The Victoria Vanishes (32 page)

Black-painted iron gates sealed a courtyard, beyond which a glass wall separated a security guard from the cold. The desk behind which he sat was so large that Bryant could only see the top of his head. He pressed the entry buzzer and awaited admittance. Instead of the gate swinging open, the guard emerged from the building into the rain and approached him.

'This building is not open to the public, sir,' he informed Bryant through the bars, keeping his distance.

'Hullo there, I run the King's Cross Rambling Club.' Bryant pressed his official London Tour Guide licence against the railings. 'There's a public right-of-way that runs through the middle of your building, and we want to include it on our tour.'

The guard's cold dead eyes reminded Bryant of a mackerel he had seen on a Sainsbury's slab.
'There's no access here. You can't come through here.'

'Then I'd like to speak with your public relations officer.'

'We don't have one.'

'Well, whoever deals with your general enquiries, then,' Bryant said, smiling and waiting with more patience than he could usually manage.

'We don't have general enquiries. It's Saturday.'

'I thought you did. My grandson works here, you see.'

'Then maybe you should call your grandson and get him to let you in.'

Bryant knew of a few certainties in life. One was that you should never rub your eyes after chopping chilli peppers,
an
other was that you should be wary of using red telephone kiosks after drunks had been in them, and now to this list he could add the fact that the guard on this door was never, ever going to admit him to the building.

'I'm an old-age pensioner,' he said forlornly, looking up at the guard with pathetic, watery blue eyes.
'I've come from miles away to organise this walk. I thought my grandson would be here, but he's not. Please, is there at least someone I can call?'

'You could try the general switchboard.' The guard sounded more sympathetic, but none too hopeful. Bryant dug out his cell phone, flicked several liquorice allsorts from its casing and began to punch out a number.

'Hey, you can't do that from here,' warned the guard.

'Why not?'

'This is a secure area. You won't get a signal anyway. This is official Ministry of Defence property.' 'Really?'

'Yeah. Everyone who works here? They all have to sign the Official Secrets Act. Even the cleaners.'

'But it's not as if they're making bombs or chemical weapons inside, is it? This is a built-up area. There are railway stations.'

'No, but they make plans here. For terrorist attacks and stuff like that.'

'Well, in that case, I shall tell our ramblers that they can't have access. We mustn't interfere with the government's plans to protect us. Thank you—' Bryant squinted at the guard's nametag,'—Mandume—you've been very helpful.'

It was obvious now that he thought about it. There could never have been any other explanation.
They were provided with cover stories because they were working for the Ministry of Defence,
thought Bryant as he raised his umbrella and walked back into the rain.

40

RECOLLECTION

I

say, how do we get access to Ministry of Defence files?' Bryant asked the question casually as he caught up with a distraught Dan Banbury in the corridor of the PCU. The unit's computers had been removed and packed up in boxes that all but blocked the main passage. Most of the rooms had already been emptied of files and personal belongings.

Banbury released a snort of incredulous laughter.
'We don't,' he said.
'When it comes to th
e MOD, the same restrictions ap
ply to us as to everyone else. By the way, there's a strange man in the evidence room putting everything in black plastic bags. There's another one in the kitchen measuring things. He's taken our kettle. I can't find anything.'

'Yes, but what if it involves possible breaches in the law of the land? Surely we have the power to act in the public interest if ordinary citizens are at risk? I'm afraid I'm a bit of a neophyte when it comes to the workings of the government. How do we stand on that sort of thing legally?'

Banbury turned to look at him. 'Who do you think has a bigger say in the running of this country, Mr Bryant? The police or the Ministry of Defence?'

Ah, I take your point. Then I'm not sure what to do. We've never had a situation like this before. Where we started at the beginning of the week isn't where we seem to be heading now.'

'With all due respect, where we're heading now is outside onto the pavement,' said Banbury.
'In case you haven't noticed, they're kicking us out of the building. How are we supposed to work?'

'I don't know. I haven't had time to think about it. Have a word with the others about accessing secure information, would you? I suppose we'll have to get everyone to regroup at my place for a while. Alma won't be pleased, but John's poky little flat isn't large enough to hold us all. Nobody's told us to actually stop work;
it's just a matter of relocation as far as I'm concerned.'

'Are we going to be working through the weekend, then? It wasn't on the roster.'

Bryant gave a theatrical sigh.
'Yes, Dan, we are going to carry on until we get to the truth. Is there a problem?'

'Only that I'm looking after my nipper for a couple of days. He's at the age where he's a right handful, but I'll have to bring him with me.'

'Where's your wife?'

'With her new fella, a boiler fitter from Stevenage she met at one of her sister's wine-tasting nights. She's leaving me. I suppose she didn't want me to feel left out.'

'About what?'

'Being the only person at the PCU in a satisfying relationship, sir. Thought I'd fit in better as an embittered workaholic loner.'

'Sarcasm will be the ruin of you, lad. Go and fetch the others.'

'Mr Bryant wants everyone to meet him at his house in Chalk Farm,' said Longbright, leaning her formidable chest against the door
jamb.
Are you coming, Raymond?'

'How would it look if I did that?' said Land. Whenever he was faced with conflicting emotions, he became static with indecision.! can't be seen to take sides, Janice.'

'If we can get a conclusion on this over the weekend—'

'The case has already been closed, and I cannot reopen it without official approval. How are you going to continue investigating something that doesn't officially exist?'

'You're technically in charge of the unit. Surely you can do it.'

He didn't like the way she said
technically,
or how she used his first name while according Bryant the dignity of a surname. 'I can't without producing quantifiable evidence for doing so.'

'So you're just going to walk away from us?'

'Haven't you noticed? They're impounding our files, sealing everything for later examination. I can't go along with you, Janice. Take whatever you need and leave, get out of here be-fore they try to stop you. If anyone asks me, I didn't see any-thing.'

'Well, thanks a lot, Raymond, you really know how to put yourself on the line for us.' Longbright slammed the door be-hind her, only to reopen it. And don't forget to collect Crippen's bowl and litter tray before you go. You'll have to take him home with you. I'm not allowed pets in my flat.'

Alma Sorrowbridge was not thrilled with the idea of nine members of the PCU putting their boots all over her freshly vacuumed rugs. She made them tea and left warm yell
ow
cornbread on the sideboard where they could help themselves, then beat a hasty retreat to the Evangelical church on the corner of Prince of Wales Road.

As everyone arrived and settled in, John May laid down the files that the group deemed relevant to the proceedings by mutual consensus. Soon they had covered the floor of the lounge. May rocked back on his heels and glanced across the labelled autopsy photographs, the resumes, the personal-data files, the murder location photographs and the toxicology reports.

'Well, we know that Pellew never worked with his victims,' he announced, 'because he was in the secure wing of the Twelve Elms Cross Hospital during the period that our ladies worked at Theseus.'

'The company has a Web site of sorts,' said April, turning her laptop around to show them, 'but as you'd expect it's not very forthcoming about their activities.' The screen revealed the anodyne silver logo of Theseus Research, together with a mission statement padded out with words like
safety, protection
and
excellence,
but not much else. 'They're clearly an outside resource for the MOD, with no familiar names on their masthead. There are several authors of articles mentioned by name, though.'

'I don't recognise any of those.' Kershaw read down the screen.

'Wait, I know that one,' said Banbury. 'Katherine Cairns-Underhill—she was formerly attached to Porton Down as a virologist. She was one of the leading UK consultants during the sarin gas attacks in Japan. Keep going.'

April continued to scroll through the site.
'I know that one,' said Kershaw. 'Iain Worthington, he's a senior epidemiologist at the Royal Free Hospital.'

'Skin diseases?' asked Bimsley.

'Epidemics, pathogenic spread. It sounds to me like Theseus Research is involved in the prevention of chemical warfare.'

Arthur, where did they get their name? You must know all about the myths surrounding Theseus.'

'I can remember bits and pieces,' said Bryant. 'He was a founding hero of Greece, a
great reformer. There was some
thing about him recovering his father's sword and sandals from beneath a gigantic rock. He slew the Minotaur with the help of Ariadne's thread. He even survived a trip to Hades. I think the key part here is his t
rip through the labyrinth to lo
cate the Minotaur. It's analogous to the process of scientific discovery. But I don't think we can piece much more together from a few incomplete scraps of information.'

'We need to figure out where to look for Jackie Quinten,' said Meera.'Do you think she could be inside their building?'

'Is there still nothing on the police reports about her?'

'Her description has been issued,' said May, 'but I don't know how we'll find out what's going on from—forgive me, Arthur—a converted toothbrush factory in Chalk Farm. I do wish you'd kept your old Battersea flat with Alma.'

'There are still a few people who owe me favours in the Met,' said Renfield.
'I can call around.'

At a little before seven
p.m
. the clouds above the house split and rain thundered down the banks of the garden, beneath the back door. The hall quickly became flooded, and rivulets trick-led as far as the lounge. By this time, the unit's staff were sprawled out on armchairs and sofas throughout the building, like fractious members of a house party trapped indoors by the weather.

All those times Jackie spoke
to you,' said May in some exas
peration.'You've even been to her house. Don't you remember her telling you anything about herself?'

'I wasn't really listening,' Bryant admitted. 'You know what I'm like.'

'I suppose you were multitasking.'

'No, I was just thinking of something else.'

'Now's the time to use the memory-training techniques Mrs Mandeville taught you.'

Bryant thought long and hard.
'It's no good,' he said finally.
'I need to smoke a pipe.'

All the windows are closed,' said Meera.
'Do you have to?'

'It always helped Sherlock Holmes.'

'He was a fictional character.'

Bryant decided to light up anyway, and produced some matches. He squinted at the yellow label on the box, then donned his reading glasses.
'I say, has anyone noticed this?' He held up the matchbox, studying the logo in amazement.
'That's us. "Bryant and May—England's Glory." I don't know why I never thought of that before.'

After three pipes the room was filled with fragrant smoke. 'Can we open a window now?' asked Meera. 'It smells like burning tulips.' She didn't explain to anyone how she knew.

'Can you really remember nothing you discussed with her?' asked May.

'All I'm sure of is that Jackie didn't know about the deaths when I bumped into her at the Yorkshire Grey,' said Bryant, thinking the matter through. 'And the time I saw her before that, we talked mainly about the
first law of behavioural genet
ics;
I have no idea why. We discussed map-making, too. She runs the local history society. Told me a lot about London's geography.'