The Memory of Blood(95)

Then he punched her in the side of the head.

The disc jumped out of her hand and rolled across the wet grass. She felt herself blacking out. Without even climbing from her he was able to reach back and seize the disc. As he concentrated on slipping it into his zipped pocket, she brought up her elbow and smashed his nose.

Turning his attention back to her, he punched her hard in the solar plexus. Longbright vomited into the lawn, the pain burning across her rib cage. He was astride her now, studying her. Wiping his bloody nose, he raised a fist over her face and brought it down.

She shut her eyes hard, readying herself for the blow, knowing he would shatter bone.

But nothing happened.

There was a dull thud, and she felt his weight suddenly ease from her. When she opened her eyes, she saw Mrs Marquand standing beside them with a brightly painted concrete gnome in her hands. There was blood dripping from its pink hat.

Longbright’s attacker was out cold. Blood oozed thickly from a cut on the back of his head. She shoved him aside with difficulty and dug her hand into his padded black nylon jacket.

‘That’s not one of the Hagans.’ Mrs Marquand set down the gnome. ‘I don’t know who he is.’

Longbright found the CD, but nothing more. He was carrying no wallet, no personal belongings of any kind. She tried his outer pockets and his trousers, her fingers closing around a slender slip of paper in his back pocket. As she rose with it, the garden swam before her. The side of her head was already starting to swell and there was a searing pain in her stomach. Mrs Marquand held out her arm and helped Longbright inside. Longbright knew she had to make a call to ensure that the intruder was taken into custody, but she needed to sit down for a moment—just thirty seconds, to get her wind back.

Helped to the lounge sofa, she fell into soft cushions and closed her eyes. She awoke nearly ten minutes later. Mrs Marquand had locked the back door and was standing behind it.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Longbright, puzzled.

‘He just got up,’ she whispered, peering out. ‘I thought I’d killed him.’

Longbright looked through the lounge window and saw the empty patch of grass where her attacker had lain. The garden gate hung open. She unlocked the door and ran outside, but the alley beyond the garden was already empty.

Remembering the slip of paper she had taken from him, she pulled it from her jeans and read it. Her heart sank.

Most modern offices in Whitehall operated on electronic swipe cards which had to be returned after you had visited the building, but a few of the older departments still used visitor slips. You signed yourself in, adding the time, date and the name of the person you were visiting, and were meant to return the slip as you left, but most people forgot to do so.

The white slip had a government crest on it. Underneath was a name: Mr T Maddox, timed in at 7:45 P.M. a week ago, at the Department of Internal Security, Home Office, 50 Queen Anne’s Gate, London SW1.

Next to the box that read ‘Person Visiting,’ the receptionist had written Oskar Kasavian.





‘You cannot throw a cocktail party for a bunch of murder suspects and charge it to the Unit!’ Raymond Land shouted, outraged. ‘In all my time serving at this lunatic asylum, this is the stupidest idea I’ve come across, even worse than that suspect lineup you held on the Somerset House ice-skating rink.’

‘I was thinking we’d serve Bloody Marys,’ said Bryant, not listening. ‘And little sausages on sticks. Mini-burgers are always popular.’

‘Could we have some decent Indian snacks?’ asked Meera.

‘And chicken wings with barbecue sauce,’ Bimsley added.

Land shut his eyes and held up his hands for silence. ‘For the last time. We are not. Having. A. Party!’

‘There’s a little more to it than that,’ said May. ‘We’re going to tell the invited guests that we’ve made an arrest. They’ll think the pressure is off and they’ll drop their guard.’

‘Who are you going to palm off as the arrestee?’

‘An outsider. An unfamiliar name. We’re going to make the killer think we’ve been misled. Arthur has the whole thing planned.’

‘I know it sounds completely crazy but just listen to him,’ Banbury suggested.

‘Nobody’s going to know we’re behind this,’ said Bryant. ‘If you agree, Ray Pryce will help us rig the whole thing up, script the event with exits and entrances. Nobody would dare stay away. The show closes without Robert’s company funding it, and it’s the last time they’ll all be together. After this, they’ll be going their separate ways. It’s traditional to end a run with a farewell party. The timing’s perfect.’