On the Loose (28 page)

‘Arthur, there’s no time left for this kind of—
excavation
. We need to know everything about Cavendish’s movements—who he met, where he went, who his friends were, if there’s anything missing from his desk or his home. Because it still looks like somebody is out to stop ADAPT from continuing with their project.’

‘He lives in Brighton,’ said Bryant. ‘Commutes up every morning. We won’t get any help from the Brighton police. We’ll lose a day sending someone down.’

‘DuCaine, handle this with Longbright,’ said May. ‘Hit Cavendish’s office hard and work through all of his business contacts, then go to Brighton when you’ve finished and do the same there. Two of you will do it in half the time. I can’t take Dan off the crime scene.’

‘This is insane,’ Meera protested. ‘How are we supposed to make an arrest? We. Have. No. Suspects. Do. You. Understand?’

‘Oh, we’ve done it before,’ said Bryant cheerfully.

‘With all due respect, sir, you’ve given us a bloke dressed as a deer—’

‘A stag.’

‘And bugger-all else.’

May held up a hand. ‘Let him do it his way, Meera. At this stage it’s not going to make a lot of difference.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bryant. ‘You know, I think this is a very important case for us. The answer lies less in uncovering an identity and more about understanding why it has happened.’

‘A man is going around beheading unconnected strangers and you’re not interested in blaming anyone?’ Meera was horrified. ‘Tell that to Cavendish’s family when they ask you where his ears are.’ She turned to May. ‘Honestly, the way you encourage him!’

‘Listen, Meera,’ said May softly, ‘a week ago he was ready to give up and die. I’d rather have him back in the field investigating feudal rights and necromantic rituals than leave him at home to rot. It doesn’t make any difference to the investigation. Show some respect for once in your life.’

The makeshift interview room filled up with arguing members of staff. The rain which seemed to fall so frequently on King’s Cross grew steadily heavier until it split the blackened drainpipes and gutters of the warehouse, dampening the warren of rooms where once occultists and magicians had fought over spells and incantations.

35
A VIBRATION IN THE AIR

A
rthur Bryant’s chair creaked back as he studied the damp patches on the ceiling. The rain ticked against the windows. The dusty bare bulb above them fritzed. ‘What do you know about chaos theory?’ he asked.

‘A small change in initial conditions can drastically alter the long-term behaviour of a system,’ said May without looking up. ‘Invented in 1961.’

‘You’re probably wondering why I want to know.’

‘Nothing you ever say or do surprises me anymore, Arthur.’

‘I’m thinking about the sheer number of people who pass through this area. Instead of asking ourselves why there’s so much crime, why aren’t we asking why there’s so little? Every type of person, every walk of life, all brushing up against each other, everyone in a different mental state. Why aren’t they all randomly slaughtering one another over trespassed territory and differences of creed?’

‘They’ve been sedated by a steady diet of celebrity gossip, alcohol and junk food.’ May looked up at his partner. Bryant was
thinking
. Always a worrying sign.

‘Clearly social conventions prevail, but I think that each of their little butterfly movements, every flapping wing, disturbs the filthy air of King’s Cross a little. Their lives touch each other
faintly, but they carry the effect away with them to other places. Imagine—an embittered, lonely man passing through the station sees a beautiful young woman and feels a pang of sadness for the life he never had with her. That feeling contributes, in a tiny way, to his future actions. You see what I’m getting at?’

‘No. Your every utterance is a mystery to me, Arthur. Am I supposed to find relevance in this to our investigation, to see that in some indirect way it will help us locate a murderer?’

‘You must agree that we resolve situations by understanding motivation.’

‘And you think reading a book on chaos theory will help you do that?’

‘Well, all crimes ultimately reduce down to cause and effect, and I’ve a feeling this will more than most.’

‘You’ve a feeling? Is that it? A trembling in the air that will shape itself into a dirty great big arrow that points at a murderer? Can you find me something concrete? Preferably by lunchtime?’

Bryant looked at him very gravely. ‘I’ll do my best, of course,’ he said, gathering his hat. ‘I may have to take some very unusual steps to do so.’

‘No, tell me,’ said May. ‘We’ve been partners for long enough; I should at least have some vague inkling of how your mind works.’

Bryant stopped and ruminated for a moment. Crippen was about to enter the room when he saw Bryant and thought better of it. ‘Well, you remember the Highwayman? How we had no idea what his motive might be? In this case we have a company armed with a genetic determination to turn a massive profit, and the need to remove any obstacles in its way. But if the victims were obstacles, we are left with three seemingly random deaths using the same bizarre mutilation, so our first supposition
must be mitigated. It’s like mechanics versus technology. With something like, oh, let’s say the engine of a 1959 Ford Popular, if something went wrong you worked out what was wrong and put it right, and then it would work. With a modern computer, if something’s wrong you leave it for a minute and try again and then it works, for no known reason.’

‘That is the least satisfactory explanation I’ve ever heard for anything,’ said May, exasperated. ‘Either we’re looking at a case of sinister property dealings or we’re hunting a monster—they can’t both be right.’

‘Well, that’s where I think you’re wrong. There are common factors to all three deaths. Look.’ Bryant held up a Google Map printout with three sites ringed in red felt-tip pen. ‘Here’s where the bodies were found. Draw a line between them and you get a rough triangle.’ He tapped the sheet with his pen. ‘What’s in the middle of it?’

May squinted at the page. In the centre stood St Pancras Old Church. ‘Oh, I get it. You’re going to tell me they were murdered by a deranged pagan who still believes in an ancient head-severing sacrificial rite.’

‘It would be tempting to believe so, because of the date.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Sacrificial ceremonies associated with the severing of the head traditionally climax at the end of the third week in May, so his timing is spot-on. But I certainly think it’s someone who knows the churchyard well.’

‘Why? What in Heaven’s name has that got to do with it?’

‘Simply this. Try to think of another place in Central London so utterly desolate that you could dispose of the bodies of three grown men without being picked up on CCTV. There are a few cemeteries, I suppose, but they’re nearly all locked at night. It has to be someone who’s familiar with the churchyard and its
immediate surroundings—the biggest construction site in the city. I just have to find a way to vibrate the air. I have to force him out.’

‘Arthur, you may have a point there but please, we need to present a united front on this. Go and hang out with your necromancers and astrologers, but come back with some tangible proof.’

‘Jolly good. I shall do just that.’

‘Fine. And call me if you get stuck.’ May watched, shaking his head in wonder, as his old friend looped his scarf around his neck, took up his walking stick and stumped off along the corridor, into darkness.

36
ST PANCRAS DAY

E
d Tremble, Camden Council’s land registry officer, seemed to be more covered in dust than ever. Bryant was starting to wonder if they stored the man in a broom cupboard overnight. There were fresh flecks of white in his hair. He caught Bryant staring and apologised.

‘Oh, I was painting my kitchen ceiling last night. It’s emulsion.’

Bryant threw him a disbelieving glance, then shifted Maggie Armitage into his line of vision. ‘This is my friend Mrs Armitage,’ he explained. ‘She’s going to help me go through the files.’

‘Hello, Mrs Armitage. Are you an archivist?’ asked Tremble.

‘No, love, I’m a witch. A white one, so don’t disturb yourself.’

‘Ha-ha, very good.’ Tremble looked unsure whether it was good or not. ‘I’ve laid out all the documents you asked for.’ On the plans chest before them a large-scale ordinance survey map had been constructed from dozens of separate overlapping pages, taped together. ‘I’ll just be in my cupboard when you need me.’

I knew it
, thought Bryant.

‘That’s mine, just down there.’ Tremble pointed to a wooden cubicle filled with precarious stacks of folders and shambled off.

‘I like him; he’s come in useful to you, he has the aura for it. So—what are we looking for?’ Maggie rubbed her hands together briskly, jangling her bracelets. It was freezing in the basement of the land records office.

‘Mr Tremble has assembled copies of all of the land rights the ADAPT Group purchased before it could submit its plans to the council for approval,’ Bryant explained. ‘The answer’s here among these documents. This case is about ownership.’

‘I don’t understand why you’re so sure.’

‘Maddox Cavendish had helped to buy land for ADAPT, and Terry Delaney was hired to help clear it. That leaves Adrian Jesson, who has no connections with the company beyond the fact that his body was found near its offices. Jesson was an obsessive-compulsive, involved in a bitter feud with a rival collector of memorabilia named Richard Standover. It turns out that Standover lives with Jesson’s sister in Spain, so Jesson has another reason to hate him.’

‘Has anyone checked up on him?’

‘Janice found out that Standover was in Majorca with the sister on the day his rival was murdered, so that’s a dead end.’

‘It doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved. You should have him brought in.’

‘Comic-book collector psychically slaughters three while holidaying abroad? Doesn’t seem very likely.’ He groped in his overcoat pocket and produced something that looked like a ball of brown modelling clay. ‘Do you want some of this?’

Maggie examined the lump with suspicion. ‘I don’t know. What is it?’

‘Carrot cake with yoghurt icing. It’s come out of its packet.’

‘No, thanks. I’m trying to lose weight.’

‘I can’t imagine why. It’s not as if you make an effort to attract men.’

‘I want to feel good about myself. Don’t be so horrible. Your aura turns a very unhealthy shade of heliotrope when you’re rude to people. Beneath the witch I’m a woman, you know. I do have feelings.’

‘Well, can you not? We need to get back to the map. I want to see if ADAPT bought everything legally. I don’t want to go back through the past property owners or check the original boundary lines—we’ll be here forever if I do that. What we do is place the last owner’s deed details on top of each property and see if that turns up any anomalies.’

‘This is such a boy’s job,’ Maggie complained. ‘Making lists and rearranging the order of things.’

‘You offered to help.’

‘Only because Daphne is servicing my boiler this morning and I can’t get in the kitchen. She wanted to place it under an enchantment but I told her to use a wrench.’

They worked in quiet harmony for an hour, but Tremble had done most of the preparation for them. Soon they had filled the great triangular map of land with names, addresses, dates and purchase prices.

Bryant pointed at the map. ‘So, this area to the east was entirely covered in factories and light industrial units … But on the other side of the canal there were five rows of terraced houses. The canal itself and the paths on either side of it are owned by British Waterways. That just leaves this bit, here.’ He tapped a small oblong plot on the map. ‘No name. Open space?’

‘No, it was part of a street called—hang on, I saw it here a minute ago—Camley Lane. It should have an owner.’

‘It’s right at the centre of the company’s plan for the extension to the shopping mall. They can’t build on it without the transfer of title.’

‘Look, there are three others in the same street that changed owners during the Second World War.’

‘A typical bombing pattern,’ Bryant pointed out. ‘One house wasn’t rebuilt, and it doesn’t look like the owner ever sold on the property deeds.’ He summoned Ed Tremble from his cupboard. ‘Ed, there are no property deeds for number eleven, Camley Lane.’

‘Interesting that you picked this one. It was bombed flat during the war. The remains of the house were pulled down and the site was cleared. A small local jam factory occupied the site for five or six years in the fifties. After that it became a café and then a pub, first the Tothele Manor Tavern and then the Stag’s Head, and eventually that also closed.’

‘It’s as if the ground itself was bad luck,’ remarked Maggie.

‘The company wanted permission to build on the land, but due to the property’s tangled history there’s no current deed of ownership on file.’

‘What happens in that situation?’ asked Bryant.

‘According to British law an occupier must last for eleven years on a piece of property in this area before claiming the right to own it, so I imagine the land belonged not to the pub or the jam factory, but to the original owner of the bombed-out house.’

‘Why?’

‘Because most of the pre-war owners in this street were on their land for far longer than eleven years, and it would have been officially registered in the resident’s name.’

‘And if ADAPT can’t locate the deeds?’

‘They have to wait for the time limit to be reached.’

‘But they’re preparing to build on that section beside the canal right now. Are they acting illegally?’

‘Not necessarily. They might have timed their work order to commence from the date of expiration.’

‘Is there any way of finding out the actual expiration date?’

‘Give me a minute.’ Tremble disappeared.

‘Corporate skulduggery,’ said Maggie while they waited for his return. ‘You’re thinking they turned to murder, aren’t you, Arthur?’