Bryant And May On The Loose - A Peculiar Crimes Unit Mystery Part 26

Bryant grabbed his colleague's arm and bade him listen. A soft fall of brick suggested movement far ahead.

'Are you sure you're up for this?' May whispered. 'We could go overland, back to the church. Land can watch this end.'

'No, we're too close now to risk losing them. I think he's drugged Toth and has brought him up the tunnel from Spring House because he couldn't go in through the church. The vicar and Kareshi would have seen them.' Bryant climbed around a pile of collapsed brickwork and moved ahead. 'Look.' He pointed his walking stick toward a bend in the tunnel. There was a faint glow of light beyond it.

'I don't like this, Arthur. Mr Fox could be hiding anywhere, lying in wait for us.'

'I know exactly where he is,' declared Bryant. 'He's in the temple.'

'You mean the spa room Kareshi showed us beneath the church?'

'It became a spa room precisely because it had been a temple. There was a painting on the wall, worn and very faded but quite recognisable as Saint Helena. I knew at once it was her, because she was flanked by hunting hounds. Saint Helena is the oldest and most powerful of all the pagan G.o.ddesses ever to be worshipped on these sh.o.r.es. Saint Helena-or Nouhelene Nouhelene, who wore stag antlers, and who represented the force of natural regeneration.' He stopped to catch his breath, leaning against the tiled wall. 'St Pancras Old Church was founded by the Emperor Constantine's mother, Saint Helena herself. Over time her name was shortened to Nell, and she was depicted carrying a basket of fruit. And then Nell Gwynne moved into the neighbourhood. Nell and her basket of oranges. It's where all of this came from, where the whole plan began.'

'Arthur, you've lost me. Let's get our man first, then you can explain.' May shone the flashlight ahead. A glossy fat rat fell from the ceiling of the tunnel with a squeak, more alarmed than the detectives. They turned the bend, picking their way over bricks and garbage-others had been here before them-and the light ahead grew stronger.

A pale yellow ellipse revealed the entrance to the temple. The edges of the circular room had been marked with fat stumps of candles. In the centre, blindfolded and gagged, his hands and ankles tied, Xander Toth waited like a terrorist's prisoner. The man who stood behind him was slight of build, but oddly nondescript in appearance, except that he was wearing a crimson papier-mache fox's mask, like the ones sometimes worn on Guy Fawkes night. He turned to stare at the detectives as they appeared in the tunnel entrance.

'Why would you want to do this, Mr Fox?' called Bryant. 'Everything else you've done has made a sort of sense, but this is sheer madness. You're being somewhat overly theatrical, if you don't mind my saying so. Do you mind if I sit down? I'm beat.'

May was looking to his partner for a cue to act, but n.o.body seemed inclined to make the first move. He could feel the tension rising in the cold damp air.

'I thought Mr Toth told you about the temple, but I suppose it might have been Mr Kareshi,' Bryant continued cheerfully. 'Really, though-a sacrifice? sacrifice? Who do you think you will appease? You learned to steal knowledge from other people, but you really shouldn't start believing in too much of it, you know. You think it will come to an end and you can start all over again if you shed young Alexander's blood on this spot? You sold your case rather too well, Mr Toth.' Who do you think you will appease? You learned to steal knowledge from other people, but you really shouldn't start believing in too much of it, you know. You think it will come to an end and you can start all over again if you shed young Alexander's blood on this spot? You sold your case rather too well, Mr Toth.'

May had heard Bryant use this technique before, keeping up a soothing level of conversation with his adversary, gently disarming through the simple humanity of a caring voice. Except that Bryant sometimes got carried away and went for the Oscar.

'But I'm afraid you can't begin anew, because this is where it ends. We have officers here at the church and at Spring Place, too. All your exits are cut off. So you might as well let Mr Toth go. And it is my duty to arrest you for the murder of Terence Delaney.'

'I am here at the church from ten in the morning until ten at night.' Mr Fox's voice was surprisingly thin and light. 'I put in twelve-hour shifts. Barton will vouch for me.'

'I'll also be taking into account the murders of Adrian Jesson, Richard Standover and Maddox Cavendish.'

The crimson fox mask tilted slightly, regarding Bryant. Then it looked up into the darkness of the stairwell leading from the temple to the church above. Mr Fox seemed to have no fear. He was weighing up his options.

May saw the sharpened silver skewer glitter in his hand, and turned the flashlight directly into his eyes. He knew Mr Fox would expect to be attacked, so instead he kicked out at Xander Toth, knocking the bound man over on his side and slamming Mr Fox against the temple wall-it wasn't a bad move for a senior.

The skewer swung out but missed its mark. May's boot kicked again and he managed to trap Mr Fox's wrist, pinning him in place. Two of the candles were knocked out, then a third. Only one remained alight. The temple was flickering into darkness.

'Keep back, Arthur,' May warned as Mr Fox rose to his feet.

Now we're in trouble, Bryant thought, taking in the scene. We're We're all trapped together here. His only way out is through us. He has the only weapon. And he's insane. My, it's nice to be back all trapped together here. His only way out is through us. He has the only weapon. And he's insane. My, it's nice to be back.

'You're Arthur St John Bryant,' Fox said. 'You still blame yourself for the way your wife Nathalie died. Your partner's wife is in a mental home. Who are either of you to tell me what to do?'

Bryant was taken aback. How could he have known such things? I've underestimated this fellow I've underestimated this fellow, he thought. We're for it now We're for it now.

But that was before DS Janice Longbright leaned over the stairwell and dropped a sizeable chunk of paving stone on Mr Fox's head.

In the light of the guttering candles, she bore a striking resemblance to Saint Helena.

50

THE LIE OF THE LAND

Events moved fast after Mr Fox was captured. The Home Office was informed that even in its etiolated state, the PCU had performed a service that no branch of the Metropolitan Police could have managed. Leslie Faraday hurried into his superior's office, and Oskar Kasavian sent word to the Prime Minister and the capital's news agencies. No-one congratulated the men and women of the Peculiar Crimes Unit for their dedication to duty.

When Bryant and May arrived back at their headquarters, they spent the next three and a half hours talking with Mr Fox, who seemed surprisingly keen to unburden himself to them. Without resources, it was impossible to impound evidence yet, but the PCU team was prepared to work through the night if Bryant and May were satisfied that they had their man.

It was now late in the afternoon, and their suspect had been placed in the building's only lockable room until the staff could be debriefed and the suspect's examination could be resumed. Time was of the essence in the initial interview process, and the detectives needed to bring everyone up to speed. On that point, it probably wasn't the best idea to let Bryant do the talking, but the old man relished explaining his thinking to others and would not be dissuaded, despite the fact that he was p.r.o.ne to lethologica, not to mention an annoying habit of wandering off-topic at the most crucial moments.

'The roots of this case go back almost as far as I do,' said Bryant, hovering uncertainly above the battered sofa Long-bright had managed to dredge up for the briefing room. He failed to lower himself gracefully into the seat, so he simply fell backwards. Once he had settled, Longbright handed him a mug of murky tea. The others sat wherever they could find a s.p.a.ce. Everyone was impatient to hear how the arrest had been made.

'It goes all the way to 1940, when a bomb fell on Mrs Porter's house.' Bryant took a sip of his tea, looked for a place to set it down and ended up cradling it in his lap. 'But in a broader sense, it began several thousand years before that.'

There was such a collective groan and rolling of the eyes from the rest of the gathered staff that he decided not to follow that particular avenue of investigation. 'All right, let's start in 1940. A bomb destroyed a house in King's Cross, the surviving member of the family moved away, and for over sixty years the deed to the property was not missed. That is, until the conglomerate entrusted with the regeneration of the area tried to identify the owners of every single parcel of land. And Maddox Cavendish, the architectural planner entrusted with this task, belatedly realised that a key piece was missing.

'It wasn't the end of the world; an occupier needed to last for eleven years on property before claiming the right to own it, and the ADAPT Group had been registered there for nine years. So, in order to comply with the law, all Cavendish had to do was wait two more years for change of ownership to become available. Except that ADAPT didn't have two years to spare. Thanks to its agreement with the Prime Minister, it has to meet government targets on a very strict schedule, and is subject to a system of fines if this is not achieved. Cavendish's failure to notice the problem earlier suddenly looked like gross incompetence.

'Then, during the clearance of the ground, one of the construction workers, Terry Delaney, discovered the deed in the remains of the well. Delaney went to Cavendish to ask his advice about what to do. I think we can guess that Cavendish offered to take care of the matter, because we know from his a.s.sistant just how driven and paranoid he was about his career. The architect made a disastrous move: He invited the construction worker to lunch-was his plan to get him drunk?-and during the course of this charm offensive, Delaney grew suspicious, resisting offers and even threats from Cavendish about handing over the deed. Instead, he announced that he would find the rightful owner and return it himself.

'This is the point at which Cavendish had his hopes dashed; he realised that Delaney was smart, decent and determined to do the right thing.

'Of course, it was the worst possible outcome for the architect. Now Cavendish got himself into a panic. He set out to find someone who could burgle Delaney's flat. Of course, if there was a burglary, Delaney would have a certain amount of justified suspicion about who commissioned it. But it was a chance Cavendish was desperate to take; he'd already sailed close to the edge of the law on a number of previous occasions. And Mr Fox was fully prepared to go further than mere B and E. Cavendish emptied his bank account and paid his man some cash up front-perhaps he went through a go-between to do so-but he bought himself a far more serious criminal act: murder.

'Mr Fox broke into Delaney's flat, and meticulously searched for the deed. If he didn't find it, he would be able to offer photographic proof that he had been there and had ransacked the whole flat.

'But Delaney came back from work early. He was a gentle man, and before he knew what was happening-probably while he was still trying to reason with the intruder-Fox stabbed him in the neck with the skewer. Then he carried Delaney's body downstairs into an unmarked white van. Mr Fox says the vehicle wasn't his, but we've yet to find out who it did belong to.

'It was late afternoon, the locals were still at work; he timed it well and he knew how not to be noticed. Fox remembered the empty store on Caledonian Road from a conversation he'd had with a local property agent. The shop was full of plastic sheeting and buckets, and even had a freezer. Using the surgical skill he'd been taught by Professor Marshall at the morgue annexed to the St Pancras Old Church graveyard, he severed Delaney's head. Then he shoved the body in the freezer, taking the head away with him. He rightly figured that the mutilation would delay the identification process.

'At this point we have to leave Delaney for a minute and backtrack a little, because by now another murderous situation had arisen. It's the sort of thing that could only happen in a place like King's Cross, where so many stories overlap simultaneously.

'A man on the wrong side of the law is always on the lookout for work. Mr Fox had met a man named Richard Standover, who needed a similar task performed on his rival, Adrian Jesson; a robbery that had to take place before Jesson moved his collection of rare Beatles memorabilia to a more secure venue. Like Cavendish, Standover was disturbed by the thought that if a crime was committed, suspicion would fall on him. It was just meant to be a burglary, but perhaps Mr Fox was filled with the adrenaline of his earlier kill-'

'Oh, really,' May protested. 'Supposition, Arthur.'

'So what? We're not in a court of law. Anyway, Mr Fox visited Jesson and murdered him, taking away the precious packet of photographs. He drove the body to York Way and dumped it on the deserted waste ground in the early hours of the morning. Then he delivered the photographs to Standover. This time he was a little more circ.u.mspect about what he told his client. But he didn't realise that Standover and Jesson operated in a very small world, one rife with rumour and gossip, and that it wouldn't be long before Standover discovered that his rival was dead. Standover had no qualms about hiring someone for a little larceny, but he certainly hadn't agreed to murder. However, Mr Fox was nothing if not ingenious. He told Standover that he had bought his client some time, and encouraged the collector to leave the country fast.'

'What do you mean, he bought him some time?' asked Long-bright, bewildered.

'Mr Fox is no ordinary criminal. He's a networker. No knowledge goes to waste. He learned burglary skills by spending months with the local locksmith. He made friends with Alexander Toth and was taught to appreciate his hometown's history. He found out about the empty shop from the estate agent. He investigated our own backgrounds. He was employed by the vicar of St Pancras Old Church, Charles Barton. He knew about boundary lines-which follow the ancient lines of the parish-as well as the area's mythology. And he discovered there was a strip of land running through the area not covered by either of the local police forces, which was why he left the bodies there. He wanted to provide Standover with some room to run or concoct an alibi before Jesson's corpse turned up. It made sense to put the coincidence of the two deaths to some use. So he severed Jesson's head, and switched it with Delaney's.'

'Wait a minute, you're saying Fox changed the identification expecting no-one to notice?' notice?' Banbury gave a look of disbelief. Banbury gave a look of disbelief.

'It probably occurred to him when he took off Jesson's clothes to get rid of the evidence. Jesson and Delaney were very similar in body type and colouring. They were also alike in height and weight. Tanned, dark, minimal body hair. He was certain both bodies would be badly decomposed by the time they were discovered. He cut the second corpse in the exact same manner as the first, severing carefully between the cervical vertebrae; he'd been taught by a surgeon, after all. So when the body was dug up by workmen, we thought for a moment that we'd found Delaney, whereas in fact we'd found Jesson. Mr Fox didn't expect anyone to find the remains of Terry Delaney for a while, but unfortunately for him they were discovered first by Bimsley here, setting us on the right track. Thanks to the boundary line, even the police didn't know who would be in charge of the investigation. Mr Fox is the eyes and ears of the neighbourhood. He says he asked around and was told that some disgraced unit would be handling the case, that they had no forensic equipment, no legal powers. And then he probably watched and saw me doddering out of the building. He knew we were being forced to work from physical evidence without access to police databases.'

'How would he know that?'

'Because he talked to one of us. Didn't he, Meera?'

'Oh, my G.o.d.' Meera's hand went to her forehead. 'That was him? him? I was just having a cigarette outside. He started to tell me about the building, how it had once been owned by a Satanists' society, how he didn't think it was habitable. 'I didn't mean-' I was just having a cigarette outside. He started to tell me about the building, how it had once been owned by a Satanists' society, how he didn't think it was habitable. 'I didn't mean-'

'That's what he does. He ingratiates himself. He draws out the knowledge he needs from others.'

'I'm amazed he could get anything out of her,' her,' said Bimsley grumpily. 'She won't even talk to her colleagues.' said Bimsley grumpily. 'She won't even talk to her colleagues.'

'I imagine that if you compared your notes on him with everyone else who had undergone the same process, you would all describe him differently. He's colourless unless adopting a role, like a character actor who only comes to life onstage. So, now Mr Fox decided to clean house. First he took care of the complaining Cavendish.'

'Why did he cut off Cavendish's head?'

'Because of what Xander Toth had told him about the history of the area-the severed heads, the sacrifices. He saw how appropriate his behaviour had been to date. Was it accidental, or the subconscious act of a sensitive? No matter; the more he kept to the same methodology, the more it placed Toth under suspicion.'

'He told you all this?' Banbury asked.

'For a multiple killer, he seems anxious to get everything off his chest,' said May.

Bryant glared. He hated interruptions. 'When he discovered that Richard Standover had been told that his rival was dead, Fox went after the remaining man who had hired him, before Standover decided to talk to anyone else. Which brings us to Toth. Mr Fox's relationship with Xander is a rather interesting one. Not only did he use Toth's detailed knowledge of the area, he was encouraged and inspired by him. But it still didn't stop him from making Toth a scapegoat. He planted fur from Toth's outfit on Cavendish's body, and all the while, continued to be his friend. Fox kept a mental note of the wasteland near the railway; it was an ideal place to leave a body. He persuaded Toth to continue dressing as the stag-man-not that I suppose he took much persuading-thinking it would keep workmen away from the site. Instead, Toth, ever the showman, attracted unwelcome attention, and finally had to be dealt with.'

'Why did he bother to take him to the temple? Why not just kill him?'

'As we were interviewing Mr Fox, I wondered if he might have come to trust in the power of the area's protective mythology. He had beheaded his victims in the time-honoured fashion. He had acted in accordance with the traditions of the region. And he had seen the figure of Saint Helena on the wall of the temple. Saint Helena, the British equivalent of the Roman G.o.ddess Diana, the huntress, upon whose temple St Paul's itself now stands. But she was more than this. She was a symbol of the river Fleet, from whence came the Bagnigge well beneath the church. Mr Fox even lived above the site of the original spring. How could he not have felt the hand of destiny pressing heavily upon him? It seemed entirely appropriate to bring matters to an end by sacrificing Toth to Saint Helena. By returning Toth's spirit to the well, Fox would close this chain of bizarre and disastrous events. It makes me think of the Stockholm Syndrome, only in reverse; the felon came to believe his victim.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l.' Renfield drained the rest of his tea in one gulp. If he had not believed in Bryant's powers before, he did now. 'What set you off in the right direction?'

'One question John had asked kept buzzing around inside my head. If Mr Fox had gone to the trouble of cutting off the heads, why would he then allow the first two to turn up? There had to be a purpose to such extravagant executions, and it could only be to misdirect us away from the commonplace issue of identification. But once he'd started following the pattern of the past, he couldn't stop. The third death had to be similar to the others in order to implicate Xander Toth. There was only one way to bring the cycle to an end: sacrifice the man who had accidentally encouraged him to initiate it. Such acts are rare but not uncommon.

'I must confess Mr Fox fascinates me. I've never encountered such a mentality before. He's psychotic, brazen, and in his own way, supremely rational. The thing I want to concentrate on in our next interrogation session is his real ident.i.ty. On that subject he has so far refused to be forthcoming.'

'I have a question.' April timidly raised her hand. 'If Mr Fox found nothing in Delaney's flat, who has the deed to Camley Lane?'

'Come on,' said Bryant, pleased with himself. 'You can work this last part out for yourselves.'

Everyone looked at each other blankly.

'Delaney liked studying historical records at Camden Council. So naturally, he sent the deed to the one man who could trace its rightful owner-Ed Tremble, Camden's land purchase advisor. I spoke to him a few minutes ago. Thanks to our rubbish postal service the delivery was only made last night, but it's still in time to be registered in Ellen Porter's name. Now she can decide whether to sell it or not.'

'So you set out to catch a stag and ended up with a fox,' said Banbury lamely. n.o.body laughed. 'What happens now?'

'After we've formally charged Mr Fox, it will fall upon me to make Mr Faraday's life a living h.e.l.l. I'll demand a full reinstatement of our powers, our equipment and, most importantly of all, our salaries.'

'Did you torture Fox?' asked Longbright. 'I mean, how come he volunteered so much information? Why would he do that unless he knew he could get off?'

'Or get out,' said April suddenly. 'You said he studied with a locksmith. Who's guarding him?'

'Liberty,' Longbright found herself calling out. The back of her neck p.r.i.c.kled with ice.

They all ran for the stairs, Longbright leading. The holding room was on the third floor. As Longbright climbed, the sense of dread deepened within her. They entered the dim corridor. She saw the dark, prostrate bulk and her stomach turned.

Liberty DuCaine was lying on his side across the hall floor. The boards were bisected by a single spray of arterial blood, as thin as a line of red ink from a fountain pen. DuCaine's right hand was cupped below his left ear. He had tried to staunch the flow from the puncture wound, but the skewer had been pushed deep in one thrust before being swiftly removed.

'No,' said Longbright, reaching out for the wall, 'not him.' She dropped down beside DuCaine and felt his neck for a carotid pulse, then began to ma.s.sage his heart, but experience had taught her that it was already too late.

She tried to follow the path of the wound. Could the skewer have pierced his brain? Mr Fox had received some form of medical training, hadn't Bryant told them that? A single centimetre would mean the difference between death and survival. The attack had been so sudden that DuCaine had fallen before he could call out for help.

She continued to press his chest, to ensure there was pressure to take the blood to his heart. Death or brain damage Death or brain damage, she thought angrily. One moment of lost concentration and this is what it causes One moment of lost concentration and this is what it causes.

'I've got an ambulance coming,' May said. 'Leave him, Janice. He did a pretty good job of blocking the blood flow. Don't move him. Any extra movement now could disrupt the clotting.'

'I'll go with him,' said Longbright, numbly brushing her hair from her face. There was nothing more to be done, but she found it impossible to look away. As the medics arrived and took over, she rocked back on her heels, watching DuCaine's immobile face. She willed him to see her one more time, to register her presence before he was removed and placed out of her reach within the system, but there was no flicker of sentience.

May checked the holding room and found the door wide open. The lock was undamaged. It had been firmly closed, but Mr Fox had managed to spring it. He had jumped DuCaine as he left the room. May didn't understand; they had carefully searched their suspect for weapons upon arrival at the PCU. They had taken his shoes and most of his clothes, and checked his underwear; he had nothing on him. What the h.e.l.l had they done wrong? What had they overlooked?

'My G.o.d.' With difficulty, Bryant knelt and held Longbright tight. 'I'm so sorry, Janice. This should not have been possible. We thought he'd be safe there. I'll never forgive myself-'

'You have to get that b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' whispered Longbright, pulling away and looking at Bryant with a ferocity he had never seen before. 'I don't care what you have to do. If you don't catch him, Arthur, I swear to you I will.'

Mr Fox slipped between the backpacking Italian students pouring out of King's Cross tube station. He had perfected a way of insinuating himself through the tightest crowds without ever touching anyone. He paid cash for a ticket so that it would leave no record, and avoided the searching gaze of each hidden camera with ease.

He was glad his little trick had come in useful; it had been incredibly difficult to master. He had secreted the silver skewer in his throat by attaching a piece of fishing nylon to a tooth, an old trick used by drug smugglers to sneak their personal stash through customs. He was surprised he had been able to hold it there for so long without gagging while they removed his clothing. Transferring it back into his armpit without anyone noticing had been the easy part.

He was disappointed with Bryant and May. He had expected to outwit them, but thought they would at least be able to discern his purpose in taking Xander Toth through the tunnel to the church and dressing in the mask. He had been about to place the Fox's head on Toth when the detectives arrived.

The hunted had knelt before the huntress to take his own life. At least, that was how it would have looked. And who for a moment would have disbelieved the notion that Toth had become even more unbalanced, finally choosing to kill himself in accordance with the mythology he had so tirelessly promoted? The circle would have been perfectly closed upon itself....

Mr Fox looked different now. He kept emergency supplies hidden in alley binbags around King's Cross, and had collected one from behind the Tesco supermarket on Caledonian Road.

Newly bald, bespectacled, dressed in a smart grey suit, white b.u.t.ton-collar shirt and black tie, he headed down onto the Jubilee Line platform without a final destination in mind. He watched those standing on the escalators around him, the students and middle managers, the personal a.s.sistants, housewives, receptionists and computer salesmen, and saw only slack-stringed puppets, dozing creatures with the rudimentary qualities of animals, cows, dogs, mice, but mostly sheep.

If they ever woke up, he thought, if just one of them could stop thinking about mortgages and s.e.x and job prospects for a few hours, I might find myself faced with a challenger. But I know now it will never happen, not while everything conspires to keep them asleep if just one of them could stop thinking about mortgages and s.e.x and job prospects for a few hours, I might find myself faced with a challenger. But I know now it will never happen, not while everything conspires to keep them asleep.

As he boarded the first train to arrive, he smiled to himself. All he knew was that wherever he was going, he would find his place in a corrupt new world.

All life, and all lives, were there for the taking.

Arthur Bryant stood with his hands pressed against the cold windowpane, watching dark rivulets of rain, and the smeary streets beyond. He was furious with his own stupidity and wilfulness.

You're a foolish old man who places lives at risk, he told himself angrily, just because you refuse to give up outdated ideas. Liberty DuCaine is dead because you were too busy holding court with your staff. You were so pleased with the sound of your own voice that you didn't take time to secure your suspect properly. You forgot the first rules you ever learned: Protect the innocent, and never lower your guard on duty. You don't deserve the people who work for you and trust you just because you refuse to give up outdated ideas. Liberty DuCaine is dead because you were too busy holding court with your staff. You were so pleased with the sound of your own voice that you didn't take time to secure your suspect properly. You forgot the first rules you ever learned: Protect the innocent, and never lower your guard on duty. You don't deserve the people who work for you and trust you.

Behind him on the desk was a note Mr Ed Tremble had sent through, the answer to a question he had asked about Battlebridge, the site of Boudicca's last battle. Tremble had discovered that the legend was based on little more than a linguistic error. The name of the village was merely a corruption of Bradford Bridge, which in turn came from 'Broad Ford.' There had once been a bridge over the Fleet river.