The Memory of Blood(88)

All of the rooms had been emptied except for one part of the lounge, which now looked like the stage set for a Fringe production of Death of a Salesman. Seating himself in the only remaining armchair, he watched in silence as Alma trotted in and placed a tray of haddock and poached eggs before him.

‘You’re a very strange woman, you know,’ he told her. ‘So self-sufficient. What do you get out of it?’

‘I’m a good Christian, Mr Bryant. I believe if you help people in this life, it will do you good in the next.’

‘Apart from the fact that that’s Buddhism, you’re telling me you’re just paying in good deeds, like having a bank account, so that you can make a withdrawal in the future.’

She folded her arms and regarded him with an assessing gaze. ‘You don’t understand and never did. People go to work and come home and think that’s it, that’s all the good they can do, but it’s just the start. There are real sins in the world, Mr Bryant—you know enough about those. I try to make up for some of them, in my own small way. I have my church work, and I know you do good even though you have a funny way of going about it, so I look after you.’

‘Then let me ask you something,’ said Bryant. ‘What do you consider to be man’s greatest sin?’

‘That’s easy. The sin of pride. It’s the tricky one, it keeps on changing form. But if you took your nose out of your books for a minute and looked at what’s happening to the country, you’d see all these silly kids around you, thinking they’re going to become celebrities when they have nothing to offer the world. When I was a little girl me and my sisters wanted to be doctors and nurses, explorers, teachers. We wanted to give something, to do our duty, not to be idolized for doing nothing.’

‘Surely that’s just overconfidence,’ said Bryant.

‘It’s another name for pride. It’s when a man thinks he’s greater than God. Like this man Robert Kramer.’

‘What do you know about him?’ asked Bryant in surprise.

‘I read the papers. I’ve heard you talk. Not even showing remorse for his dead son. That’s what a man like him needs to lose, his pride. But it’s the one thing he’ll never give up.’

Bryant’s blue eyes widened at her. ‘Alma, you never cease to amaze me,’ he said. ‘I think you’ve just helped me to understand our killer.’

‘Well, thank the Lord for that,’ she said. ‘Eat your haddock. And give me that scarf for the wash, it’s filthy.’



John May had given up trying to get hold of Brigitte in Paris, and was just about to go to bed when Bryant rang.

‘I think we’ve got it around the wrong way,’ Bryant told him without any preamble. ‘We should have been studying the victim, not the perpetrator. We need to catch him by surprise, tear him apart and look inside, understand what makes him tick. I asked myself: What must Kramer be made to lose? What does the killer most want to take away from him? And Alma came up with the answer. His pride. That’s what he’s after. Mr Punch, the ruler of his own world, needs to be taken down from his pedestal and made to beg for mercy. Nothing the killer has done so far has worked. So what will he do next?’

‘Go after Kramer himself,’ said May, completing the thought.

‘Exactly. I should have thought of it earlier but I got distracted by Gail Strong’s so-called disappearance. I’m sending Colin and Meera over to Northumberland Avenue right now. By the way, Dan was right about Ms Strong. She checked into a boutique hotel in Devon using a credit card to secure her room. She didn’t think they were taking a payment, but they ran a check and it flagged. Not a smart move. Devon police are going to keep an eye on her.’

‘So what do you and I do?’

‘Get a few hours’ sleep,’ said Bryant. ‘We’re going to need it.’



Meera parked her Kawasaki under the bridge at the Embankment and walked to Northumberland Avenue with Colin. Rain was just starting to gloss the road ahead and speckle the roofs of passing taxis. Many of the streets around Trafalgar Square were now awash with neon, but this road had retained its dark, deserted look. ‘Where do you want to locate?’ she asked. ‘I’m not sitting in a shop doorway watching you eat pad Thai from a box.’

‘I don’t see we have much choice,’ Bimsley replied. ‘The offices opposite Kramer’s gaff are closed for the night and the nearest café is down there under Charing Cross Bridge. We won’t be able to keep an eye on the apartment from that far away.’