‘Of course I understand. Do you know how much money the government is spending on security resources to convince investors that the area has been cleaned up? The return of organised crime is unthinkable. Have you spoken to Islington? I heard they had a suspect in custody.’
‘They seem to think the crime didn’t occur on their turf, but yes, they were holding a man called Rafi Abd al-Qaadir. They had no evidence and were forced to let him go, thanks to our Mr Bimsley, who brought in a lawyer to argue on his behalf. Now they’re trying to track down the Nigerian businessman who sold the lease of the shop where the body was found. Trouble is, the place was open and empty for a month. They’re checking their usual contacts, but I can tell they don’t know what to make of the death. I’m waiting for a pathology report.’
‘Have you at least managed to keep this away from the press?’
‘For the moment, but there’s no way of stopping information from getting out so long as it’s a publicly registered CID case. I’ve already warned APPRO not to issue any kind of statement.’
‘St Pancras International is right next door, and it’s the terminal for the next Olympics. They’re about to open a luxury hotel that will house senior members of the Olympic Committee not five hundred yards from where this corpse was found. If anyone at the PM’s office gets wind of this we will be crucified.’ Kasavian looked like a man who was no stranger to crucifixion, or subsequent resurrection.
‘There may be one solution,’ Faraday ventured, ‘but I don’t think you’re going to like it.’
Back in Chalk Farm it was like old times, insofar as the detectives were arguing. ‘All you have to do is talk to Leslie Faraday,’ said John May. ‘He owes you several favours. If he can be persuaded—’
‘You’re forgetting one thing.’ Bryant leaned forward, his blue eyes widening. ‘I am not interested.’
‘Come on, we’re wasting our time here,’ said Meera, grabbing May’s arm. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Mr Bryant, after all your lectures about looking for the unexpected in everyday crimes.’
‘That’s because I finally realise there’s nothing unexpected anymore,’ Bryant replied, slumping back.
‘That’s not true and you know it. Unexpected things happen all the time. I was coming out of a nightclub on Friday night when some bloke dressed as a bloody stag attacked me in the street, slashed my arm and ran off.’
Bryant was brought up short. ‘A stag?’ he repeated.
‘Yeah, you know, big animal, they have them in the countryside or in zoos or something. Furry coat, antlers, the lot.’
‘Where was this?’
‘Right in the middle of King’s Cross, the bit behind the cross-channel railway line that’s a dug-up field.’
‘You’re talking about the triangular piece of land between the Battlebridge Basin and the Eurostar terminal?’
‘Yeah, I suppose so.’ Meera looked puzzled.
‘You have to show me exactly where this happened, right now. Find my shoes, someone.’ Moments later Bryant had shucked his dressing gown and was scrabbling to get into a grubby old herringbone overcoat, still clutching his walking stick, which became accidentally threaded through one of the sleeves, so that as he floundered about he resembled a particularly disreputable scarecrow coming to life.
‘For God’s sake don’t just stand there, woman, help me get this blasted thing on properly!’ he shouted. Then he fell over.
‘Oh, Mr Bryant, you’re back!’ cried Alma Sorrowbridge, pulling him out of the fireplace and patting him down before anything could burst into flames.
1 Person who betrays his or her own country by aiding the invading enemy, after Vidkun Quisling, the pro-Nazi Norwegian leader.
11
TREMORS
You know, I always felt that the Peculiar Crimes Unit might finally find its spiritual home in a railway terminus district like King’s Cross,’ said Bryant as the trio marched along York Way in blustery squalls of rain. He spoke above the ever-present bourdon of taxi engines, a low thrum that underscored life in the area from every dawn to every midnight.
The road behind the railway yards turned into the kind of strange no-man’s-land Bryant had often seen in London after the war. These urban limbos had been created by bomb damage and government indecision. With a nation to rebuild, cash for housing was in short supply. After the rubble from fractured terraces had been cleared away, the scarred earth remained as a slow-healing memory of the wounds inflicted by war. Children turned the chaotic rockeries of brick and plaster into fantasy lands, exploring for buried treasure. Rocket and dandelions sprang up between chunks of brickwork and rusting iron. If they were lucky, children might gleefully discover a live, undetonated bomb. Occasionally someone was blown sky-high. Those were the days, thought Bryant.