White Corridor Part 19

Owen gave her a crooked smile. 'It was a knife wound.'

'Who did it?'

'n.o.body you know.'

Getting answers from the boy was like pulling teeth once more. In the peculiar manner of most of the kids living around this estate, he had answered her questions without explaining a single thing. Longbright checked her watch and saw that it was three-fifteen P.M P.M., which left just one and three quarter hours before the slow-motion car crash of the unit's destruction concluded. More frustrated than angry, she rose and left Mills to his grief and his photographs.

Crossing the sleet-slick paths of the estate, she tried to shake the feeling that she had been tricked. Somehow, Mills had told her everything she needed to know while simultaneously hiding the truth in plain sight.

44

IN THE DRIFTS A grey veil of rain descended over the grime-crusted gas lamps of Old Montague Street, where the 'light of heaven' brought safety to the pavements Saucy Jack had walked only fifty years earlier.

The rolling amber fogs that dripped down walls and slicked the cobbles were pierced with fiery mantles that burned until the break of dawn, when daylight dissipated the miasma. Another fifty years pa.s.sed, and now the wrecking b.a.l.l.s swung into row after row of mean terraced houses with a c.h.i.n.k and clatter of brick and mortar, tearing down Durward Street, Buck's Row, Hanbury Street, blasting so much brightness into the dark canyons that no shred of London's shape-s.h.i.+fting history remained. Now there was only the roar and glare of the approaching future...

Arthur Bryant awoke with a start, wondering where he was.

In 1930, his father had photographed the spot where 'Polly' Nichols had fallen with her throat slit open from ear to ear. He had kept the little sepia print of the dingy kerbstone in his trouser pocket, using it to frighten young Arthur whenever he was bad. Reeking sourly of stout, his father had staggered from The Ten Bells in Commercial Street, the public house where Mary Kelly had ordered her final drink, and collapsed into the road, where he was found dead by his terrified son....

Why had Bryant dreamed of such a thing now? Nothing in the past could truly be repaired. Remembrance of his father only came when the cold hand of his own mortality pressed upon him. Disoriented, he s.h.i.+vered and tightened the collar of his coat.

He knew it was dangerous to fall asleep, but increasingly his body was defending itself by pulling the plug on his consciousness. A freezing draught was coming from somewhere behind him. Freshly fallen snow had darkened the windscreen of the van, coc.o.o.ning the cabin. It was like being trapped inside an icy pillowcase.

Bryant checked his watch and realised that his partner had been gone for over an hour. May had called to say he was returning...surely he should have arrived by now?

He twisted in his seat and pulled back the curtain to see if Madeline was awake. The rear door had been opened; he could see snow drifting through the gap. There was no sign of mother or child, and several props had been overturned. The remains of a plaster vase lay smashed on the floor of the van, and a Hieronymus Bosch backdrop had split where it had fallen, imps and devils let loose to spread chaos in corners.

No, he thought, he thought, you idiot old man! you idiot old man! He tried ringing May but there was no answer. Checking his own mobile, he saw that there were three missed calls, one from May, two from Longbright. He tried ringing May but there was no answer. Checking his own mobile, he saw that there were three missed calls, one from May, two from Longbright.

The clearing sky placed Madeline in danger. Johann could act without fear of guilt, for his corridor to the eyes of G.o.d would open again, and he would once more attempt to show defiance before his Maker. Bryant's muscles protested as he opened the door of the cabin and eased himself out.

The wind took his breath away. He bundled his scarf around his head and set off for the rear of the truck, but even this small distance proved hard going.

The chaotic scuffle of footprints beneath the open rear door was difficult to read, but two clear shoe sizes indicated that mother and son were now outside and exposed. The tracks were fresh and deep; they could not have gone far, especially if they were being dragged unwillingly. Bryant returned to the cabin and pulled a page of his battered old map book from the dashboard. Their hunter would have to be taking them to the shelter of another vehicle, unless he was planning to leave them to die in the snow. Bryant punched Maggie Armitage's number with a frozen digit, and found that his partner had already left her.

Bryant glanced back through the stranded traffic and realised that a ma.s.sive block of snow had cascaded across the road, just beyond the bend. No wonder May had not come back; he'd been buried beneath the fall, or at least had been stranded on the wrong side of the valley.

'The silly old fool,' he muttered beneath his breath. Pulling his coat tighter around him, Bryant started to follow the prints leading away from the van. They cut away from the road, through crystalline bushes that glittered like chandeliers, in the direction of the hill and the railway line where the other stranded travellers had headed at the start of the storm.

He squinted at the page from the map book and tried to determine how closely the barred line of the railway twisted past the motorway, but it was difficult to read in the glare of the snow. If they reached the tracks, he would not be able to follow them further. With a sinking heart, he realised that the line ran across the steepest point of the hill. He knew he would not have the stamina needed to follow it for so long. At least the deep snow now kept him upright as he walked; in London he would have needed his stick.

Reaching a sheltered hollow formed by some th.o.r.n.y gorse, he checked his mobile for a signal, then returned Longbright's call with numb fingers.

The DS sounded desperate. 'I'm sorry, Arthur, I didn't want to bother you again, but we're no nearer to closing up the Finch investigation, and I'm almost out of time.'

Bryant forced his mind to switch tracks, something he never had much trouble doing. 'Have you found out anything from Mills since I last spoke to you?'

'I talked to him again, but every time I got close he shut up on me. And we wanted to get DNA tests done on skin flakes found in Bayham Street, but there isn't any time-'

'I'm not talking about forensic evidence, but something you've missed. I told you, the answer lies with Mills. Did you remember to do what I asked? Did you talk to him about his family?'

'It was as you said. He's the oldest of six. I think the others look to him for guidance. The parents met Lilith, but his siblings didn't. Why did you want to know?'

'Omissions,' said Bryant. 'Of course he has no desire to bare his private life to anyone he perceives to be in a position of authority, and who can blame him? It will always be your job to fill in the gaps. I take it you didn't find out anything more about the former boyfriend?'

'According to Mills, he's dead, killed by a knife.'

'Yes, that fits.'

'It's so hard to get at the truth,' said Longbright despairingly.

'The only evidence you have that the boyfriend ever existed is in the photograph of Lilith's tattoo, is that correct?'

'Yes, and even there his name is spelled wrong-'

'What do you mean?'

'With an a a instead of a instead of a u u. Samael.'

'And you just discovered this? Remind yourself about the health club Lilith joined-what was it called?'

'Circe.'

'The owner, this fellow Spender, wasn't he involved in some kind of scandal about a year ago?'

'That's right, he got caught cheating on his wife and she left him.'

'I remember now. Well, good heavens, woman, you've got the whole thing spelled out right in front of you, what more do you want? You can still close the investigation to everyone's satisfaction, but I'm not going to do it for you. John and I won't always be around to help.'

'This is no time for playing games, Arthur. If you don't tell me what you know, we'll lose the unit.'

'All right, I'll give you one last clue. Go to my office and look on the shelves behind my desk. Take down the volume called Sumerian Religious Beliefs and Legends Sumerian Religious Beliefs and Legends. You'll find what you need about half a dozen chapters in, if memory serves, which it usually doesn't. Read it over carefully with Giles Kershaw, then do what you have to do.'

'What do you mean?' asked Longbright. 'Why can't you just tell me? Am I supposed to make an arrest?'

'There's no arrest to be made. Look at the names, Janice. The moment you understand, take everyone out of house arrest and get the unit up to scratch in time for inspection. I have to go now.'

He closed the mobile and leaned back against a tree trunk. He would not finish the job for her whatever happened, he decided. There would come a day when he would no longer be there to sort out the unit's problems. It was time Longbright and the rest of the staff started using his methods to think for themselves. Only then would the unit have a secure future after his death.

He turned and squinted up at the hill ahead. Tugging his scarf tighter around his ears so that he looked like an exhausted elderly rabbit, he trudged on, following the tracks onto the dazzling white slope of the mount.

John May had never welcomed meetings with North London's mystic coven leader, but for once he was glad to see her toiling through the snowdrifts towards him. As she approached, wrapped in red shamanistic folk blankets and looking for all the world like a Russian doll come to life, Maggie Armitage waved her arms frantically towards the valley of stranded vehicles.

'I left the safety of our truck to bring you a warning, John,' she called. 'Arthur's not in the van. He told me to tell you he was going after the mother and her son, says they've been taken up towards the railway line. There's a rescue train on its way. But there's something else, another sensation I'm getting that his crisis moment is about to arrive. He is in terrible danger, Mr May, because of something he knows, or perhaps is about to find out. I see him lying helpless in total darkness.'

'Thank you, Maggie. Here, take my arm.'

'I'm very much obliged,' puffed the white witch. 'This kind of elemental turbulence is tricky to negotiate.' She was carrying a round walnut box that she now stopped to consult.

'What are you doing?' he asked, irritated.

'It's a spirit tracer,' she explained, hitching up her blankets and peering over the top of her roll-neck. 'Inside there's a chased silver ball containing variously treated herbal extracts and seeds, some of them more than a century old, a few of which are even extinct. The item is a great rarity these days, and of enormous talismanic value. I've been worried about Arthur lately, so I had him keep the ball in his pocket for a month. It picks up a sort of spiritual imprint that can be used to find someone. The ball starts to s.h.i.+ft in its casket when we come within range of its human marker, so we can use it to locate him.'

'You're pulling my leg, aren't you?' said May. 'I can't even get him to wear a pager, and yet he happily spends a month leaving his spiritual imprint on some kind of mystical GPS device. Even by your extreme standards, such a thing is patently absurd.' He peered over her shoulder. 'Is he within range?'

'I thought you weren't a believer, Mr May.'

'I'm not,' said May, 'but I have no better way of finding him.'

The pair trudged on around the iridescent blocks of snow and ice that had dammed the valley, looking down at the shunted cars and trucks, hoping to see signs of life. 'I told him to stay put, but no, he had to go off on his own. The simplest instruction always becomes a challenge.'

'You care about him very much, don't you?' said Maggie. 'When I think of the arrests you two have made over the years, it's amazing-'

'We've certainly had our share of excitement,' May admitted.

'I was going to say it's amazing n.o.body's had you both shot.'

May narrowed his eyes at her, unable to decide if she was being honest or merely rude. 'Are we near him?'

She peered into the box. 'Nothing yet. He shouldn't be out in this. When are the pair of you going to retire?'

'We've some unfinished business to deal with before we think about that,' May said testily.

'We're none of us getting any younger, you know. It's different for me. I'm at the end of the line. The next generation isn't interested in the mystic arts. They just want to keep their heads down and make money, and you don't need any spiritual leanings to do that. Far too interested in personal growth. But someone has to take care of all our invisible needs, don't you think? That's what you and Arthur do. We're the gatekeepers to the nation's soul. What happens when there's no-one left to heal the secret wounds we all bear? We'll never be able to set the world upright and end all of its inequalities, but each of us can make a small difference until they add up to something more.' She paused for breath, stretching her back. 'You know, I've spent my life forcing myself to believe in the innate goodness of people, but it never gets any easier. This creature you're after is spiritually tortured, and people like that are unpredictable. They can't be healed by being thrown in jail. A process of understanding must first take place.'

May knew that the white witch was as interested in psyches as she was in souls. As she fell silent and they pushed on through the drifts, he thought back over the last few hours, knowing that she, too, sensed something was not right. He had experienced this phenomenon before, when his daughter had walked into the trap that had led to her death. Arthur wanted to believe that the world possessed unseen dimensions, but paradoxically it was May who most experienced these momentary s.h.i.+fts.

He was feeling it very strongly now. Maggie pointed into her spirit tracer box. The ball inside was gently rolling in an ellipse, but he could not tell whether it was really being guided by unseen forces or whether she had simply tipped it away from her.

'He's close,' she announced, then abruptly changed direction, heading up towards the railway tracks that ran across the hill. Above them, the sky was turning an ominous shade of apocalyptic pink.

'What is that?' asked May. They watched as a muscular black shape loped through the snow searching for cover. 'Are there wolves in Devon?'

'Maybe it was just a big fox,' said Maggie uncertainly. Overhead, a crackle of black wings batted against the white sky, as crows were shocked into flight from the gla.s.sy branches.

'Something's startled them.' Maggie looked around, then narrowed her search to the hill ahead. 'This way. We have to go faster. You feel it as well, don't you?'

'I think so,' May admitted. 'Arthur's made some kind of misjudgement that's put him at risk. And don't ask me to explain, because I don't know how to, okay?'

Maggie kept silent, but smiled to herself as they climbed. Seemingly psychic instincts were learned through experience, habit and the pa.s.sing of time. The detectives had developed a link they could not see or understand, but it was obvious to anyone with the slightest sensitivity that it existed. There was nothing supernatural about the development of such an ability; parents and children quickly grew bonds, twins inherited them genetically. People who spent a great deal of time in each other's company became automatically adept at guessing the actions of their counterparts, in the same way that animals were attuned to tiny vibrations of movement and changes in air pressure. She had a fleeting image of a moth in a jar, fighting to free itself, then the image vanished.

Maggie loved the idea that the detective was becoming corrupted by his latent spirituality; if someone as rational as John could succ.u.mb, it gave her hope for the rest of humankind.

'Of course, having some smidgen of psychic ability doesn't single you out as special, you know,' she puffed. 'Everyone has it to a greater or lesser extent. I can usually feel it when I meet people. That lady and her son, they knocked on our truck earlier, did you know? We offered to shelter them, but she decided to head back to her own vehicle.'

'She never mentioned that to Arthur and me,' said May, surprised.

'No, I don't suppose she would have done. Why would she? She doesn't know that you know me. She was attracted by the sign on our truck, you see. Latched onto my arm and told me she had some kind of psychic gift that allowed her to see the true nature of men, but of course I saw she didn't.'

'What makes you say that?'

'I asked how she knew, and she gave me the name of her mentor. I clearly made her uncomfortable, because she refused our help. There are so many frauds operating in London. Often they just crave attention, but end up draining money from those who are desperate to believe, the vulnerable ones who've had difficulties in the past.'

'The world is full of natural victims,' said May.

'And natural predators,' replied Maggie. 'I'm afraid Kate Summerton is rather well known in South London. She's been jailed a couple of times and isn't legally allowed to practise anymore, not that it stops her. The odd thing is, I think she genuinely means well. But it's unethical to use a refuge for battered women to recruit clients for spiritualism courses.'

'G.o.d, I forgot,' said May suddenly. 'I have to go back down there.' He pointed to the buried road that lay below them.

'Back? What are you talking about? We're past the worst part of the fallen snow.'

'Exactly. We were pa.s.sing near Madeline Gilby's hired car. I promised to collect something from it. Stay under the shelter of the trees. I can see the blue Toyota from here. It'll only take a minute.'

John May half ran, half tumbled towards the inundated vehicle. Snow had covered the wheel arches and half of the bonnet. He looked around for something to dig with, settling on a broken branch. After a minute or two he was able to reach under the vehicle's front wing. He forced his arm deep into the snow and groped around, closing frozen fingers over the envelope. It had stayed dry within the impacted drift. He wanted to stop and open it, but there was no time to waste. He began cutting back in Maggie's direction. The witch was standing with her hands cupped about her eyes, watching for trouble.

A burning sensation in his heart caused him to stop and regain his breath. He took advantage of the respite to call the unit from his mobile. 'h.e.l.lo?' He could barely hear against the buffeting wind. 'Who's that? Meera? I need you to check something out for me. Quick as you can.'

'What's the matter?' asked Maggie when he finally reached her side. 'You look like someone just walked over your grave.'

'It's been preying on my mind ever since I saw the list of victims Madeline Gilby showed me,' said May. 'The names on it were vaguely familiar, but I didn't know why.' He turned his attention to the phone.

'I can see someone,' said Maggie, pointing to a figure standing on the railway tracks ahead. 'We must get up there as quickly as possible. I think Arthur is about to face his moment of truth.'

45

ENGAGEMENT Arthur Bryant could see the faint impression of the double railway track indented through fallen snow; no train had been able to pa.s.s here since the blizzard began, but now the gale had blown the top layers clear, and with the thaw setting in it appeared that the line might become pa.s.sable.

The black tracks wound over the hill towards the dark mouth of a tunnel. The cut was still inundated beyond this, so the rescue train would have to back up the line after collecting stranded travellers.

As he forced himself to concentrate on the fading footmarks in the white expanse of the hill, he could not help but wonder if his own tracks would disappear like snow prints from London's history.

I've dedicated my life to something that now seems less tangible and more pointless than wood-carving, he thought, he thought, the resolution of criminal mysteries that pa.s.s entirely unnoticed by the general public the resolution of criminal mysteries that pa.s.s entirely unnoticed by the general public. It was hardly surprising that the Home Office no longer wished to fund such a division when they gained no benefit to themselves. The PCU acted as a magnet for embarra.s.sing publicity, and Bryant knew that his own irascibility made matters worse.

In a world where so few people are willing to become involved, we have to set an example, he thought. he thought. And so we will pa.s.s the way of censors.h.i.+p bodies and experimental science labs, in the same manner that Bletchley Park, the Propaganda Unit and the Ma.s.s Observation Society were no longer needed after the war. And May and I will pa.s.s, too, becoming just another quirky footnote to the capital's strange history, along with other abandoned ideas like the GLC's Regent Street Monorail and the 1796 plan to straighten out the Thames, and therefore perhaps that is how it should be. But for now, and until we are all ejected from our premises in Mornington Crescent, I still have a public duty to perform. And so we will pa.s.s the way of censors.h.i.+p bodies and experimental science labs, in the same manner that Bletchley Park, the Propaganda Unit and the Ma.s.s Observation Society were no longer needed after the war. And May and I will pa.s.s, too, becoming just another quirky footnote to the capital's strange history, along with other abandoned ideas like the GLC's Regent Street Monorail and the 1796 plan to straighten out the Thames, and therefore perhaps that is how it should be. But for now, and until we are all ejected from our premises in Mornington Crescent, I still have a public duty to perform.

Any further musing on the past was stopped when he saw the boy.

Why is he standing there? Bryant wondered, before spotting the red handkerchief that tied his wrist to the briars of a hawthorn bush covered in icicles like cracked prisms. He lowered himself beside Ryan, whose tear-streaked cheeks were already starting to freeze. His jacket had been pulled down over his shoulders to impede his movement. 'What happened?' Bryant asked, s.h.i.+elding him from the bitter wind as he tried to unscramble the knot with numb fingers. Bryant wondered, before spotting the red handkerchief that tied his wrist to the briars of a hawthorn bush covered in icicles like cracked prisms. He lowered himself beside Ryan, whose tear-streaked cheeks were already starting to freeze. His jacket had been pulled down over his shoulders to impede his movement. 'What happened?' Bryant asked, s.h.i.+elding him from the bitter wind as he tried to unscramble the knot with numb fingers.