had enjoyed a good run. Perhaps this had always been destined as their endgame.

He stood on the dark concrete landing behind the roof exit, gathering himself, waiting for the pounding of his heart to subside.

Then he turned the handle and pushed the door wide, flooding light into his vision.

The Highwayman swivelled to face this new arrival. 'You got here after all,' he said, smiling pleasantly as the others surrounded him. 'We're glad you managed to make it—even though you're earlier than expected. Tell me, do you know what a Moon Curser is?'

'No, I don't—' Bryant was momentarily confused by his appearance before a group of six people.

'It's a term taken from the Thieves' Key. A Moon Curser is a link boy.'

Bryant fought to think clearly, exhausted by the stairs and the mistimed medication. 'You mean a boy who used to run ahead of his client, leading the way through the night with a torch, in return for a few coppers.'

'That's right. A Moon Curser is a specific kind of link boy. He's the one who lights the darkness, only to lead his employer into a gang of thieves and murderers.' He pointed down at the boy seated on the roof. 'Appropriate, eh? We read about that in some boring old book we thought you would find interesting. Luke is our Moon Curser. He brought you here to us. To your death.'

48

SACRED VILLAINY

On the roof of the Roland Plumbe Community Estate, Arthur Bryant faced his imminent demise.

He knew that his career was over but was not sad at its loss. He could do nothing more now, solve no more crimes, save no more lives, because those who committed cruelties were finally beyond his understanding. He had warned John May that he would retire when logic ceased to be of use in criminal investigations. Nothing could ever fully explain what he faced here. The world had moved on into darkness and left him in its wake.

He was afraid only for April's sake, because she was just learning how to live. She was shivering with cold, kneeling on the gravelled roof before him in torn wet jeans, her arms tied at her sides. She looked at him with pleading eyes.

And he looked back at the Highwayman, not a man, not even a single entity, but a group of boys.

Gosling, pale and blond, dressed in a padded black leather tunic and boots.

Parfitt, spotty, sour-faced, still wearing his soaked school blazer.

Jezzard, bat-eared, red-faced, and overweight, disconsolately picking his nails.

Billings, small and feral, dangerous-eyed, waiting for instructions.

The four teenagers who had disrupted his lecture, who had

shouted him down and led the rebellion against him. Four ingenious, privileged, bored, and heartless children who saw themselves above the law because they were more intelligent, more cruel, more willing to risk everything. Because the time was right, and there was nothing at all they cared about.

'What do you think of our invention now?' asked Gosling. 'Do you get it? Do you see what we did? It was you who gave us the idea, the day of your stupid lecture. You'll be the sixth victim of the Highwayman, and there will be one more tonight. Seven carefully staged deaths in seven days, high-profile murders to create a supercelebrity who can never be brought to justice, because he doesn't exist. The press and the public are willing him into existence. They want to believe in him, and they'll make him live forever. No-one has ever managed such a stunt in this city's two-thousand-year history. Fame doesn't get much bigger than this.'