‘But you must like it if you designed it,’ said May, puzzled.
‘No, mate, it’s just a commission. The secret of design is re-interpreting what was popular thirty years ago. Everyone wants the things that remind them of childhood. I just re-imagine them with the materials of the present.’
‘So this isn’t your taste?’
‘What, New Britain? Fuck off. I live in an unfucked-about-with Georgian house in Islington with nice big comfy sofas. I’m not going to split my shins on a chrome coffee table shaped like a fucking rocket. I’ve got three kids. I don’t want them running around covered in dents. Same with the clothes. I don’t dress like this at home, I wear jumpers. This is just for the clients.’
Beaufort was wearing black tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt that read: MUTHAFUCKA. ‘It’s like those singers who bang on about teen rebellion so they can buy homes in Hampstead. This is all wrong, by the way.’ He turned the sheet of paper round and held it up. ‘See the calibrations down the side? They’re in feet and inches reading left to right. That tells us two things. Pre-metric, post-war. LCC stamp here, see? And it’s not a ground plan, because the central corridor wouldn’t be measured off from a single left-hand starting point, it would have a single width measurement.’
‘So what are you saying? What is it?’
‘A depth measurement, calibrated from ground zero going downwards. That’s why it’s shaded to indicate round walls. This isn’t a corridor, it’s a shaft.’
‘What are the broken lines at the bottom?’ May pointed at the base of the diagram.
Behind them, there was a small scream and a tinkle of glass.
‘It’s the architectural symbol used to indicate water. Looks to me like you’ve got yourself a well.’
‘And the passageway off to the side?’
‘Overflow escape. It’s artesian; the water rises through natural pressure. If it rains heavily the excess drains off through the side passage and prevents the well from overflowing.’
‘Where would the overflow pipe surface?’
‘Oh, somewhere outside the building in the street, probably.’
‘I need to get an indication of scale,’ said May. ‘Could a person fit down it?’
‘Looking at this, the main shaft’s got to be six feet across, so you can reckon the side vent is four feet, easily large enough to hold a grown man. The Victorians loved stuff like this. They built their drains big so they could shove children down them with brooms and shit shovels. They were great designers, but had no thought for the poor bastards who had to use their buildings.’ Behind him, a waitress winced as she sponged blood from her sliced elbow with a cocktail napkin.
‘Not like nowadays, then,’ agreed May.
As he headed for Old Street tube, it began to rain. The area looked every bit as derelict as it had just after the war. How was that possible? May thought of the London that might have been, the abandoned plans, the failed dreams. Once, a causeway of buildings had been proposed for the centre of the Thames, a vast triumphal arch of Portland stone suggested for Euston Road, a grand national cemetery attempted on Primrose Hill, a Piranesian entry gate blueprinted for Kensington. Gothic towers, pyramid morgues, elevated railways, none had come to pass. The grand social schemes had collapsed in favour of piecemeal sale to private interests. It all could have been so beautiful, he thought sadly.
May pulled the backpack from his shoulder, removed his mobile phone and rang Longbright at home.
‘You said there was no one left alive from the Palace,’ he told her, ‘but you’re wrong. Believe me, I know how it sounds, but I think our killer is still around. Arthur recognized the diagram for what it was. A possible escape route.’
‘It’s a bit of a long shot, don’t you think?’
‘We know Arthur went to the theatre to research his memoirs. I think he discovered the blueprint and realized the implications at once. Then he did the most obvious thing. He ran a search. Combed the city’s mental institutions and checked through hospital records looking for further signs of survival.’
‘You’re saying he traced this aged lunatic and found him in residence at the Wetherby? Why would he do that?’ Longbright sounded sceptical.
‘You know how Arthur always hated loose ends. He went galloping off to the clinic, made a nuisance of himself, questioned the nurses, poked about in their records and ended up with a short-list of former patients.’ May ducked through a grey wall of stalled trucks, heading for the tube. On the pavement ahead, a tangle of red and white plastic tape cordoned off a vast pile of roadwork rubble, more haphazardly arranged than any wartime bomb debris.