White corridor (26 page)

‘He’s close,’ she announced, then abruptly changed direction, heading up towards the railway tracks that ran across the hill. Above them, the sky was turning an ominous shade of apocalyptic pink.

‘What is that?’ asked May. They watched as a muscular black shape loped through the snow searching for cover. ‘Are there wolves in Devon?’

‘Maybe it was just a big fox,’ said Maggie uncertainly. Overhead, a crackle of black wings batted against the white sky, as crows were shocked into flight from the glassy branches.

‘Something’s startled them.’ Maggie looked around, then narrowed her search to the hill ahead. ‘This way. We have to go faster. You feel it as well, don’t you?’

‘I think so,’ May admitted. ‘Arthur’s made some kind of misjudgement that’s put him at risk. And don’t ask me to explain, because I don’t know how to, okay?’

Maggie kept silent, but smiled to herself as they climbed. Seemingly psychic instincts were learned through experience, habit and the passing of time. The detectives had developed a link they could not see or understand, but it was obvious to anyone with the slightest sensitivity that it existed. There was nothing supernatural about the development of such an ability; parents and children quickly grew bonds, twins inherited them genetically. People who spent a great deal of time in each other’s company became automatically adept at guessing the actions of their counterparts, in the same way that animals were attuned to tiny vibrations of movement and changes in air pressure. She had a fleeting image of a moth in a jar, fighting to free itself, then the image vanished.

Maggie loved the idea that the detective was becoming corrupted by his latent spirituality; if someone as rational as John could succumb, it gave her hope for the rest of humankind.

‘Of course, having some smidgen of psychic ability doesn’t single you out as special, you know,’ she puffed. ‘Everyone has it to a greater or lesser extent. I can usually feel it when I meet people. That lady and her son, they knocked on our truck earlier, did you know? We offered to shelter them, but she decided to head back to her own vehicle.’

‘She never mentioned that to Arthur and me,’ said May, surprised.

‘No, I don’t suppose she would have done. Why would she? She doesn’t know that you know me. She was attracted by the sign on our truck, you see. Latched onto my arm and told me she had some kind of psychic gift that allowed her to see the true nature of men, but of course I saw she didn’t.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I asked how she knew, and she gave me the name of her mentor. I clearly made her uncomfortable, because she refused our help. There are so many frauds operating in London. Often they just crave attention, but end up draining money from those who are desperate to believe, the vulnerable ones who’ve had difficulties in the past.’

‘The world is full of natural victims,’ said May.

‘And natural predators,’ replied Maggie. ‘I’m afraid Kate Summerton is rather well known in South London. She’s been jailed a couple of times and isn’t legally allowed to practise anymore, not that it stops her. The odd thing is, I think she genuinely means well. But it’s unethical to use a refuge for battered women to recruit clients for spiritualism courses.’

‘God, I forgot,’ said May suddenly. ‘I have to go back down there.’ He pointed to the buried road that lay below them.

‘Back? What are you talking about? We’re past the worst part of the fallen snow.’

‘Exactly. We were passing near Madeline Gilby’s hired car. I promised to collect something from it. Stay under the shelter of the trees. I can see the blue Toyota from here. It’ll only take a minute.’

John May half ran, half tumbled towards the inundated vehicle. Snow had covered the wheel arches and half of the bonnet. He looked around for something to dig with, settling on a broken branch. After a minute or two he was able to reach under the vehicle’s front wing. He forced his arm deep into the snow and groped around, closing frozen fingers over the envelope. It had stayed dry within the impacted drift. He wanted to stop and open it, but there was no time to waste. He began cutting back in Maggie’s direction. The witch was standing with her hands cupped about her eyes, watching for trouble.

A burning sensation in his heart caused him to stop and regain his breath. He took advantage of the respite to call the unit from his mobile. ‘Hello?’ He could barely hear against the buffeting wind. ‘Who’s that? Meera? I need you to check something out for me. Quick as you can.’

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Maggie when he finally reached her side. ‘You look like someone just walked over your grave.’

‘It’s been preying on my mind ever since I saw the list of victims Madeline Gilby showed me,’ said May. ‘The names on it were vaguely familiar, but I didn’t know why.’ He turned his attention to the phone.

‘I can see someone,’ said Maggie, pointing to a figure standing on the railway tracks ahead. ‘We must get up there as quickly as possible. I think Arthur is about to face his moment of truth.’

45

ENGAGEMENT

Arthur Bryant could see the faint impression of the double railway track indented through fallen snow; no train had been able to pass here since the blizzard began, but now the gale had blown the top layers clear, and with the thaw setting in it appeared that the line might become passable.

The black tracks wound over the hill towards the dark mouth of a tunnel. The cut was still inundated beyond this, so the rescue train would have to back up the line after collecting stranded travellers.

As he forced himself to concentrate on the fading footmarks in the white expanse of the hill, he could not help but wonder if his own tracks would disappear like snow prints from London’s history.

I’ve dedicated my life to something that now seems less tangible and more pointless than wood-carving,
he thought,
the resolution of criminal mysteries that pass entirely unnoticed by the general public
. It was hardly surprising that the Home Office no longer wished to fund such a division when they gained no benefit to themselves. The PCU acted as a magnet for embarrassing publicity, and Bryant knew that his own irascibility made matters worse.

In a world where so few people are willing to become involved, we have to set an example,
he thought.
And so we will pass the way of censorship bodies and experimental science labs, in the same manner that Bletchley Park, the Propaganda Unit and the Mass Observation Society were no longer needed after the war. And May and I will pass, too, becoming just another quirky footnote to the capital’s strange history, along with other abandoned ideas like the GLC’s Regent Street Monorail and the 1796 plan to straighten out the Thames, and therefore perhaps that is how it should be. But for now, and until we are all ejected from our premises in Mornington Crescent, I still have a public duty to perform.

Any further musing on the past was stopped when he saw the boy.

Why is he standing there?
Bryant wondered, before spotting the red handkerchief that tied his wrist to the briars of a hawthorn bush covered in icicles like cracked prisms. He lowered himself beside Ryan, whose tear-streaked cheeks were already starting to freeze. His jacket had been pulled down over his shoulders to impede his movement. ‘What happened?’ Bryant asked, shielding him from the bitter wind as he tried to unscramble the knot with numb fingers.

‘He came for us and took my mum away,’ said the boy tonelessly. ‘He’s going to kill her on the railway line because he hates ladies.’

‘Well, we’re certainly not going to let that happen.’ The knot was too small and tight, and Bryant could not tear the cloth. ‘Can you slip your hand out for me?’

‘He wants to hurt ladies,’ said Ryan again, as if trying to remember something he had seen or heard elsewhere. He struggled against the material but could not pull free. His efforts seemed halfhearted, as though he had given up any thought of escape.

He’s in shock,
thought Bryant.
He’s not reacting normally
. ‘Wait,’ he said, ‘let me see if I have something that can help.’ He produced a bunch of keys, selected the sharpest-looking one and began sawing at the handkerchief. ‘In which direction did they go?’

‘Over there, into the tunnel,’ said Ryan, pointing with his free hand at the black hole cut into the side of the hill.

Bryant’s heart sank. The subzero temperature had already slowed his mind and body. The thought of entering the hillside to look for Madeline and her captor cruelly exposed his defencelessness.
If I stay here with Ryan she may die,
he thought.
But if I leave the boy…

He dug out his mobile and tried May once more. This time it rang and John answered. ‘I’m up at the railway line. He’s headed into the tunnel with the mother,’ Bryant told his partner. ‘I don’t want to go in there alone. It feels like some kind of a setup. She said he only kills when he’s in a shaft of light, where God can witness his defiance.’

‘So he’s the third of Maggie’s four white corridors.’

‘Apparently so, but if he’s hidden in the darkness of the tunnel she’ll be safe, surely? It’s a contradiction.’

‘Arthur, I’m on my way. You’re right, it’s a trap. There is no—’

A shrill scream, distortingly high like the shriek of an excited child, sounded from the shadowy entrance of the tunnel. Without thinking, Bryant snapped the phone shut and headed off into its mouth as Ryan shouted behind him.

After all these years, it’s too late not to stay involved,
Bryant thought, stumbling over the bared brown railway sleepers.
I can’t stand on the sidelines any longer, even if it means taking my own life in my hands.

46

OMISSIONS

Janice Longbright rose before Bryant’s bookcase and pulled down the dust-encrusted volume entitled
Sumerian Religious Beliefs & Legends
. Seating herself behind his leather-topped desk, she thumbed forward to the sixth chapter and began to read.

In the primeval mists of Sumerian legend there first exists a heavenly ocean called the Abyss, from which gods, the ZU, emerged. Their servants were the Abgal, seven wise demigods who emerged from this ocean.

The detective sergeant shifted uncomfortably on her chair.
I should be doing something of practical use, not sitting here wasting time,
she thought.
This is hopeless
. But with no other course of action left than to heed Bryant’s recommendation, she read on.

One of the most legendary night wind spirits was the benevolent Lilith, who was associated with guarding the gateway between the spiritual and physical realms. Her figure could be found on most Sumerian temple doorways. Lilith is usually represented holding the Rings of Shem, proof that she gained immortality by traversing the Underworld to gain sacred wisdom from the Tree of Knowledge. As the guardian of the Temple Mysteries, Lilith was the original ‘scarlet woman,’ the term originally referring to menstrual blood, and another symbol of divine power, fiery red hair. Ancient cultures often believed that red hair denoted one whose ancestors intermarried with fallen, i.e., demonic, angels. Because she connected two worlds, the dazzling Lilith was regarded as a goddess of transformation. Other goddesses of transformation included Hecate and Circe.

Longbright tapped a crimson nail against her teeth.
Circe,
she thought,
the health club that creates beautiful women. What are you getting at, Arthur?
She turned the page.

Many Sumerian traditions were inherited by the Greeks, whose legends correspond accordingly. Their divine nymphs brought about physical and spiritual regeneration in the form of sexual rites, from which we derive the term ‘nymphomania.’ Jews subsequently transformed the Sumerian Lilith into the consort of the Angel Samael.

‘So she was a bit of a Goth,’ said Longbright aloud. That wasn’t so unusual in Camden Town; there were so many that pubs painted with angels and demons specifically catered to them. She returned to the chapter.

The lovers Samael and Lilith passed their knowledge of the Angels to man and created a dynasty via intermarriage with humans, resulting in Lilith being punished by being turned into an essence without form. Lilith was said to appear in the natural world as a seductive spirit, confronting men who slept alone. Among recent variations and additions to this myth is one particularly prevalent among students of mythology who regard Samael and Lilith to be warring parts of the same human being, having been born as one creature incorporating both male and female genders. In this popular version of the legend, Lilith and Samael simultaneously love and hate each other. The battle for supremacy within this ‘male goddess’ can only be resolved when Lilith triumphs over Samael and transforms him into a complete woman. In this we can see the age-old struggle between male and female—

Longbright closed the book and carefully replaced it on the shelf as revelations tumbled through her mind.

No wonder everyone had been so guarded about admitting the truth. Lilith’s parents had not lied; they had, in a typically English manner, hoped their omissions would speak for themselves. They had borne and raised a redheaded son, Samuel, who had escaped from his stifling upbringing and come to London in order to change his life. It explained why his mother had been loath to find old photographs of the boy. Samuel had discovered the legend of the scarlet woman, the goddess of transformation, the woman in a man’s body. He had proudly changed the spelling of his name, even going so far as to have it tattooed onto his arm.

But the hormonal war being waged within him had only just begun, and it had been fought as it had between the ancient gods, with Samael finally being subsumed into the persona of Lilith.

Longbright thought,
What did he do next?
On completion of his own spiritual transformation, he had symbolically killed off his former self, removing the tattoo, undertaking lessons in everything from deportment to makeup with the aid of the helpful, unscrupulous Spender. There was nothing, after all, like a model with an outrageous press-friendly history, and The Temple’s new cosmetic lines needed publicity….

Sam Bronwin had come to London hoping to define his identity, and had been preyed upon. He had been fed hormones, had taken drugs—

She needed air. Standing at the opened crescent window, she thought about Owen Mills. Lilith had met him on the Crowndale Estate and had fallen deeply in love. What’s more, her love had been reciprocated, despite the fact that Lilith had been born a male, despite the fact that she took drugs to deaden her painful memories, despite the fact that she had possibly even turned tricks to pay for—

Longbright ran back to the desk and picked up the phone. ‘Giles, you’re still at Bayham Street?’

‘I was just about to leave—’

‘Stay there until I arrive. And don’t touch anything.’

Longbright ran through the alleyway slush, darting between trucks and motorbikes on Camden High Street; the home-going rush hour had already started. At the morgue, she found Kershaw seated at Finch’s desk, resigned to the coming conversation, calmly awaiting her arrival.

‘Giles, did you have any reason to examine Lilith Starr’s body?’ she asked, catching her breath and looking around.

‘I saw her when I first came to the morgue,’ he replied guardedly. ‘Why?’

‘I mean, did you make a full examination of her corpse?’

‘No, there was no need. Finch had already conducted the preliminary examination.’ Kershaw looked unnerved.

Omissions,
she thought suddenly.
He’s not telling me something
.

‘But you’re the one who found Oswald’s body. What did you do before you called me? I’m not saying you did anything illegal, but you did do something, didn’t you?’

‘Look, Finch collapsed and died before he could put Lilith Starr’s corpse away, so I did it for him. You know the new regulations specify that they must be kept locked in the drawers when the room is occupied by nonmembers of staff.’

‘I’m not doubting that you meant well, Giles, but as a consequence nobody else checked her after Oswald’s death. You have to open the body bag all the way and tell me what you see,’ she said.

Kershaw slowly rose to his feet. ‘Okay, but—’

‘Just do it.’ She waited, pacing the floor.

He unlocked the drawer and pulled it out, unzipping the body bag to the bottom. ‘Well, yes.’ He sighed. ‘What do you want me to say, Janice? Lilith had had an operation, such a neat one that it’s pretty hard to spot.’

‘She was born a man, Giles, born with the name Samuel Bronwin. I know gender reassignment has come a long way in the last few years, but you’d think that would be the first thing Oswald noticed during his examination, wouldn’t you? The first observation he’d write down in his report book? Owen Mills came to see Finch, to explain that he had made a pact with Lilith. He wanted to make sure that no-one found out the truth about her in the event of her death, so of course he followed her to the mortuary that morning. It wasn’t just for her sake, either, but for his. Mills has brothers and sisters who look up to him as a role model. Check her breasts for me.’

‘I don’t have to; I already know they’ve been enhanced,’ Kershaw confirmed. ‘I noticed it straight off when I first saw her lying there, but so many girls have augmentation these days that I doubted anyone else would spot it.’

‘I think she had a spill. Mills said Lilith was vague and acting strangely the night of her death, complaining of a chest pain. One of the implants split and the slow leak, in combination with what was already in her system, sent her into anaphylactic shock. I think we’ll find that her transformation was all part of Circe’s service. Gender change is a process conducted after exhaustive psychological profiling. It’s planned in distinct stages, but she was rushed through the entire procedure by Spender, who was working to the timetable of his product launch.’

‘Why would Mills go to such efforts to hide the truth about her?’ asked Kershaw.

‘Are you kidding? Think, Giles. The boy was raised in an old-school Baptist West Indian family, not exactly a culture known for its compassionate views on transgendered males. Mills had already been bullied at school; if anyone found out he’d been dating a transsexual he would have been ostracised by his siblings, his peers, his community. Even if we imagine they could have accepted it, he acted for a much simpler reason. He loved her, and wanted to do right by her. He pleaded with Finch not to reveal the truth, and Finch probably refused to help him. Arthur knows the truth about Oswald’s death, but he wants us to work it out.’

‘So what’s the sequence of events?’ asked Kershaw.

‘You’re the one who wants Finch’s job,’ snapped Longbright. ‘You figure it out.’

Kershaw sat defeatedly at the morgue bench. ‘I should have been more careful,’ he said. ‘I thought I could help him.’

‘We’re running out of time. Let’s go back and fill in the gaps.’ Longbright seated herself opposite the young pathologist. ‘First on the scene after Finch arrives for the day’s work are Renfield and his constable—not a paramedic at all—with the body of Lilith Starr, presumed by his boy to be just another dead junkie. Renfield has covered for his PC and skipped procedure because he’s in a rush; Finch is tired and taking painkillers. The ventilator cover is still where he left it, unrepaired, and now the fan itself has fallen down. We knew that the mortuary ceiling was too high for anyone to get up there and tamper with it. So, Finch picks up the fan blade that has dropped down in the night, and sets it on the counter. As soon as Renfield has gone, Oswald starts work and immediately writes out his primary observation: the true gender of the person on his table.

‘He begins his examination, making a note that his victim has undergone a rushed sex-change. Owen Mills buzzes the door, blagging his way in as the partner of the deceased, and argues with Finch, begging him not to report what he knows. Being a stickler for the truth, Finch turns him down, and Mills is incensed—we know he slaps his hand down hard on Finch’s notes, leaving the imprint on his palm—but he leaves.

‘Rattled but ever the professional, Finch returns to work, and now he makes a secondary observation, based on instincts honed across decades of dealing with human organisms: that there’s a slim chance the girl on his table may not, in fact, be dead after all. The distraction with Mills has lost him valuable time, even though it only lasted a few minutes. Having to guess at what might work, he quickly prepares the naltrexone and injects it as part of a cocktail of stimulants, but there’s no response. To prevent spasms he adds another drug, a muscle relaxant, vecuronium, which was also found in her system. What he doesn’t know is that the drugs are indeed taking effect.

‘Angered by Renfield’s failure to involve the hospital when she might have been saved, he calls the sergeant to berate him. Now things should be quiet, but you turn up to talk about being passed over for the position of unit pathologist.

‘And surprisingly, Finch is receptive to your case. He likes you—he’s always liked you—so he asks for your help. He’s been thinking about Lilith Starr, and has realised that all it would take is one little omission from his notes to prevent a young man’s life from being ruined. He no longer wants to report her case as a male undergoing gender reassignment, something that, according to Mills, has already caused her own family to disown her. That’s why he gets you to tear up his notes—at least he won’t have to lie himself—it’s just a few lines on a single page, which you destroy for him. You didn’t argue with him at all—that little shouting match was staged for Meera’s sake when she arrived at the morgue.

‘And that should have been that. But the drugs Finch injected have now had time to cause an interaction. They can take longer than two hours to work, even longer in a cold room, and this one was warm. But the resuscitation goes horribly wrong.

‘Lilith Starr wakes up in a state of shock, in terrible pain. The last thing she remembers is falling asleep in a shop doorway. Now she suddenly sits up on a steel table to find herself stripped to the waist, breasts exposed, with a horrible old man standing over her. Instinctively she fights him off—Finch is probably just as startled as she is—her hand seizes on the nearest object, the fan blade, and she strikes him hard in the chest with it, then lashes out a second time as he backs away. Oswald collapses, but the appalling shock to Lilith’s system is just as great, and she falls back. This time, she really is dead. The discrepancy in her time of death is hard to spot because her body has
already had time to cool
. That’s why there were no fingerprints on the blade; she wasn’t producing any sweat. And nobody else left or entered the locked morgue. So, after years of investigating similar crimes with the PCU, Finch becomes a victim of his own perfect murder.