Seventy-Seven Clocks(9)

‘Repeat that?’ he asked, pressing the receiver closer to his ear.

‘. . . Vascular dilation to an extraordinary degree, and tissue lesions you could poke your fingers through . . .’

‘Wait, backtrack a minute, Oswald, you’re losing me.’

There was a sigh of impatience on the other end of the line. ‘Really, John, it would be better if you came and saw this for yourself. He’s laid out right in front of me. It’s absolutely incredible.’

‘Oswald, do I absolutely have to?’ John grimly recalled the stench of chemicals and cheap aftershave that always accompanied his meetings with the pathologist. Finch was a brilliant man, but possessed the same graveyard enthusiasm for his job that troubled children had for picking insects apart. His was not just a career chosen by individuals for whom death holds no terror. It was chosen because he really, really liked it.

‘You know, autopsies usually only take a couple of hours, but so far I’ve spent over seven on this one. It’s playing havoc with my timesheet. You really should see what I’m seeing, John.’

‘All right. Give me fifteen minutes.’ May replaced the receiver, checked the baleful sky beyond the window, and reached for his raincoat. He needed to find his partner, and he had a good idea where to look.

The strength of John May’s surprisingly handsome features, the straightness of his spine, and the clarity of his eyes commanded immediate attention. Those unfamiliar with his profession would have marked him for a corporate head, a natural leader. He continued to dress fashionably, although it was difficult in a London currently enslaved by cheap Lord John suits with foot-wide lapels, and although his immaculately groomed mane showed a few grey flecks he continued to enjoy the fascinations of his youth, those fascinations being, in no particular order: police investigations, gadgets, women, classic cars, television (all three channels), and science fiction. Members of what were once called The Fair Sex still featured in John May’s life; he would always turn to appreciate an attractive face or figure, and would be flattered to find his attention still reciprocated. The minefield of modern sexual politics lay waiting in the future.

The girl standing behind the multicoloured counter of the Brasilia Coffee House smiled when she saw him enter. ‘If you’re looking for Arthur, he’s back there,’ she told May, pointing to the rear of the steamy café. ‘He’s very moody this morning. It’s about time you did something to cheer him up.’

‘All right—I get the hint.’ He threaded his way to the back of the room.

May’s partner could not have been more unlike himself. Arthur Bryant was three years his senior and considerably more shopworn. Perched on a counter stool, he looked like a jumble sale on a stick. He seemed shrunken within a voluminous ill-fitting raincoat picked out by his landlady; a small balding man with no time for the urgency of the modern world. Bryant was independent to the point of vexation and individual to the level of eccentricity. While his partner embraced the latest police technology, he proudly resisted it. He was a literate and secretive loner, whose mind operated—when it found something worthy of its attention—in tangential leaps that bordered on the surreal.

It should have irritated Bryant that his partner was so gregarious and popular. May was a methodical worker who grounded his cases in thorough research. For all they had in common, their friendship should not have worked at all. They made a rather ridiculous couple, but then, they were little concerned with orthodoxy.

Although they had grown a little more like each other with the passing years, it was the clash of their personalities that remained the key to their success as detectives. Neither man had much regard for the politics of power, and none of their investigations ever followed the official line. They were tolerated because of their success rate in solving serious crimes, and were admired by the younger staffers because they had chosen to remain in the field instead of accepting senior positions. During the part of their week not taken up with teaching, the pair would arrive for work early so that they could filch the most interesting cases from other officers’ files. At least, they had been able to do that until two months ago. Now they were out on their own.

‘Want another?’ May pointed at his partner’s empty coffee cup.

‘I suppose so,’ said Bryant listlessly, unstrangling his scarf. ‘There’s been no sign of my acid-thrower.’

‘Somebody must have seen him leaving the gallery. Sounds as if he was wearing fancy dress. Barking mad, obviously.’

‘That’s the point. I don’t think he was.’ Bryant’s aqueous blue eyes reflected the café lights. ‘He pinpointed a particular painting for destruction. He knew exactly where to find it. The exhibition had only opened the previous week, so he must have visited it earlier to work out his escape route. Perhaps the opportunity didn’t arise for him to inflict damage on his first trip. Also, this was sent up from Forensics.’ Bryant rummaged around in his overcoat and produced a typed note. His sleeves were so long that they covered the ends of his fingers. ‘The acid used was a compound, ethyl chlorocarbonate, chloracetyl chloride, something else they can’t identify—it was constructed to do the maximum amount of damage in the shortest possible time. And it did. The painting isn’t salvageable.’