The Water Room(8)

Longbright knew what that meant: a motley collection of disbarred academics, crackpot historians, alternative therapists, necromancers, anarchists, spirit healers, nightclub doormen, psychics, clairvoyants and street mountebanks, many of whom consorted with known criminals, drafted in on a promise of cash in hand. They were unreliable, expensive and occasionally indispensable.

Kershaw stuck his head around the unpainted door-jamb. ‘The remains of two bodies were taken to Bayham Street Mortuary while you were out,’ he explained in a high, plummy voice that Bryant had grown to hate in less than an hour. ‘One non-caucasian male approximately forty-five to fifty years old, multiple stab wounds to the stomach, the other a caucasian pre-operative transsexual, male to female, approximately nineteen years of age, throat contusions indicative of strangulation, quite chatty in the ambulance but DOA at A&E. Camden Met wants nothing to do with them.’

‘They’re not our cases, surely?’ John May picked up on the conversation as he sauntered in with a folded newspaper under his arm.

‘Where on earth have you been?’ Bryant demanded to know.

Kershaw shrugged. ‘Right here.’

‘Not you. Him.’ Bryant pointed at his partner, who was unfolding the paper and scanning the arts pages as he slipped behind his desk.

‘Anyway, you’re supposed to knock before entering,’ Bryant told Kershaw testily.

‘Not possible, old chap, you haven’t got a door. Do you want to hear about this or not?’

‘I suppose so, and I’m Mr Bryant to you, chum. John, you remember Giles Kershaw, the forensic wallah you promoted for candidature in our happy circle? Does no one introduce themselves properly any more? The French permit themselves the extravagance of kissing one another, surely a simple English handshake is common decency. Where have you been?’

‘Personal business, tell you later,’ smiled May, which meant he had stayed over with a woman, a habit Bryant felt was ridiculous and probably dangerous at his age.

‘They were picked up at around five o’clock this morning in Camden Town, according to the duty sheet,’ explained Kershaw. ‘D’you ever wonder why there are so many murder cases involving transsexuals?’

‘No, why?’ asked Bryant, pulling out desk drawers and rummaging through them noisily.

‘Oh, I don’t know, I just wondered if you’d wondered.’

‘Visible victim status encourages domination and attracts sexual sadists, read your Krafft-Ebing, it’s not brain surgery. These ones were most likely victims of a drunken fight. North London Met is overloaded so they couldn’t wait for a chance to start palming us off with the extra, even though they’re no longer entitled to do so. I’m not working on common fatal assaults, it’s degrading. The key must be around here somewhere.’

‘What have you lost?’ May asked Longbright.

‘Mr Bryant’s rescued another cat.’ She rolled her thickly painted eyes. ‘He was taking it to the vet.’

‘We’ve got to get him free before he runs out of air.’ Bryant turned a drawer over the desk, cascading rubbish everywhere. ‘I’ve christened him Crippen, because we had that ginger tom named Lucan who disappeared after killing a bird.’

‘You’re not good with animals, Arthur. Look what happened to your parrot. That poor carpet-layer was distraught, hammering it flat in the underlay after you told him you couldn’t find your tobacco pouch. How on earth did the cat get shut in a filing cabinet?’

‘I thought he’d be safe there while I went out. I didn’t know the drawer was self-locking.’

‘Raymond’s still in the next room.’ Longbright pointed at the door. Raymond Land was allergic to cats. He had also tripped over Crippen’s litter tray and nearly fallen down the stairs, and had now begun to suspect that the others were hiding something.

‘If he starts sneezing I’ll tell him it’s the fresh paint,’ Bryant promised. He had discovered the tiny black and white stray dumped inside a bin-bag on Camden’s Chalcot Road at the weekend, and had brought it to work inside his jacket with the intention of overcoming its apprehensions about the cruelty of humans. Unfortunately, Crippen’s worst fears had now been confirmed. To add to the confusion, two men had arrived with a photocopier, and had started unpacking it in the middle of the floor, trapping everyone at the edges of the room, and now they were all getting wet paint on their clothes. From inside Bryant’s filing cabinet came a high feline whine.

‘Any tea going?’ asked John May, throwing his overcoat into a corner. ‘Did your doctor give you the all-clear after that crack on the nut?’