‘Hmm. You’ve become a stranger to the badger’s brush.’ May indicated the bristles on his partner’s cheeks.
‘I have no good reason to shave. Men only shave for other people. If left to themselves they’d all grow beards like Robinson Crusoe. And they probably wouldn’t wash, either. I choose not to go out. I’ve seen all the world I need to see.’ His voice grew softer. ‘I don’t want you to see me like this.’
‘So you’ve elected to become the God of this reduced realm,’ said May, displeased.
‘I have all the home comforts I need, my books, my notes, Alma to cook for me.’
‘I’ve seen this sort of behaviour before. When great teachers retire they lose the will to live. Soon you’ll start regressing into another childhood. You’ll be asking Alma to leave your bedroom door ajar at night, and telling her you don’t eat sprouts.’
‘I don’t eat her sprouts now.’
‘So this is what it’s come to, has it? Our friendship means nothing to you. I always knew you were selfish, Arthur, but your behaviour is beyond even my expectations. I should have known. Right from the moment I first met you, when you had me deciphering naval flag codes before I’d even got my coat off, all you ever cared about was yourself.’
‘That’s not entirely true,’ retorted Bryant indignantly. ‘There have been times—not lately, perhaps—when my generosity has known no bounds. I gave you all the credit when my efforts brought about the capture of the Little Italy Whelk Smugglers.’
‘An action which resulted in me having to hide several dozen drums of black-market treacle from the police, I remember. You always give me the credit when you’re about to get caught for something.’
‘Excuse me?’ intervened Meera, whose brief attempt at patience had already evaporated. ‘This is, like, an ancient history lesson or something. Can we get back to the real world? Tell him, Mr May.’
‘There’s been a murder in King’s Cross,’ said May, duly prompted.
‘Hardly headline news.’ Bryant slouched further into his dressing gown. ‘I’d be more surprised if there hadn’t been.’
‘It’s a professional job.’
‘One for the Met, then. They have all the right contacts in that area. There are eleven recognised gangs in the borough of Camden alone.’
‘Except that in this case no-one has a clue who’s behind it. The victim’s remains haven’t been identified because his head was cut off and we don’t yet know if his fingerprints are on file. He’s been dead for a few days. I thought it might pique your interest.’
‘Well, you thought wrong,’ snapped Bryant. ‘You think every time someone dies my heart quickens? It doesn’t.’
‘You’re being so unfair, Mr Bryant,’ said Meera. ‘Why don’t you just get dressed and come and visit the crime scene?’
‘You come any nearer, young lady, and you shall get the benefit of my toasting fork where you least expect it.’ He turned back to his old partner. ‘I was looking through my casebook over the weekend, and realised that once you get beneath the unique circumstances of a crime, the perpetrators are depressingly similar. They’re selfish, blind, unpleasant people, and worst of all, they no longer have the ability to surprise me in any way.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said May, ‘but there’s a very good reason why you should be interested. It’s a case that could bring down the government.’
‘This kind of crime creates a potentially disastrous situation in the area,’ said Leslie Faraday. ‘King’s Cross—of all places—the PM’s flagship development—you understand the implications.’
Faraday had taken to coming in on Saturday mornings because his supervisor did, and he was anxious to have his diligence noted. He ventured into Kasavian’s office with the trepidation of Van Helsing entering the lair of the undead. The room of casket-coloured oak had absorbed a hundred years of tobacco smoke before the banning of cigarettes, and somehow the very air seemed to be stained sepia. There were patches on the carpet where no light had ever fallen.
Oskar Kasavian winced at the watery morning sunlight and turned away from the window, slipping back into shadow. With his sharply hooked nose and pale, elongated features he reminded Faraday of Nosferatu in the 1922 German film version he had seen on a drizzly evening in November 1979 at the East Finchley Rex, an event he had never forgotten, because he never forgot anything. He had been on a date with a girl called Deirdre Fairburn who went out for a choc-ice halfway through the film and never came back. Faraday had remained in his seat to watch the end of the film because it was not the first time a girl had given him the slip.