Full Dark House(5)

Those who didn’t know him well considered Arthur Bryant to have outlived his usefulness. It didn’t help that he was incapable of politeness, frowning through his wrinkles and forever buried beneath scarves and cardigans, always cold, always complaining, living only for his work. He was the oldest active member of the London police force. But May saw the other side of him, the restless soul, the gleam of frustrated intellect in his rheumy eye, the hidden capacity for compassion and empathy.

‘Fine,’ said Bryant. ‘You go off with your bit of fluff, and I’ll go to the clinic by myself. There’s something I want to clear up before I close my first volume. But don’t blame me if I get into trouble.’

‘What sort of trouble could you possibly get into?’ asked May, dreading to think. ‘Just make sure you wear something that distinguishes you from the patients, otherwise they might keep you in. I’ll see you on Sunday, how’s that?’

‘No, I’ll be in the office on Sunday.’

‘You could take some time off. I’ll even come and watch you play skittles.’

‘Now you’re being patronizing. But you can come to the unit and help me close the reports. That’s if you can tear yourself away from . . . let’s see, Daphne, isn’t it?’

‘It is, as it happens,’ admitted May, much annoyed.

‘Hm. I thought it would be. Well, don’t overdo things.’ Bryant stumped off across the bridge, waving a brisk farewell with his stick.

That had been on Friday evening. May had no idea that Sunday would be their last day together in Mornington Crescent.





3

FULL CIRCLE

Five days later, Longbright stood in a private, neglected section of Highgate Cemetery, watching as a simple service placed a public seal on Arthur Bryant’s life. Behind them, journalists and Japanese tourists took photographs through the railings. Arthur had no surviving relatives. His landlady Alma was the only non-official in attendance. She had threatened to talk to the press if she wasn’t allowed at the graveside. Alma was privy to most of the unit’s secrets, via her indiscreet tenant.

Longbright remained beside the wet rose plot containing her colleague’s urn as members of the unit trooped by, awkwardly pausing to offer their condolences. Liberty DuCaine led the new generation of unit employees. It felt like the passing of an era.

Longbright was strong. She preferred to stand alone, and refused to cry. Her fiancé offered to drive her home, but she told him to wait in the car. The cemetery grounds were still waterlogged from the recent torrential rain. Briars and nettles drooped over fungus-stained stone, nature anxious to hide all signs of earthly disturbance. Arthur Bryant had arranged to be buried here sixty years earlier, after the death of his greatest love. The retired detective sergeant found it hard to appreciate that a man of such peculiar energy could be so totally obliterated: the forensic lab had identified his body by the melted set of false teeth Bryant had been fitted with during the year Margaret Thatcher came to power.

Some kind of songbird was making a fuss in the tree behind her. Longbright turned towards it, and found May standing silently in her shadow. ‘I guess that should be a symbol of hope,’ she said, ‘but I wish I had a gun.’

‘I know how you feel,’ admitted May. ‘I don’t know what to do without him, how to begin going on. What’s the point? It’s as though someone tore up the world.’

‘Oh, John, I’m so sorry.’ She took his hands in hers. She felt angry, not sorry. She wanted to accuse someone and blame them for the loss of their friend. She had seen more of life’s unfairness than most people, but it did not stop her from wanting revenge. Alma Sorrowbridge came over and stood quietly with them. The West Indian landlady wore a large silver cross on her black-lace bosom. She was very old now, and shrinking fast.

‘John, I wanted to speak to you earlier, but they’—she pointed back at the journalists—’they were watching me. I have something for you.’ She pulled a newspaper-covered oblong from beneath her coat. ‘I found this in Mr Bryant’s flat. It’s addressed to you. Not that I’ve been touching his things, you understand.’

May accepted the slim folder and tore off the wrapping. His breath condensed around the cream linen cover as he studied it. ‘This is Arthur’s handwriting,’ he said, tracing an ink indentation with his finger. ‘Has anyone else looked at it?’

‘I showed it to Detective Sergeant Longbright earlier.’

‘I took a section of the binding for forensic testing,’ Longbright explained. ‘Just to make sure it was his.’