It was the second time he had failed. Overcoming his guilt about Nathalie’s death had been tough, and just when the world was starting to make sense again he saw that he hadn’t made sense of it at all. He knew he would have to write a formal apology to Renalda.
He looked about the desktop to see if there was anything he had forgotten, and saw that the drawing of the statue he had deciphered as the key to a mythological conundrum was just another memento. He carefully folded it into a square, tucked it into his tattered briefcase and snapped the lock shut.
Pausing in the doorway, he took one last look around the room he and May had shared for the past few days, and wondered about the cases they might have solved together.
Then he quietly pulled the door shut behind him.
53
TOUCHING THE TORTOISE
Mementos and conundrums, all the cases we solved together, thought May. It was always Bryant who had set the puzzles. He himself had just been the faithful sidekick, an anchor of reason to his partner’s flights of fancy. We solved our first case together. I’ll solve our last one if it kills me.
His bandaged leg was swollen and sore. He looked along the crowded platform of the tube station, unpleasantly sweaty even though the day was cold, and waited for the approaching train. He felt his coat pockets. The tortoise; he had left the damned shell in Maggie’s flat, but he wasn’t going back for it now. I’m old, I’m tired and I’ve been stabbed by a ghost, he thought angrily.
Not that he remotely believed in such things. The breadboard had fallen, hitting the handle of the knife. More accidents happened at home than anywhere else. Besides, even if he was a believer it would have made no sense. Why would his best friend return from the grave to hurt him? The only person who could do that now was very much alive.
Except that it wasn’t him . . . unless he had grown fangs . . .
And then he saw the error he had made. He saw how badly he had misread the situation, just as Arthur had all those years before. How guilty he had been of jumping to the same mistaken conclusion.
May pushed his way back up the stairs of Camden Town tube station, fighting the onrushing flow of travellers. He needed to obtain a signal for his mobile. Outside, wedged into a litter-strewn corner, he punched out Alma Sorrowbridge’s number. He waited for fourteen rings, but there was no answer. The shadow of the buildings opposite had begun to reach this side of the street. He looked at the keypad of his mobile, and was about to try her again when it rang.
‘Grandad, is that you?’
‘April?’
His granddaughter couldn’t have picked a worse time to call, but it was good to hear her voice.
‘I’ve been meaning to ring you for days. I was so sorry to hear about Mr Bryant. He was always nice to me. You must be—’
‘Listen,’ May cut across her, ‘I’m more sorry than you could ever be. Arthur asked me to call you and I didn’t. I’ve been too wrapped up in my own problems. How are you? Have you been able to get out at all?’
‘A little. It’s tough. Open spaces still do my head in, but I’m handling it.’
‘Remember what the doctor said, one step at a time.’
‘I know, but I want to go back to work,’ April complained. ‘I’ve seen enough of these walls to last a lifetime. I could do with some advice.’
‘Sure. I’ll come and see you.’
He wanted to tell her he was ashamed, that he would make up the time they had lost. Instead he could only promise to ring her again in a day or so. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
‘It’s funny speaking to you at this hour. It’s the time I always think of you.’
May was puzzled. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Oh, you know. You always took a walk with Mr Bryant at sunset. It was the only real ritual you had.’
‘I suppose it was a ritual, wasn’t it?’ May was amazed he hadn’t thought of it earlier. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, sweetheart. There’s something I have to put right.’
And he was off along the pavement, moving around the crowds and into the road, the pain in his leg forgotten, breaking into a run as he speed-dialled Janice Longbright’s number, praying that she would pick up the phone.
54
FULL DARK HOUSE
‘There’s nothing to report that a layman can’t see with a cursory examination of the body,’ said young Oswald Finch, rinsing his hands at the deep ceramic sink. The remains of Valerie Marchmont, Public Opinion, lay under an ordinary bedsheet; the army had requisitioned the pathology unit’s entire supply of rubberized covers.
‘It’s the same as the others. There are no second-agent marks on the skin or clothing, just a few fragments of corroded metal at the contact point. I presume the iron rod that passed through her head was slightly rusted. Some of the rust was scraped off by the edges of the skull. Not much point in making a toxicological examination, but I’ll do one if you want. The damage is consistent with what you’d expect to find in an accident of this kind. You see wounds like this all over London these days.’