White Corridor Part 21

She was shocked to hear him address her by name, but remained silent, her hands clasped tightly around him. He wondered what she thought she was doing.

'You shouldn't have picked the names from your book, Madeline. It's called Famous Trials Famous Trials because that's exactly what they are to anyone in law enforcement. And you shouldn't have got Ryan to lie for you. Children are always so obvious when they've been asked to lie for their parents. They simply can't look you in the eye.' because that's exactly what they are to anyone in law enforcement. And you shouldn't have got Ryan to lie for you. Children are always so obvious when they've been asked to lie for their parents. They simply can't look you in the eye.'

They remained locked in position on the track, although she was trying to pull him further in. Bryant's hand gripped the freezing rail. He dug his boots in against the sleeper, determined not to budge.

'The boy whose throat you just tore open with the scissors from the Swiss Army knife you keep in your bag really is called Johann Bellocq. And a small pair of scissors is a woman's weapon, you should know that.'

Bryant raised his chin so that he could speak more clearly. 'In his own way, Bellocq paid for the crime he committed. He never hurt anyone but his mother, and that was after years of being locked away and tortured by her. He was a petty thief, and had borrowed cars, although he usually returned them. It's true that when an old hunting friend of his grandfather's died, Bellocq borrowed his house, but there was no real malice in him. Nor was there any dead body in the villa-the local gendarmerie has had a chance to visit it; in your hysteria, you merely thought you saw one. You were furious about being lied to once more, and thought that your pattern with men was starting to repeat itself all over again, but you only saw what you wanted to see. When Johann told you about his past, he was opening himself up to you because he genuinely loved you. He wanted you to know everything about him, but in your panic you shut him out and ran away, embroidering his history with lurid sc.r.a.ps culled from your own warped imagination.'

She was lying rigid now, breathing hard behind him, her legs wrapped around his. He tried to turn his head, to make her hear. 'When you found the truck driver who'd given him a lift, he told you how desperate Johann was to find you, how much he said he loved you, but to you it was just further proof of the conspiracy of men. You shut out the truth, even going so far as to shut him up, slashing out at him. Do you even know that you killed him? Of course there are bad men in the world who'll seek to harm you, Madeline, but they're not all alike. Who made you believe they were?'

He suddenly realised why she was so still. She was listening, not to him, but to the tinging of the approaching train through the steel tracks.

From the corner of his eye he saw two silhouettes appear in the bright tunnel entrance, but before he could call out, her hand pulled hard on his scarf, tightening it over his mouth and throat until he could no longer draw breath.

I've forced her to realise the truth about herself, he thought. he thought. She's decided she has nothing more to live for. And the trouble is, she's going to take me with her. She's decided she has nothing more to live for. And the trouble is, she's going to take me with her.

48

LAST EMBRACE As John May and Maggie Armitage reached the mouth of the tunnel, they threw away caution and began calling for their friend. Their voices returned unanswered from the curving walls.

'He has to be inside,' said May, 'his tracks lead to the entrance. Stay out here and look after the boy. I'll go in.'

As he stepped into the blanket of the dark, he heard it, the distant ring of the approaching train. 'Arthur, are you hurt?' he called. 'Listen to me carefully. Madeline Gilby is a very dangerous woman. The man she insists is hunting her is Johann Bellocq, and he's actually trying to stop her. There are no pictures of murder victims, no forged pa.s.sports. Arthur, answer me!'

He could feel the weight of the train on the tracks, the steady displacement of air in the far end of the long tunnel, the faint crackle of electricity. A dim light appeared on the wall of the first bend. As it slowly increased in brightness and moved down, he saw what appeared to be a bundle of rags lying across the tracks. As he watched, it flinched like an animal caught in the coils of a snake, and he realised that he was looking at his partner, trapped with Madeline Gilby's limbs twisted around him. Bryant's boots kicked out in a burst of gravel, and he twisted his head to look plaintively around for help.

May dropped to his side and pulled at an arm, but Madeline's clutch tightened, rolling Bryant further onto the centre of the track. 'You'll kill us all,' May told her. 'We can get you help, Madeline. It doesn't have to end this way.'

Ahead, the lights of the train grew brighter as it coasted the bend of the tunnel in a roar of sparking steel.

He tried to prise open her hands, but the muscles in her fingers and arms had locked with steely rigidity. Bryant kicked and wriggled, but was rapidly losing strength. Gilby was on top of him now, knotted around his body in a death grip that nothing could loosen. Braced against the track, May pulled at them in vain.

'Let me,' said Maggie, hopping across the tracks and grabbing Bryant's attacker from the other side. Madeline Gilby let out a sudden piercing yell and threw out her limbs as wildly as if she had been electrocuted. Released and able to breathe once more, Bryant let out a gasp.

May pulled hard, dragging his partner across the rail and up against the wall. He reached out a hand to Madeline, shouting for her, but she crawled further away, turning to face the explosion of light and noise.

May caught sight of Madeline's pale face one last time; her widening eyes were staring into the long white shaft of light that emanated from the front of the engine in the corridor of the tunnel. She looked quite calm, as if she was glad to be finally faced with the prospect of meeting her Maker.

A moment later, the duo watched as the flashing yellow panels raced past them, and the carriages started to slow with the braking of the train. When it had finally pa.s.sed, there was no trace left behind of Madeline Gilby.

Maggie Armitage had flattened herself against the opposite wall of the tunnel. Her arms were splayed and her hair had been shocked into a vermilion sunburst around her head, like Struwwelpeter.

'What did you do to make her let go?' called May as he pulled Bryant to his feet. 'Stick her with an evil enchantment?'

'No, a hatpin,' replied the white witch breathlessly. 'Every bit as effective. At least she didn't have to go towards the light. It came to her.'

'The final white corridor,' said May, taking her hand. 'Come on, you two. Let's get out of the dark.'

49

ROYALTY They stood neatly in line, the seven of them, Meera Mangeshkar and Colin Bimsley, Dan Banbury and Giles Kershaw, Raymond Land, April May and Janice Longbright.

Meera had decided to work on an expression that could not be construed as a scowl, and had loosened her tied-back hair so that it glossily framed her face. Longbright had shown her how to administer lipstick, although teaching her to stop flinching as it was applied had proven tricky.

Colin had polished his shoes and was proudly wearing his father's old police tie. The legendarily clumsy PC was under strict instructions to keep his hands by his sides and not attempt anything more complicated than taking one pace forward or back.

Dan was dressed in the too-tight grey Ben Sherman suit he always wore to work, but his wife had forced him to don his only white shirt that took cuff links.

Giles was wearing his Eton tie, a lurid red carnation he had filched from April's garage flowers and a baggy blazer that made him look like a Henley Regatta captain.

Raymond Land had ditched his cardigan and opted to stretch a yellow striped shirt across his paunch, slicking back his receding locks with his son's hair gel so that he resembled a provincial advertising manager, or possibly a pimp.

Having escaped from the storeroom in which he had been shut, Crippen threaded his way through Land's legs and thought about taking a pee, but wisely decided against it.

April wore a simple black dress and matching shoes, with pearl earrings and a single strand of black pearls that had been bequeathed to her by her grandmother.

Janice Longbright was sporting a pair of high-heeled court shoes that had once belonged to Alma Cogan, the fifties chanteuse, and a seash.e.l.l hair slide in the style of Dorothy Lamour. She was still wearing the red woollen two-piece suit she had borrowed to infiltrate the Circe Club earlier that day.

They had all done what they could to look smart, and the net result was appropriately peculiar. But on this afternoon, at this moment, they all felt part of an alternative family, the invisible connections of friendship joining them to one another more surely and steadfastly than any blood tie. For once, they were individuals united as one.

The offices of the Peculiar Crimes Unit had never looked clean, but at least all of the unfinished cabling, Bryant's dubious personal belongings and Crippen's litter tray had been shoved into storage cupboards. April had indulged her pa.s.sion for neatness, placing fresh-cut flowers on every desk and arranging every file, every chair, every pen and piece of paper in pristine symmetry. The unit wasn't quite fit for a queen, but it would do for a princess.

April coughed nervously. Colin checked his breath and dug for a mint. Giles stole a surrept.i.tious glance at his watch. Dan adjusted his boxers through his trousers. Janice pushed an errant coil of hair back in place and peeked at the opening door. Crippen rolled over onto his side and fell into a light doze. It was so unnaturally quiet that they heard the central heating thermostat turn itself off.

Rosemary Armstrong entered in a display of stiff hair and thick ankles, dressed in a peculiarly Tatler Tatler-ish arrangement of floral silk scarves that made her look like an ambulatory sideboard centrepiece from one of the less beloved National Trust homes. In an attempt to put everyone at ease, she sported an official smile that made even the cat wake up and move away.

Longbright leaned back into line with the others, disappointed to see that it was the Princess's a.s.sistant and not her bosses. The last she had heard, Arthur Bryant and John May had been collected by train, then a Royal Navy helicopter, to get them en route to Mornington Crescent for five o'clock, but it was now twelve minutes past and they were cutting it very fine indeed.

'The Princess has just arrived,' said Rosemary, cautiously sniffing the air. 'Everything shipshape here, yes?'

Longbright peered out through the sleet-stained crescent window and saw the black Bentley parked in the cordoned-off street outside. As she watched, Leslie Faraday and Oskar Kasavian alighted onto the strangely clean pavement in tight black suits and narrow ties, looking like agents of Beelzebub.

Raymond Land spoke out of the side of his mouth. 'It's gone five, Janice. Where the h.e.l.l are they?'

'I don't know, sir. I spoke to the pilot and he swore he could get them here in time.'

Land had arranged for the Princess to be shown some of the unit's case histories before meeting its most senior detectives. He would lead her to his smartened office in the company of Rosemary and several other palace heavies, to a display they had prepared for the BBC some months earlier. She would not enjoy it, he had been warned, but she would at least give the semblance of being interested. There were pictures; it would be easy to follow. The unit had very little in the way of expensive new equipment that could be demonstrated. Its history was by nature anecdotal, ephemeral and at times downright vague, but it was woven into the very fabric of London's colourful history, and was probably more interesting than opening a swimming pool or being shown around a pumping station.

Kasavian leaned into the room with his arm outstretched and ushered in an immaculately coiffured blond woman whose wealth had mitigated the imprints of age. She raised the faint ghost of a smile as she was introduced to each member of staff, as if dimly recalling a happy moment from her childhood. Armstrong stood with her hands clasped over her skirt like a footballer on the ten-yard line waiting for someone to take a penalty. She showed the level of boredom rich people showed when being told about the lives of the poor. Occasionally she glanced in the direction of whoever was speaking and nodded, but her mind was dwelling on old slights, recent snubs and pastel place settings.

Faraday was ignored and virtually dismissed from the room as Kasavian took charge of the Princess's pa.s.sage, rather like a tugboat drawing an elegant old steamship into a tricky harbour. Longbright could see that he was also glancing furtively around the room while he distracted the Princess's attention, looking for something embarra.s.sing with which to collapse this house of cards. He needed to reduce the royal personage to a state of mortification, or even mild shock, so that he could race back to Whitehall and place his observations on file before the mortar of his outrage had a chance to set. He had decided that the best way to do this was to lead the Princess to the office that Bryant and May shared and loudly announce them, opening the door with a flourish, only to reveal a pair of empty leather armchairs.

He already knew what he would say, that it appeared the unit's most long-serving officers of the law had not seen fit to be here on the most auspicious occasion in its history, and had, he'd been told, chosen to attend a spiritualists' convention instead of further inspiring the Princess's keen interest in modern policing procedure. How disappointing, he would tut to Land, shaking his head sadly, how terribly rude, more than a mere breach of protocol, a defiantly thumbed nose from a precious coterie of leftie liberals to the reigning monarchy and its hardworking national law enforcement network. Such an act could not be allowed to pa.s.s without repercussions.

With the unit's lineup fully introduced and murmured to in tiny hushed phrases that required no answer other than Yes, ma'am, Yes, ma'am, the Princess and her flotilla drifted on towards Bryant and May's office. the Princess and her flotilla drifted on towards Bryant and May's office.

'And this, Your Royal Highness, is the nerve centre of the unit,' said Oskar Kasavian, twisting the door handle before her. 'Mr Arthur Bryant and Mr John May are the longest-serving detectives in the London Metropolitan Police force, and the Peculiar Crimes Unit owes its existence entirely to their efforts. Through their presence here today, I'm sure they are anxious to express their feelings about the unit's royal patronage.' Barely able to suppress a smirk of victory, he opened the door to the empty room.

Except that it wasn't empty.

The two detectives were exactly where they usually were, in place behind their respective leather-topped desks. Admittedly, their suits were a little crumpled, their ties slightly askew, and they both looked as though they had been caught doing something mischievous, but they were as presentably arranged as they were ever likely to be for a meeting with royalty.

They had entered via the emergency exit from the tube station. Kasavian was lost for words. His mouth opened, then closed again. He stared back at Faraday as thunderclouds extinguished the light in his amber eyes.

John May rose from his chair with a creak and stood respectfully at attention. Arthur Bryant followed suit, coming around from behind his desk, grinning with his big white false teeth as he stuck out both hands and clasped hers, shaking her arm vigorously. The Princess looked faintly alarmed, and glanced back for help.

'Most fabulously pleasurable to meet you, your highly royal ladyshipness,' he enthused. 'If you would care to step into our humble abode, perhaps we might be permitted to reveal to you some of the extraordinary secrets of our mysterious profession. Don't be scared, we're not mad or anything.' And with that he kicked the door shut, stranding Rosemary Armstrong, Faraday, Kasavian, Land and everyone else out in the corridor.

They looked at one another in confusion, then watched the closed door, waiting for it to open again. When nothing happened, they coughed politely in their fists and waited in silence like party guests queueing for the toilet.

After four minutes had pa.s.sed, Rosemary Armstrong ostentatiously checked her watch. 'The Princess has an incredibly tight schedule,' she told Kasavian, managing to make the statement sound vaguely gynaecological.

He studied her with compressed lips, then tentatively tried the door, only to find that it would not budge.

'What's the matter?' asked Rosemary.

'They've locked it,' said Land, always happy to state the obvious.

'Why would they do that?' asked Kasavian. 'Do they have something to say to her in private?'

n.o.body answered. As the minutes stretched by, the group shuffled closer to the door, and whether they realised it or not, listened intently. They heard the sound of ice tinkling into gla.s.s, then a shriek of laughter, then something that resembled a spring being stretched and released, then an old recording from Iolanthe Iolanthe played on a Victrola phonograph, then more muted laughter and finally a blast on something like a naval foghorn. played on a Victrola phonograph, then more muted laughter and finally a blast on something like a naval foghorn.

When the door was finally unlocked and swung open, the Princess emerged with her immaculate blond hair askew, gla.s.sy eyes and a strange smile on her face. She was also humming to herself. As she pa.s.sed Kasavian, ignoring them all, the Home Office security supervisor distinctly caught a whiff of tobacco and gin.

When the others had followed her out, Kasavian stormed into the smoky room and slapped a skeletal white hand on Bryant's desk. 'What the h.e.l.l was going on in here?' he angrily hissed under his breath. But Bryant merely smiled and shrugged.

Princess Beatrice did not speak another word to anyone until long after she had left the unit, and when Bryant and May finally emerged from their room they refused to divulge to anyone what had taken place. However, while she was clearing up, Sergeant Longbright found some candid photographs of the British royal family taken at a party in Cowes in 1935, an empty bottle of Gordon's Gin and something that looked distinctly like the remains of a joint under Bryant's desk. There also appeared to have been a small fire in the bin.

When Oskar Kasavian rang Rosemary Armstrong two days later and enquired by periphrastic means about the Princess's visit to the unit, he was harshly warned never to mention it again. Furthermore, when he ventured to suggest that the Princess might have an opinion concerning the possible future of the Peculiar Crimes Unit, he was told in no uncertain terms that if anyone's future was at all in doubt, it was most likely to be his own.

50

OLDER AND WILDER

'You're probably wondering why I called you here,' said Arthur Bryant as Giles Kershaw approached him through the traffic-blackened slush on Waterloo Bridge. Above them the sky had cleared but for a single blossom of cloud. Along the river, the arms of cranes drifted back and forth, as if the buildings were sprouting limbs and trying to rise.

'I know this is where you and John usually take a stroll of a summer evening,' said Kershaw, flicking back his hair in what had lately become a nervous tic, 'but I rather thought you'd be fed up with being outside in the cold by now.'

'Oh, we've been out in the cold for years,' replied Bryant cheerfully. 'We always like to come and look at all of this.' He waved his walking stick over the London view, nearly poking a pa.s.serby in the eye. 'After Dartmoor, Waterloo Bridge is like the Bahamas. Besides, I don't trust the countryside, all mud and methane. I suppose you want to know the outcome of your reappraisal for the position of PCU pathologist.'

'Actually, before you say anything I want to apologise.' Kershaw looked down at the kerb, contrite. 'When I moved Lilith Starr's body, it never occurred to me that she might have been the cause of Oswald's death. I should have stopped to think about what had happened before acting. Instead, I was everything that Finch accused me of being. He was right to turn me down for the position. I wasn't ready to handle the job.'

'Perhaps not,' Bryant agreed, 'but I think you are now. You acted for Oswald's sake, instead of merely obeying the letter of the law.'

Kershaw was not entirely convinced. 'Renfield acted for the sake of his young recruit, but now he'll always blame himself for that girl's death.'

'We have no way of knowing if she could have been saved, Giles. It was Oswald who came up with such a drastic way of reviving her. In an ideal world, Owen Mills would have been able to tell everyone about his love for Lilith Starr, and who she really was, but sadly that's not how real life is, and you recognised that. You protected all of them. Which is why John, Janice and I have decided to recommend you for the position of unit pathologist. Here, I have a little something for you.' Bryant dug into the vast pocket of his disintegrating overcoat and produced an extendable radio antenna. 'It belonged to Oswald. He used it in every lecture he ever gave me about causes of death.'

'Oh, er, thank you.' Kershaw accepted the antenna with some puzzlement.

'My pleasure. Now buzz off, there's a good chap. I'm meeting John for a pint of bitter at The Anchor. But do come and chat to me anytime. My door is always open.' Bryant clasped his hands behind his back and faced the stone bal.u.s.trade, watching the boats below.

Only he could turn Waterloo Bridge into his office, thought Kershaw, smiling to himself as he headed back towards the sooty canyon of the Strand. thought Kershaw, smiling to himself as he headed back towards the sooty canyon of the Strand.

Bryant found his partner ruminatively rooting inside a bag of crisps in the riverside bar of The Anchor. Although it was late afternoon, the pub was unusually empty. Brackish light filtered into the saloon as if pa.s.sing through an emulsifier. 'Ah, there you are,' he said. 'I was beginning to think you'd stood me up. Did you talk to Kershaw?'

'You realise that by promoting him, we're reducing the size of the PCU by one?' said Bryant. 'You don't suppose Kasavian will allow us to recruit someone if I promise to tell him what went on with Princess Beatrice, do you?'

'Would you tell him?' asked May.

'Oh, of course not, I'd just make up any old rubbish. It's worth a try, although I don't suppose he'll stop now until he finds a way to shut us down for good.' He irritably tapped a coin on the bar. 'I say there, any danger of getting some service?' He turned to May. 'They can't get the staff, either. The barmaid who used to work here had a face like a rhino's right b.u.t.tock but by G.o.dfrey she knew how to pull a decent pint. What flavour are those?' Bryant pulled a crisp from the packet and held it to the light. 'Pea and ham? How disgusting. You know, I was thinking about poor Johann Bellocq on the way here.'

'Oh?'

'He came to a sticky end after a brief lifetime filled with misery, didn't he? I wonder if he felt he was fated to be betrayed by a woman, and willed his destiny upon himself? He'd had old-time religion hammered into him to the point where it drove him to commit the ultimate sin of matricide. True, he eventually earned his forgiveness at the hands of nuns, but the trauma clearly haunted him, overshadowing any chance he had of forming normal relationships. He'd drifted from town to town, getting involved in petty crime, because in his heart he knew there could be no end to his torment. And so he contrived to meet a woman so damaged by her own beauty that she could only confirm his deepest fears. Makes you think that the great tragedies of our lives are built into us as surely as DNA, and proliferate quietly and inexorably, like cancer cells.'

'Perhaps,' May conceded, looking out through lead-light windows at the hesperidian sky. 'But if you follow the line of fate further back, you get to Kate Summerton, who spent her life trying to heal abused women, only to step across the line that divides good intentions from harmful influence. You might argue that Madeline Gilby was searching for someone who would confirm her neuroses. Bellocq suffered at the hands of women, Gilby suffered at the hands of men, and the pair were drawn into a relationship that destroyed them both. These tangles seem to lie in every one of our lives; we rarely have the self-knowledge to cut them free until it's too late.' He pa.s.sed Bryant a beer. 'I believe we're going to get a rather lurid sunset.'

'It's nice having a free Friday to ourselves,' said Bryant. 'Although I wouldn't want many of them in a row.'

'Oh, I think we still have work ahead of us yet,' said May, glancing around the almost deserted saloon. 'Tell me, do you ever regret not finding another partner after Nathalie?'

'Oh, don't worry about me, there have been plenty of ladies whose company I've enjoyed,' said Bryant finally, creaking back on his stool, 'but never enough to marry. I always knew I would prove a disappointment to them. Very few men make perfect husbands, let alone policemen. Women like partners they don't have to worry about all the time. You hardly ever talk about your own marriage, you know. It's obviously a painful subject for you.'

'Our family tree had poisoned roots,' said May enigmatically. 'Madness and death followed us like shadows.'

'I know how your daughter Elizabeth died, of course, but you never talk about what happened to your wife.'

'One day I'll take you to meet her,' said May, sipping his beer thoughtfully, 'then you'll understand.'

For once, Bryant had been caught by surprise. He stared at his partner as if seeing him for the first time. 'Oh' was all he could manage.

'Do you believe in the afterlife?' asked May suddenly, turning to him.