‘Far from what I’ve heard, but we’ll let that pass. Imagine how much you’d worry for her safety, then magnify that a million times across the country – you see my point? When nobody feels protected, the economy simply starts to unravel. Look at the terrible side effects of past bombing campaigns against civilians. The public house is virtually the country’s last unassailable place, now that so many churches lock their doors. For hundreds of years it has occupied a unique position in our culture. What’s the one thing every pub is supposed to have?’
‘I don’t know.’ Land scratched his chin. ‘At least two brands of bad lager?’
‘A welcoming hearth created by centuries of tradition. Wasn’t it Hilaire Belloc who once said, “When you have lost your inns drown your empty selves, for you will have lost the last of England”?’
Land looked back blankly and shrugged.
‘Pubs tend to stay constant because they’re rebuilt on the same plot of land. The extraordinary thing is that brewers don’t keep historical information on their own properties, so histories often only exist in the form of handed-down anecdotes. That’s why pubs are different to any other type of building around us. The public houses of London are its keystones. Good Lord, the Romans brought them here two thousand years ago and put vine leaves outside to advertise their wares, no wonder they occupy such an important—’
‘Look here, Bryant, don’t give me one of your historical lectures on the subject of beer. I’m interested in catching a criminal, nothing else.’
‘But that’s my point, vieux haricot, you can’t catch the criminal if you don’t understand his milieu.’
‘Yes, you can,’ said Land, irritated. ‘You can catch him by bringing in the victims’ relatives and shouting at them in a windowless room for a few hours. And don’t throw words like “milieu” at me. Renfield’s going to be a breath of fresh air in this place. He won’t stand for any of this nonsense, I can tell you. He’s out there right now, tracking down contacts and conducting doorstep interviews. He grills people, makes the innocent feel miserable and uncomfortable until they provide him with accidental information.’
‘General Pinochet did that, it’s called torture and has nothing to do with police duties.’
‘Listen, I know foot-slogging has become unfashionable, I know it’s all computers and DNA matches now, but sometimes a bit of shoe leather and the odd threat of a slap is needed, and this is one of those times.’
‘After all these years, you still don’t understand how we operate, do you?’ said Bryant. ‘It’s a complete mystery to you, isn’t it?’
‘Well no, not exactly,’ stalled Land. ‘I know you use various undesirables to give you information and that you wander off the beaten track a lot, that you won’t stick to established procedures and once threw a sheep carcass out of the window of your old office at Bow Street to measure skull fractures. I know your methods are obscure, unsavoury and probably illegal, but somehow you seem to get the job done. But I don’t know . . .’ Land looked up and realized he was talking to himself. ‘Where are you going?’
Bryant was attempting to pull a gabardine raincoat over a broad-stitched fisherman’s sweater. ‘To Mrs Mandeville’s memory-improvement class,’ he explained. ‘I’d forgotten all about it. Later, I shall be employing a detection process photographers refer to as Methodical Anticipation. In this case it means catching the killer before he strikes again. I wrote a pamphlet on the subject in 1968. A casual browse through it may enlighten you.’
‘Arthur, please.’ Land felt uncomfortable using Bryant’s first name, but was desperate. ‘If you have anything at all that might constitute a lead, tell me. Whitehall is breathing down my neck. They’re going to hang me out to dry.’
‘All right. Ask yourself why all three victims were found without their mobile phones. We’re waiting on their call records, but I think we’ll find the killer has a rather novel method of contacting his victims, using each phone’s address book to send a text message to the next victim in a sort of round-robin. Which means, of course, that all the victims knew each other. And the fact that Jocelyn Roquesby was found without her mobile suggests that he’s going to do it again. Cheerio.’
Janice Longbright alighted on the Holloway Road and began checking the shop fronts. Mrs Roquesby’s daughter Eleanor lived above a Thai takeaway, in a small flat that bore the marks of serial occupation. Hardly a room was finished; wallpaper ran out, rollered paint-marks fell short of the ceiling, units were missing doors, floorboards appeared beyond remnants of carpet. There was an overwhelming tang of damp in the air.