Bryant And May On The Loose - A Peculiar Crimes Unit Mystery Part 27

So there had been no Roman battle here. No mystical link to ancient G.o.ds. No pagan retribution. Just human greed and cruelty.

You should have seen that, he thought bitterly. You should have been an academic, not a detective. All that time spent attempting to convince everyone of the mythologies that surround you. How can we ever really know anything about the past? They talk about 'the lie of the land'-well, this land is filled with lies. Even our own memories can't be trusted You should have been an academic, not a detective. All that time spent attempting to convince everyone of the mythologies that surround you. How can we ever really know anything about the past? They talk about 'the lie of the land'-well, this land is filled with lies. Even our own memories can't be trusted.

He wiped at a rheumy blue eye as the rain swam on the window. I will never again make this mistake I will never again make this mistake, he swore. I will spend the time I have left hunting you down, Mr Fox, and I will kill you I will spend the time I have left hunting you down, Mr Fox, and I will kill you.

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The Old Warehouse 231 Caledonian Road London N1 9RCTHIS BUILDING IS NOW OCCUPIED BY THE PECULIAR CRIMES UNIT UNTIL FURTHER NOTIFICATION FROM THE HOME OFFICE STAFF ROSTER: MONDAY Raymond Land, Acting Temporary Unit Chief Arthur Bryant, Senior Detective John May, Senior Detective Janice Longbright, Detective Sergeant Dan Banbury, Crime Scene Manager/InfoTech Jack Renfield, Desk Sergeant Meera Mangeshkar, Detective Constable Colin Bimsley, Detective Constable Giles Kershaw, Forensic Pathology Crippen, staff cat

STAFF BULLETIN BOARD

Clipping from the Police Review: Police Review: 'King's Cross Executioner' kills PC, escapes custody A hired killer who left his beheaded victims on building sites in the King's Cross area would have fatally undermined public confidence in the multimillion-pound project to reinvigorate the former red-light area if he had not been identified, said an official Home Office report last week.

However, the report went on to castigate the unit bosses for failing to provide adequate security checks at its temporary headquarters, an oversight which resulted in the escape of the suspect.

The investigation had been conducted by London's Peculiar Crimes Unit, a little-known police division created in 1940 to handle serious crimes that could be considered a threat to public order and confidence. As a secret wartime department, the PCU was allowed to develop many innovative (and questionable) investigative techniques. In the 1950s the unit fell under the jurisdiction of the Metro politan Police. Later, it was absorbed into the British Military Intelligence department MI7 to handle cases involving domestic and foreign propaganda. In the last few months, the PCU has found itself increasingly mired in controversy after being placed under Home Office jurisdiction, and the principles upon which it was founded have been called into question.

Ministers accused the management team of failing to follow accepted procedural guidelines. But the PCU's senior detectives, Arthur Bryant and John May, remained determined to operate on the London streets using investigation techniques that had been refused approval by present-day government officials. As a result, they successfully brought in a suspect known only as 'Mr Fox,' a hired killer who admitted carrying out the King's Cross murders for financial gain.

However, what should have been a cause for celebration turned to tragedy after 'Mr Fox' succeeded in breaking out of the unit's holding cell and stabbing the officer on duty to death. PC Liberty DuCaine lost his life after being attacked by the accused, who then escaped police custody. To date, the killer has not been recaptured.

Despite their exoneration by an independent judicial body, the PCU's future is looking less secure than ever before in its contentious history.

From the Desk of Raymond Land:

Is it necessary to remind staff NOT to provide the press with information about the escape of the so-called 'King's Cross Executioner'? We don't want to give tabloid hacks a reason to go through our dustbins for the next six months. DON'T SPEAK TO ANYONE. If you're in any doubt, talk to me first.

A word of warning about PC Liberty DuCaine's funeral; his family don't want any of you lot going anywhere near them this morning. They already had the mayor creeping round for a photo op, and sent him away with a flea in his ear. Send flowers if you want, but stay away from the service.

Further, the resignation of our Liaison Officer, April May, from the Unit is effective immediately, for health reasons. Following the recurrence of her agoraphobia, April is planning to spend some time with her uncle in Toronto. I'm sure you all join me in wis.h.i.+ng her well for the future. I thought we should have a whip-round and collect enough money to get her something nice. By the way, when April said she'd like a gift voucher for a couple of hours in a flotation tank she was, in fact, joking.

As of this morning we now have fully functional computers and phones. You have John May to thank for this. I don't know how he did it. No-one tells me anything.

Older members of the PCU will recall a pair of utterly useless workmen who sat in our former offices at Mornington Crescent for months, brewing endless pots of tea instead of getting on with their work. You'll be thrilled to know that another pair of layabouts, two Turkish gentlemen both called Dave, will be arriving today to restore the electrics, woodwork and plumbing, while no doubt offering unsought-for advice on the policing of the capital. Don't complain; their estimate for the repair came in a lot lower than anyone else's. I daresay we'll find out why in due course.

By the way, there's a hole in the floor in Mr Bryant's office. Don't go near it.

If anyone sees Crippen can you please b.u.t.ter his paws before letting him out? We don't want him getting lost in this neighbourhood. He's put on a bit of weight lately, and there are a couple of dodgy kebab shops on the Caledonian Road that look like they could use the meat.

1

A PRIVATE F FEUD CONFIDENTIAL FROM: THE DESK OF LESLIE FARADAY HOME OFFICE SENIOR POLICE LIAISON TO: RAYMOND LAND ACTING TEMPORARY HEAD PECULIAR CRIMES UNIT

Dear Raymond,With regard to your apprehension of the hired a.s.sa.s.sin operating in the King's Cross area, this so-called 'King's Cross Executioner' chap, thank you for acting so quickly on the matter, although it's a pity he subsequently managed to give you the slip. I had a bit of trouble opening your report because, frankly, computers have never been my strong point, but the new girl in our office seems to understand these things and printed out a copy for me.Following the judicial review we decided to sc.r.a.p the idea of holding a press conference, but we're speaking to our key contacts today, so we'll have some idea of the headlines likely to run in tomorrow's papers. Always talk to the press, I say, even when you've got nothing to tell them. We're hoping that a bit of publicity might flush him out. I'm trying to discourage sensational references to his nickname, without much luck, I'm sorry to say, but when a little boy finds a human head while fis.h.i.+ng for eels in a ca.n.a.l, you can expect the press to react strongly.I have pa.s.sed your conclusions on to my superior and other concerned department heads, and will return with their reactions in due course. I also have to acknowledge the receipt of an additional report on this case from one of your senior detectives, Arthur Bryant, although I must admit I was only able to read portions of this doc.u.ment as Bryant's handwriting was extremely small and barely legible, and pages 23 through 31 had some kind of curry sauce spilled over them. Furthermore his account is opinionated and anecdotal in the extreme, and on several occasions, positively offensive. Could you have a word with him about this?Naturally we are all sorry to hear about what happened. It is always with great sadness that one hears of a police officer's demise in the course of his duty, especially in this case, when the officer in question was so highly regarded, and with such a bright future ahead of him.Although the tribunal was reasonably satisfied that no member of the Peculiar Crimes Unit could be held responsible for the unforeseen events occurring on your premises, we do not feel that full autonomy can be returned to the unit until a series of regulatory safeguards have been put in place to ensure that the impossibility of such an incident- 'Oh, for G.o.d's sake get on with it!' Arthur Bryant complained at the page, balling it up and disdainfully throwing it over his shoulder as he skipped to the final sheet. He had filched the report from Raymond Land's mailbox and was vetting it before the acting chief arrived for work. 'Let's see-"inadequate safeguards" yadda yadda yadda yadda yadda yadda "irregular procedures" "irregular procedures" yadda yadda yadda yadda "unnecessary risk factors," all predictable stuff. Ah, here's the bit I was expecting-"because the perpetrator of these crimes was allowed to escape and is still at large, he remains a potential menace to society. Therefore we cannot consider fully reinstating the PCU until he is apprehended." In other words, catch him but don't expect us to help you with additional resources. b.l.o.o.d.y typical. Oh, listen, you'll like this bit. "Due to the financial reorganisation of the Home Office's outsourced operations units, you have until the end of the week (Sat.u.r.day at six p.m.) to conclude this and any other unfinished investigations in order to qualify for annual funding." So he wants us to achieve the impossible in one week or he and his ghastly boss Oskar Kasavian will cut us off without a penny. "Your Obedient Servant, Leslie Faraday." Who signs their letters like that anymore? Anyway, he's not our Obedient Servant, but I suppose he couldn't sign it Sad Porky Timeserver or Snivelling Little Rodent.' "unnecessary risk factors," all predictable stuff. Ah, here's the bit I was expecting-"because the perpetrator of these crimes was allowed to escape and is still at large, he remains a potential menace to society. Therefore we cannot consider fully reinstating the PCU until he is apprehended." In other words, catch him but don't expect us to help you with additional resources. b.l.o.o.d.y typical. Oh, listen, you'll like this bit. "Due to the financial reorganisation of the Home Office's outsourced operations units, you have until the end of the week (Sat.u.r.day at six p.m.) to conclude this and any other unfinished investigations in order to qualify for annual funding." So he wants us to achieve the impossible in one week or he and his ghastly boss Oskar Kasavian will cut us off without a penny. "Your Obedient Servant, Leslie Faraday." Who signs their letters like that anymore? Anyway, he's not our Obedient Servant, but I suppose he couldn't sign it Sad Porky Timeserver or Snivelling Little Rodent.'

With increasing age, the grace notes of temperance, balance, harmony and gentility are supposed to appear in the human heart. This was not entirely true, however, in Arthur Bryant's case. He remained acidulous, stubborn, insensitive and opinionated. In addition, he was getting ruder by the day, as the byzantine workings of the British Home Office sucked away his enthusiasm for collaring killers.

Bryant started to crumple up the rest of the memo, then remembered he wasn't supposed to have seen it, and flattened it out imperfectly. He fished the other pages out of the bin, but now they were smeared with the remains of last night's fish and chips.

'I don't know why you get so het up, Arthur. What did you honestly expect?' John May carefully pinched his smart pin-striped trousers at the knee and bent to give him a hand picking up the pages. 'A man kills three times, is arrested by us, breaks out of a locked cell, stabs a police officer in the neck and vanishes. We were hardly going to be rewarded for our efforts.'

'What about the innocent people we protected? The deaths we prevented?' Bryant demanded, appalled.

'I think they're happier counting the millions of pounds we saved them.' May rose, twisted his chair and flopped down, stretching himself into a six-foot line. 'Just think of all the companies that would have pulled out if we hadn't been able to secure the area.'

'What a case for my memoirs,' Bryant muttered. 'Three mutilated bodies found on the mean streets of King's Cross. Murders committed solely for financial gain by a slippery, adaptable thief who's grown up in the area around the terminus, a small-time crook propelled to the status of murderer when a robbery went wrong. You know what's happened, don't you? For the first time in his life this Mr Fox has been made to feel important. The escalation of his criminal status, from burglar to hired killer, has increased his determination to stay free.'

There was a darkness at the heart of this chameleon-like killer that the members of the Peculiar Crimes Unit had underestimated. For a while it had felt as if gang war was breaking out in the area, but by getting to the root of the crimes, the detectives had managed to soothe public fears and rea.s.sure investors that the newly developing region was still open for business. In the process, however, they had lost an officer, and had been unable to stop their quarry from escaping back into the faceless crowds.

Bryant pottered over to the sooty, rain-streaked window and tapped it. 'He's still out there somewhere,' he warned, 'and now he'll do one of two things. Having had his fingers badly burned, he'll either vanish completely, never to be seen again, or he'll returneth like a dog to vomit, just to taunt me further. Proverbs chapter twenty-six, verse eleven.'

'I don't understand,' said May. 'Why are you taking this so personally?'

'Because I'm the one he's after. DuCaine just got in the way.' Bryant had never exhibited much empathy with his co-workers, but this struck May as callous even by his standards.

'Liberty DuCaine's parents have just lost a son, Arthur, so perhaps you could keep such thoughts to yourself. Don't turn this into a private feud. It concerns all of us.' May rose and left the room in annoyance.

Bryant was sorry that the lad had died-of course he was upset-but nothing could bring DuCaine back now, and the only way they could truly restore order was by catching the man responsible for his murder. With a sigh he popped open his tobacco tin and stuffed a pipe with 'Old Arabia' Navy Rough-Cut Aromatic s.h.a.g. His gut told him that Mr Fox would quickly resurface, not because the killer had any romantic longing to be stopped, but because his rage would make him careless. His sense of respect had been compromised, and he was determined to make the police pay for cornering him.

I'll get you, sonny, Bryant thought, because I owe it not just to DuCaine, but to every innocent man, woman and child out there who could become another of your statistics. You'll turn up again, soon enough. You've tasted blood now. The need to let others see how big you've grown will drive you back out into the light. When that happens, I'll have you because I owe it not just to DuCaine, but to every innocent man, woman and child out there who could become another of your statistics. You'll turn up again, soon enough. You've tasted blood now. The need to let others see how big you've grown will drive you back out into the light. When that happens, I'll have you.

Unfortunately, Bryant tried to avoid reminding himself, it would need to happen this week.

2

Ch.o.r.eOGRAPHY

DC Colin Bimsley and DC Meera Mangeshkar were watching the train station. They had no idea what their suspect might look like, or any reason to a.s.sume he would appear suddenly before them on the concourse. But Mr Fox knew his terrain well and rarely left it, so there was a chance that even now he might be wandering through the Monday morning commuters. And as the St Pancras International surveillance team was more concerned with watching for terrorist suspects after a weekend of worrying intelligence, it fell to the two detective constables to keep an eye out for their man. At least it was warm and dry under the great gla.s.s canopy.

Each circuit of the huge double-tiered terminus took half an hour. Bimsley and Mangeshkar wore jeans and matching black nylon jackets with badges, the closest anyone at the PCU could come to an official uniform, but Bimsley was a foot taller than his partner, and they made an incongruous pair.

'Down there.' Meera pointed, leaning over the bal.u.s.trade. 'That's the third time he's crossed between the bookshop and the florist.'

'You can't arrest someone for browsing,' Bimsley replied. 'Do you want to go and look?'

'It's worth checking out.' Meera led the way to the stairs. Colin checked his watch: 8:55 a.m. The Eurostar was offloading pa.s.sengers from Brussels and Paris, the national rail services brought hordes of commuters from the Midlands and the north, the tubes were disgorging suburbanites and reconnecting them to overland services. Charity workers were stopping pa.s.sers-by; others were handing out free newspapers, packets of tissues and bottles of water; a sales team was attempting to sell credit services; the shops on the ground-floor concourse were all open for business-and there was a French cheese fair; tricolour stalls had been set out down the centre of the covered walkway. Travellers seemed adept at negotiating these obstacles while furling their wet umbrellas and manhandling their cases through the crowds. Was a murderer moving among them?

'There he goes again,' said Meera.

'You're right, he just bought a newspaper and a doughnut, let's nick him. Uh-oh, look out, he's stopped by the florist. I'll make a note of that; considering the purchase of carnations. Definitely dodgy.'

'Suppose it's Mr Fox and you just let him walk away?'

'You want to call it? I mean, if we're going to start stop-and-search procedures down here, we'd better have some clearly defined criteria.'

'You can come up with something later-let's take him.' Meera paced up through the crowd, then stopped by the French market, puzzled, looking back. 'Colin?'

'What's the matter?'

'Something weird.' She pointed to the far side of the concourse. There half a dozen teenagers had suddenly stopped and s.p.a.ced themselves six feet apart from one another. Bimsley shrugged and pointed to the other wall, where the same thing was happening. 'What's going on?' Meera asked.

All around them, people were freezing in their tracks and slowly turning.

'They're all wearing phone earpieces,' Meera pointed out.

Now almost everyone in the centre of the station was standing still and facing front. Beneath the station clock, two young men in grey hooded sweats.h.i.+rts set an old-fas.h.i.+oned ghetto blaster on a cafe table and hit 'Play.'

As the first notes of 'Rehab' by Amy Winehouse blasted out, the two young men raised their right arms and spun in tight circles. Everyone on the concourse copied them. The ch.o.r.eography had been rehea.r.s.ed online until it was perfect. The station had suddenly become a dance floor.

'It's a flash mob,' Meera called wearily. The Internet phenomenon had popularised the craze for virally organised ma.s.s dancing in public places, but she had a.s.sumed it had fallen out of fas.h.i.+on a couple of years ago.

'I took part in a flash-freeze in Victoria Station once,' Bimsley told her, watching happily. 'Four hundred of us pretending to be statues. It's just a bit of harmless fun.'

'Well, our man's using it to cover his escape.'

'Meera, he's not our man our man, he's just a guy buying a newspaper and catching a train.'

But the diminutive DC did not hear. She was already running across the concourse, weaving a path between the performers. The song could be heard bleeding from hundreds of earpieces as the entire station danced. The tune hit its chorus-they tried to make me go to rehab, but I said no, no, no-and the ch.o.r.eography grew more complex. Colin could no longer see who Meera was chasing. Even the transport police were standing back and watching the dancers with smiles on their faces.

As the song reached its conclusion there was a concerted burst of leaping and twirling. Then, just as if the music had never played, everyone went back to the business of the day, catching trains and heading to the office. Meera was glaring at Colin through the crowds, furious to find that her target had disappeared. But just as Meera started walking toward Colin, someone grabbed at his shoulder.

Colin turned to find himself facing a portly, florid-faced businessman who was slapping the pockets of his jacket and shouting incoherently. 'Hey, calm down, tell me the problem,' Bimsley advised.

'You are police, yes?' screeched the man. 'I have been robbed. Just now. I was crossing station and this stupid dancing begins, and I stop to watch because I cannot cross, you know, and my bag is taken right from my hand.'

'Do we look like police?' Colin asked Meera via his headset.

Her derisive snort crackled back. 'What else could you be?'

'Did you see who took it?' Bimsley asked the businessman. 'What was the bag like?'

'Of course I did not see! You think I talk to you if I see? I would stop him! Is bag, black leather bag, is all. I am Turkish Cypriot, on my way to Paris. The receipts are in my bag.'

'What receipts?'

'My restaurants! Six restaurants! All the money is in cash.'

'How much?'

'You think I have time to count it? This is not my job. Maybe sixty thousand, maybe seventy thousand pounds.'

'Wait a minute,' said Bimsley, 'you're telling me you were carrying over sixty thousand on you-in cash?'

'Of course is cash. I always do this on same Monday every month.'

'Always the same day?' Bimsley was incredulous. How could anyone be so stupid?

'Yes, and is perfectly safe because no-one knows I carry this money, how could they?'

'Well, what about somebody from one of your restaurants?'

'You tell me I should not trust my own countrymen? My own flesh and blood? Is always safe and I have no trouble, is routine, is what I always do. But today the music start up and everybody dance and someone s.n.a.t.c.h the bag from me. Look.' The irate businessman held up his left wrist. Dangling from it was a length of plastic cable, snipped neatly through. 'I want to know what you will do about this,' the man shouted, waving his hairy wrist in Bimsley's perplexed face. 'You must get me back my money!'

Meera came back to his side. 'What's going on?' she asked.

'Nothing,' Colin said, sighing. 'Just another b.l.o.o.d.y Monday morning in King's Cross.'

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