If he was wrong, it would not just be the finish of a promising career, it would end the credibility of the unit for good.
36
THE BROADER PICTURE
‘What on earth happened to you?’ asked Bryant. His partner was covered in streaks of mud, his jacket torn from shoulder to waist.
‘Came a bit of a cropper on an army motorbike,’ May explained, examining himself. ‘Our man moved like a bat out of Hell. I lost him in the back streets, didn’t Biddle tell you?’
‘He said you stole an army emergency vehicle and smashed it up. Don’t worry, I’ll square it with them later. Are you all right?’
‘Took the skin off my hands, no real damage. What are you doing?’
Bryant was standing on an upended metal milk crate in the car park of Bow Street magistrates’ court, preparing to throw a muslin-wrapped leg of pork onto an iron sheet that was balanced on a pile of masonry rubble. ‘I’m testing out a theory,’ he explained, swinging the leg and letting it go. ‘Bloke fell out of the balcony. I suppose they told you. Slashed to bits with a straight razor. Not one of the cast, though.’ He climbed down from the crate and bent over the joint of meat, which had landed squarely on the metal sheet. ‘It’s all right, condemned black-market pork, quite inedible, but it’s about the same weight.’
‘As what?’ asked May, bemused.
‘As a pair of feet, obviously.’ Bryant threw him an old-fashioned look as he hoisted the leg for another swing.
May had no time for such foolishness tonight. He was starting to wonder if his partner was all there. ‘Mr Davenport’s waiting for us in your office,’ he warned. ‘At least, I assume it’s him.’
‘Raw-boned, red-faced man, tufts of grey hair coming out of his ears, staring eyes, lots of broken veins in his nose, reeks of chewing tobacco?’
‘That’s the one. I hope he doesn’t see your plant.’
‘What plant?’ asked Bryant, his eyes widening in innocence.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. That one with the serrated leaves. Chinamen dry them out and smoke them. Reefers. Used by Limehouse dope fiends.’
‘Are you accusing me of being a dope fiend? Actually, it’s an old herbal remedy.’
‘Well, I’ve hidden it under your desk just in case.’
‘Thanks, old man.’ Bryant grinned. ‘You’re a sport.’
Farley Davenport stared with distaste at the mouldering Tibetan skull surrounded by African juju charms that inhabited Bryant’s bookcase. ‘Perhaps one of you can explain what’s going on at the Palace Theatre? Someone just wrote off an army bike, another one is still missing.’
‘Mr May here was in pursuit of our murderer. We’re lucky he’s still with us. I’ve asked for an apprehension on the other number plate.’
‘Who was this bloke who died?’
‘He shouldn’t have been allowed inside the building,’ Bryant explained, in that way he had of not answering the right question. ‘I requested an access restriction, but the company’s director overruled me.’
Davenport was finding it hard to make the detectives understand why he was so angry with them. He ran his hands through his thinning grey hair and made a frightening face. ‘I asked for all visitors to be signed in and out. That should have been enough.’
‘That’s exactly what we did,’ said Bryant, ‘but somebody still got hurt. We shouldn’t have been allowing any visitors in at all. There are people wandering about all over the place. It’s like Hyde Park on a bank holiday in there.’
Davenport grunted with disapproval. ‘I had a phone call from some mad harpy named Parole, typical bloody showbusiness type, complaining to me about areas of the theatre staying shut. She couldn’t seem to tell the difference between a real-life murder and a staged drama.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I told her we needed exclusive access to certain areas for forensic examination, but she refused point blank to close off the rest of the building. Apparently it’s beyond her control because there are two separate companies involved, hers and the management who own the theatre.’
‘This bloody war is giving everyone an excuse to defy the law.’ Davenport’s nose looked redder than ever. ‘I tell you, when it’s over all these women will go back to being bloody housewives and we’ll be able to get on with running the nation again.’
‘Miss Parole answers to a board that’s determined not to allow anything to hamper the production.’
‘It’s going to be hampered a bloody sight more when Westminster shuts it down,’ snapped Davenport. ‘If this had happened in peacetime the building would have been cleared without question. Good Lord, three people dead, ghostly sightings and what have you, people frightening one another with stories about phantoms that walk through walls. It’s the Palace Theatre, not Borley Rectory. Do you want to tell me how it happened?’