Strange Tide (2 page)

Boadicea waved a ringed finger in the direction of Raymond Land's first-floor window in the Peculiar Crimes Unit. ‘I've learned that the bloke who sits in that room doesn't do any work,' she said.

Across the road from Boadicea in the offices of the PCU, two rooms along from where Bryant and May sat, Land also stared down into the street, just as he had on the Monday morning before he or anyone else at the PCU had ever heard of the Bride in the Tide murder . . .

Look at it
, Land thought,
King's Bloody Cross, the armpit of the northern hemisphere. I looked out of the window earlier this morning thinking there was a rare bird in that tree opposite, but it turned out to be a pigeon with a plastic bag stuck over its head. I know how it feels. What do I have to do to get out of here, apart from die?

With an exhausted sigh he sat at his desk and examined the ‘Lifemates' dating form on his screen once more.

Tick the Adjective that Best Describes Your Personality:

Assertive. Serious. Amusing. Calm. Outgoing. Adventurous.

He ticked ‘Outgoing'. Just last week the City of London Police Commissioner had described him in a meeting as ‘our outgoing head of analogue services'. He moved on to the next question.

Tick the Adjective that Best Sums Up Your Approach to Life:

Daring. Cautious. Analytical. Impetuous. Outrageous. Risk-Averse.

He hovered over ‘Cautious' but finally ticked ‘Risk-Averse'.

Tick the Adjective that Friends Are Most Likely to Use When Describing You to Others:

Charming. Witty. Intellectual. Powerful. Courageous. Manly.

After staring at the choice for a full minute he irritably shut the page and turned his attention to more important things: namely, the weekly spreadsheet his detective sergeant had prepared for him.

Peculiar Crimes Unit

The Old Warehouse

231 Caledonian Road

STAFF ROSTER MONDAY 18 NOVEMBER

Raymond Land, Unit Chief
Arthur Bryant, Senior Detective
John May, Senior Detective
Janice Longbright, Detective Sergeant
Dan Banbury, Crime Scene Manager
Fraternity DuCaine, Information/Technology
Meera Mangeshkar, Detective Constable
Colin Bimsley, Detective Constable
Giles Kershaw, Forensic Pathologist (off-site)
Crippen, staff cat

Having checked that the date was correct he thought for a moment about what he should dictate, then decided it was better not to think because he would only get himself into a tangle. Instead he clicked the microphone symbol on the screen to make it start recording and emptied his mind into a staff memo, as he did every Monday morning.

PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL MEMO

FROM: RAYMOND LAND

TO: ALL PCU STAFF

Well, I never expected our handling of the so-called ‘Burning Man' case to earn us a commendation, but I didn't think the Police Commissioner would actually insult us in public. At the Benevolent Society Fundraising Dinner last night he told everyone that the Peculiar Crimes Unit reminded him of a Remington typewriter, ‘noisy, slow and cumbersome, but still capable of hammering out results if you punched it hard enough'. The Met officer next to me laughed so hard that trifle came down his nose.

This is all your fault. Do I have to remind you yet again of this unit's remit? We're here to ‘prevent crimes capable of causing social panic, violent disorder and general malaise in the public areas of the city, without alarming the populace or alerting it to ongoing operations'. That's a direct quote from the original ‘Particular' Crimes Unit handbook of 1947, and it means you don't throw the baby out with the bathwater.

In our most recent investigation you not only threw the baby out with the bathwater, you killed the baby and burned down the bathroom. You upset everyone from the Governor of the Bank of England to the executive board of the Better Business Bureau, while managing to ruin the nation's biggest firework display in the process. The idea is to get the public to trust us. That means not having to duck into doorways when they walk past. Good God, if I'd wanted to be feared and hated I'd have joined the Special Branch.

Why do I feel like I'm dealing with a bunch of bright students who can't resist sticking a traffic cone on a statue of Winston Churchill? Sometimes I sit here trying to imagine ways in which this unit could be more disrespected than it already is. Maybe Mr Bryant could apply for a post as a Selfridge's Santa this Christmas and traumatize hundreds of small children, or you could falsely arrest a national treasure: Dame Judi Dench perhaps, or Paddington Bear.

From now on, none of you makes a move without me approving it first, do you understand? Do nothing. If you're struck by an epiphany, sit on your hands. Pretend you're in the Met. You don't catch them thinking. Take a leaf out of their book; if you come up with a unique way of single-handedly slashing the capital's crime rate, go to Costa Coffee and read
Hello!
magazine until you've forgotten it. You're not here to innovate, you're here to keep a few seats warm in an outmoded government department until it expires.

And just for once, can you not go around arresting high-ranking government officials and public figures? We're supposed to be engaged in police investigations, not class warfare.

There are days when I honestly miss the Metropolitan Police Service. It would be nice to catch an Essex plumber with a car boot full of lead for a change. I'd be very happy to go back to the days of shining an anglepoise in some nonce's face and taking away his fags until he talks, but that's not how we're meant to do it any more. The City of London wants us to ‘engage in meaningful dialogue' every time some junked-up razzhead carrying bolt-cutters swears blind he was on his way to the shops at two a.m. and tweets accusations of harassment while you're questioning him. The Met can hire yoga instructors and take young offenders to the opera for all I care. What their officers do is no concern of mine. Not my circus, not my monkeys.

I care about what happens to this unit. I used to dread coming to work in the mornings, but that was before I realized I'd never swing a transfer so now I'm making the best of it, and so should you. After all, you nick all the most interesting cases. Met officers are so busy untangling neighbourhood disputes about bin bags that they never get to find headless bodies in canals. That's why they hate us so much: we have job satisfaction. We're a crack team of highly skilled professionals.

(
Indistinct
.) Don't spill it in the saucer, Janice. Aren't there any custard creams? I thought we had – Look, now I've got tea all over my trousers.

‘I think he means “pariahs”,' said John May, reading the memo aloud to the rest of the staff, an occupation which afforded them weekly amusement.

So can you not go around making matters worse? Take a tip from my ex-wife. Whenever you start to feel passionate about something, eat an orange and do the
Daily Mail
crossword.

A word about the chain of command. All investigations must come to us via the City of London HQ in Love Lane. Cases can only be opened once we've received full clearance from Leslie Faraday, their public liaison officer. I know he's an utter tool but he has his uses, so try buttering him up a bit. Dan, that means not pretending to be Chinese when he rings your direct line. You can't do the accent and it just sounds racist.

STAFF BULLETINS

All right, some housekeeping. Our dustman – sorry,
disposal operative
– has complained that he lost his fingerprints after handling something one of you left by the back door in a Tesco bag. I know I told you to use bags but this one leaked after eating its way through the carpet tiles outside Mr Bryant's office. I saw
Alien
, I know how these things turn out. Acids, combustibles and other toxic materials don't go into the sinks or the bins. And certainly not down the toilet, as Colin discovered last week to his discomfort.

You'll notice we are now down to a staff of nine, but if everyone works a bit harder we can make up for the shortfall caused by Jack Renfield suddenly leaving us. I understand we were planning to hold a little party for him, but he'd already cleared out his desk and left before anyone had a chance to sign his card. Perhaps he had a train to catch. Or he simply didn't like us. Maybe Janice would care to explain what happened, and why she returned his staff card by attaching it to my desk with a nail-gun.

The two Daves are staying with us for another month because the first floor still has too much electricity. If you want to use the light switch in the upstairs toilet make sure you're wearing rubber gloves.

There's some kind of a tomb in the basement. If anyone knows what an eight-foot box with symbols scratched all over it is doing down there, could they come and tell me? It's probably just an old electrical substation, but until we know for sure I don't want you calling up any of your weird contacts. We can do without druids dancing around it burning herbs and singing in funny voices.

After the banking riots some of you had the nerve to put in expense claims for fire-damaged uniforms. This is a crime unit, not Top Shop. No one expects you to look good. Look at me: I've resigned myself to living in unironed shirts until I get married again.

Dan Banbury tells me we're to be issued with tablets. I told him I thought it was about time as I'd finished my ex-wife's supply of anti-depressants, but it turns out he means electronic notebooks. Why you can't use pads and pencils is beyond me. But then, most things are these days.

I've decided we should take turns choosing films for the PCU's Saturday Night Cinema Club. Meera's choice,
The Assassination of Trotsky
, wasn't exactly a thigh-slapper, so this week's film will be one of my favourites.
Carry On Up the Khyber
will start at eight p.m.; bring your own snacks. No kebabs this time, Colin.

The fumigators will be in during the week as we have an infestation of cockroaches that's even worse than Crippen's infamous flea outbreak. I've been assured it won't smell any worse than Mr Bryant's pipe. Speaking of whom, Mr Bryant isn't feeling very perky at the moment. I've asked him to take some time off and he has agreed to take it easy until he gets – that is – if – er . . .

(Pause.)

‘I'm sure he didn't mean it like that, Arthur,' said May. ‘Don't do anything to him that you'll regret.'

In the meantime, just get on with your work, and remember I'm the king around here from now on, so no funny business.

Several years before Boadicea sat on a wall in King's Cross, and several oceans away, a more desperate situation was unfolding off the Libyan coast.

Freezing water, icy sky; it was so dark that Ali could not tell one from the other. There was no breath of a breeze. The glassine depths mirrored the universe. He tilted his head to one side, and thought for a moment that the world had turned over. There was no sound but the faint creak of wood and here or there a cough, a rustle, as someone stirred in uneasy sleep. Those awake kept silent, such was their fear of discovery.

Only Ali Bensaud made a sound. He shook his head and whispered, ‘It's taking too long. Why won't he run the engine?'

Ismael Rahman shrugged. ‘He says his company doesn't give him enough gasoline to make the round trip. He is lying. He's pocketing the money.'

Ali passed his friend the Russian vodka bottle that had been refilled with
bokha
. Ismael took a swig that caught in his throat. He wiped his mouth. ‘I keep thinking it was wrong to run away.'

‘Half of bravery is running away, brother,' said Ali.

‘But my business is in Tripoli. To leave my homeland—'

‘What is homeland?' Ali shook his head. ‘I have no loyalty to Libya. My parents are Armenian. My name is short for Alishan; that's a traditional Armenian name.'

‘You tell me this once a day,' said Ismael. ‘But you've lived there all your life—'

‘Yes, and now I will live somewhere else. I will make it to England and be more English than the most English man alive.' His grin shone in the dark. ‘I will make so much money that we will wash in it. You know why? The English are Britons, and where did they first travel from? Armenia! Libya is your homeland, not mine. What is left for me there?' He shifted closer, lowering his voice. ‘The Martyrs Brigade is using missile launchers on its own people. You've seen such things with your own eyes. I have a clever tongue, but how many more times could I get caught by the militiamen and talk my way out of it? My own father threatened to turn me in. You know this to be true.'