Reading Online Novel

The Memory of Blood(65)



‘I don’t think that would be a good idea. They may not like being studied,’ said Alma. ‘Let’s see what the neighbours are like first.’

‘When does all this happen?’

‘The removal van is arriving on Monday. Don’t worry, everything will be taken care of. The flat has just been painted for us. I’ll write down the address for you and give you a set of keys.’

‘What would I do without you, Alma?’

‘You’d be thinner, for a start. It’s a bit late to get sentimental. You do your work and I’ll do mine.’ She began pouring fresh tea.

‘What is your work?’

‘Why, looking after you, of course.’ She gave a shrug. ‘It’s a disgusting job but somebody has to do it.’



London experiences most of its foggy mornings in May and October, but on Friday morning John May stepped out onto his balcony on the fourth floor of the converted warehouse at Shad Thames to find a cool grey mist eddying over the still green surface of the river. Near the shore, a police patrol boat nosed a corridor through the vapour like an icebreaker. Seagulls dropped and wheeled from the milky sky, reminding those below that they lived on an island in a cold grey sea.

He missed Brigitte. She was hardly bothering to return his emails and phone calls. He knew that her job at the Paris Tourist Board required her to attend a great number of social events, and felt sure that she was meeting younger, more eligible men who possessed the added benefit of being born Parisians. Here he was on the wrong side of the Channel, fooling himself into thinking that a glamorous French divorcée still preferred to be with him. Men are worse than women when it comes to worrying about their own attractiveness, he thought glumly. I’m old, it’s as simple as that, and I’m going to be alone. Other people learn to manage. I’ve always put my career before my relationships. Perhaps I’m like Robert Kramer in that respect. And I’d better learn to deal with it, because it won’t get any easier.

He ground fresh coffee beans—a breakfast ritual he had developed after seeing Michael Caine do it in The Ipcress File—then chose a new arctic-white shirt and a ribbed grey silk tie, because looking smart at least made him feel younger. He envied Arthur because his partner had obviously not looked in a mirror since the year of the Coronation and seemed entirely happy in his own rumpled skin. Vanity is a form of self-harm, he decided, slipping into his black suit jacket. It’s time to concentrate on something more important.

Lucy Clementine’s testimony against her old boss bothered him. She had clearly meant it as a condemnation, but why? What had she to gain now, when she no longer worked for him? Ms Clementine had turned up too conveniently. It felt as if someone was pushing Kramer at them and making sure they stayed on target.

The more he thought about the detestable Robert Kramer, the more he seemed to be a victim. It was a gut instinct born from years of experience. Every investigation reveals a worm in the bud, May thought, and you often end up hating the people you’re meant to defend, and vice versa. I really should talk to Arthur about my mixed feelings.

As he came out of the building, he found Arthur Bryant sitting on a traffic bollard opposite his front door. He had his hat pulled down over his ears, and was dipping a Mars Bar in a polystyrene cup of tea. ‘Ah, I was wondering how long it would take for you to finish your ablutions,’ he said, dunking the last of his chocolate. Bryant had a habit of appearing when May was thinking about him, as if he had been psychically summoned.

‘I didn’t know you were outside. You could have come up.’

‘No, I was having a plate of pork sausages over the road at your transport caff. I wanted to get an early start but something’s gone wrong with Victor’s carburettor. I thought we’d take your BMW.’

‘Fine by me. Where are we going?’

‘I need you with me, but I don’t want you to get annoyed again.’

‘Why do you think it will annoy me?’

‘Trust me, it will. We’re going to play with dolls. I’ve arranged an appointment at Pollock’s Toy Museum in Whitfield Street.’

‘So long as it brings us nearer to catching a killer, I’m all yours,’ May said magnanimously, digging out his car keys.



‘How did you get on with your contact?’ asked Bryant as they turned into Charlotte Street.

‘Interesting. Lucy Clementine worked for Kramer and hates him enough to suggest that he killed his wife’s child.’

‘Yes, I rather thought she might,’ said Bryant, burying himself deeper into his coat.

‘What do you mean?’