Strange Tide (30 page)

Bryant took the Victoria line to Oxford Circus and walked back to the company's wholesale shop. When he entered, stepping carefully between white-lace bridal gowns, two young women so thin that they resembled praying mantises came forward to shoo him out.

‘No no no,' said one briskly, ‘if you're here about the bins we've had them taken off the pavement.'

Bryant removed his PCU card and held it at arm's length to ward them off.

‘Oh, I'm frightfully sorry,' she said, reading it. ‘There was a tramp here last week going through our rubbish—'

‘And you thought I was a paraffin,' said Bryant, irritated. ‘Next time I'll wear my Chanel. Meanwhile, I'd like to speak to Jade Curtis. Is she here?'

‘I'll get her,' said one of the mantises, beating an awkward retreat.

They sat together at a tiny white plastic table in the back of the store. Although the room was overheated, Bryant felt an odd chill. Jade Curtis was a pleasant-faced ebony-haired woman in her late twenties who looked as if she hadn't slept well for six months.

‘I blame myself for not taking control of the situation earlier,' she said. ‘When someone you love dies like that, well, of course you examine the past. If there's anything you can tell me—'

‘I'm afraid I'm not here with answers,' said Bryant. ‘I'm working on a case unconnected with your mother's death.'

‘Then I don't understand—'

‘At least it seems to be unconnected,' Bryant added hastily. ‘It may be nothing, but if you could hear me out? I understand that your mother underwent psychological evaluation sometime after she went to live in Thailand?'

‘How could you know that?'

‘I checked her medical records.'

‘I thought doctors couldn't talk about their patients.'

‘Your mother's death required an inquest. What did she do while she was in the Far East?'

Jade ran a piece of silk material over her fingers, back and forth, a nervous habit. ‘She was always very driven. She staged fashion events around the world, and the pressure eventually got to her. After my father left she moved to Phuket and lived there for a while. When she returned she suffered a nervous breakdown. She was put on medication to prevent any further episodes, but the regime was difficult because it made her put on weight. She tried every alternative therapy under the sun to replace the pills, but nothing worked. She was very unhappy about that.'

‘You think it was enough to make her want to kill herself?'

‘I talked to her doctor and he said no. But I know that without her meds she became very depressed.'

‘What actually happened on the night she died?'

‘She went out with her dog, a Staffordshire bull terrier – she often walked it late. She would drive to the towpath on the south side of the river at Hammersmith. The police thought she might have slipped and fallen in but there were no unusual marks on the bank. And there was a big flat rock on her foot. The police said she'd placed it there. I don't under-stand. How could this have a bearing on any other case?'

‘Would you say your mother was a pragmatic woman?' asked Bryant.

‘Very much so. Why?'

‘It's just that she did some things which were out of character.' He checked his notes. ‘Joining an anti-capitalist protest group, travelling alone around Greece, becoming a Buddhist. Would you say she felt lost?'

‘No.' Jade shook her head. ‘She just wanted to try all of the things she couldn't do when she was still with my father. She was a happy woman, full of passions and interests.'

‘Could you give me the name of her doctor?' Bryant asked. ‘I'd like to know a little more about her medication regime.'

‘I can do better than that,' Jade said. ‘I have all her pills right here, together with her medical notes. They were just returned to me. I didn't know what to do with them.' She rose and came back with a clear plastic bag. ‘Please take them if you think they'll help you in any way. Just let me know if you find anything. I loved her very much.'

Bryant made one more stop before heading back to the unit. The last time he had met Darcy Sarto he had spilled a glass of Rioja down Sarto's shirt at a book launch, not because the room had been crowded but because he wanted to shut him up. Sarto was an absurdly arrogant self-styled expert in the lore of London, about which he wrote a great many preposterous and fanciful doorstops, but Bryant realized he might have some information to share, so he called ahead and made his way to Biblio, the grand literary club in Whitehall where Sarto hung out with his chirruping acolytes.

The porter was clearly not happy about letting the detective inside. ‘Are you here for dinner?' he asked.

‘No, I've had me dinner, it's nearly time for me tea,' said Bryant, just to prove his working-class credentials. ‘I'll see myself up, I know the way.'

He passed between a pair of intricate ceramic-tiled pillars and made his way to the first floor, past marble busts of forgotten statesmen and dun-coloured paintings of high-collared noblemen, heading for the club bar, where he knew he would find Sarto.

‘I suppose you know it virtually has its own weather system?' said Sarto, swilling a brandy glass that looked as if it had been grafted on to his hand some time during the Thatcher years. His appearance had been described by desperate interviewers as ‘Pickwickian', ‘Falstaffian' and plain ‘portly'. A handful of other armchairs in the clubroom had occupants who ruffled themselves and resettled every now and again, rather like bats in a cave. ‘There's a breeze that blows across the river unlike anywhere else,' Sarto explained. ‘London's winds are generally westerly but not on the Thames, where it's south-west, stronger and colder than on the shores. In the eighteenth century it was infamous for plucking wigs off.' He released a series of short, sharp laughs that sound like geese being shot. Several bats fluttered disapprovingly.

‘Have you written a book on the subject?' Bryant asked.

‘Oh, probably.' Sarto twirled his free hand airily. ‘Who can honestly remember all that one has done? I probably won an award for it. I'm getting you a brandy; you look as if you need it.' An ancient waiter crept out of the gloom, took the order and retreated. ‘Where was I?'

‘Wind,' said Bryant.

‘Ah yes.' His thoughts changed direction. ‘The Grand Order of London Druids believe the Thames encourages death in order to start over again, an idea that recurs through the history of the river. Like all mystic landscapes it starts life in a sacred form and eventually becomes corrupted. In the case of the Thames it was exploited by industrialists, its magic destroyed by the pollutant of greed. But that doesn't stop some people from believing that it still brings death and rebirth, the core of any sacred belief. I remember Margaret Thatcher once said to me—'

‘Yes, your book about Mrs Thatcher is on my list,' said Bryant. He thought it best not to say which list. ‘The Thames is just a river. Why would people think it could grant rebirth?'

‘Because its nature is akin to religion. You can't trust the Thames any more than you can trust God, and like God it knows how to stage a good disaster.' The waiter crept back in, set down the brandy and crept off. ‘It washed away London Bridge with sweeping high tides that swallowed men and cattle, and burst its banks century after century. It could rise twelve feet in five hours and drown passers-by strolling on main roads. On a bitter January night in 1953 a great cliff of water moved up the Thames and drowned many in their beds, including, if I'm not mistaken, your great-uncle Charlie. He
was
living in the slums of Deptford, was he not?'

‘Yes, he was,' said Bryant, thinking back. ‘How would you know about that?' But he already had the answer to his question. Sarto made it his job to know about anyone who threatened his supremacy, and the detective was the only man who knew more about London than he did. The difference was that Bryant wore his learning with humility. Sarto had a fine mind that had been led astray by the sound of his own voice.

‘I'm surprised to see you still working,' Sarto was saying now. ‘Doesn't it bore you? Surely you'd be happier at home putting your feet up? It will never really change, you know. London will continue to appal and amaze in equal measure. Although murder is disappearing in the capital, isn't it? It always struck me as such a Victorian conceit.' He gave a theatrical shudder.

‘I'm sorry you think murder is unfashionable,' said Bryant, ‘but unexplained deaths still occur every day. Most go unnoticed, but when aggregated they create unrest. The city isn't quantifiable in mere numbers, Darcy. Ill humours arise; distrust of public services and corporations, disillusionment with one's fellow man. That's why the PCU still exists. You saw what happened during the banking riots. London is a place of vapours and residues. They have to be dispelled before they're allowed to infect the population.'

Sarto grimaced. ‘You sound like a sanitary engineer sprinkling Harpic around a lavatory bowl. Arthur, you really should raise yourself from the gutter.'

‘I was born in the gutter,' said Bryant, rising to leave. There was no point in talking to any more experts about the river. Back at the unit the rest of the staff would be data-trawling, analysing evidence, creating spreadsheets and cross-checking statements. May had been right; it was the only way to solve a case like this. Bryant couldn't help being naturally drawn to wilder suppositions, but the Thames had misled everyone who studied it.

Making his goodbyes, he replaced his hat and stepped back into the drizzle. It was now Wednesday evening, and approaching the moment when everything began to go terribly wrong.

‘I don't believe it,' May called to Colin Bimsley. ‘He's gone again. Is somebody helping him to escape? Did he slip past you?'

‘No, I thought Raymond was looking after him,' said Bimsley.

‘So did I,' said May, ‘but I can't find either of them. Raymond's not answering his mobile.'

‘Mr Bryant's tracker is on his desk,' said Dan, emerging from the detectives' office. ‘I thought he might leave it somewhere so I sewed another one into his overcoat.'

‘So you've got him?' asked May, relieved.

‘No, I've got his overcoat.'

May ran his fingers through his hair, thinking. ‘He could be anywhere. Take Meera and Fraternity with you and check around the block. I'll call Alma and Maggie – maybe they've spoken to him.'

‘What about King's Cross Station?' asked Banbury. ‘He often goes there when it's raining because it's under cover.'

‘Good idea,' May said. ‘This is the last bloody time. If I find him in one piece I'm going to lock him in his bedroom and throw away the key. Alma can slide his dinners under the door. He likes dover sole and pizza, he'll be fine.'

Arthur Bryant found himself at the station, but it wasn't King's Cross. It was Victoria. And that wasn't the only odd thing; the electronic dot-matrix destination board above his head had been replaced by one with green wooden slats that clattered as they rolled over to reveal the routes. The taste of Sarto's awful brandy had seared his mouth and he looked around for a coffee shop, but there was only an ancient WHSmith stand surrounded by porters pushing a convoy of two-wheeled trolleys. In front of the platforms, stacks of rectangular brown leather suitcases were piled in geometric mountains.

Bryant pulled his scarf free and looked up. Everything was brown; the walls were streaked with dirt and the glass roof was sepia with soot. Some of the men wore belted overcoats, baggy pinstriped trousers, trilbies and bowlers. The women were in short flared jackets and odd little hats that clenched their perms like skullcaps. The headlines pinned to boards outside the paper shop were all about the coronation. ‘The Radiant Hope Of Millions', read the
Evening Chronicle
;
1953
, he thought,
that's odd.

At Platform 3 he was ushered through the barrier and a blast of steam momentarily blinded him. When it cleared he found himself confronted by a polished green train with brass door handles and three separate classes. For a moment he wondered if he'd drifted on to the set of
The Railway Children
, but there was no Edwardian elegance here, just the charcoal coats and crumpled collars of a city still feeling the after-effects of a world war.

He dumbly followed the ticket number, stamped on thick pale green cardboard, then climbed up and entered a corridor, settling himself in a first-class carriage. The single compartment had six smartly upholstered seats with white antimacassars and red leather armrests. Above four of them were framed rectangular paintings of British holiday destinations. Over the centre seats were two gleaming bevelled mirrors.

No other passengers arrived to take up the other places in the compartment, and the train pulled out shortly after he was settled. The grey factories of South London were pocked with so many overgrown bomb sites that it looked as if the remaining buildings had been left behind as a provocation.