Bryant & May - London's Glory: (Short Stories) (Bryant & May Collection) (20 page)

‘Very well. Your credit limit is five hundred thousand pounds.’

May drew a sharp breath. ‘What do I get for that?’

‘If you’d care to speak to Mr Ribisi, I’m sure he’ll be happy to take you through the procedure.’ The line went dead.

‘You see, Mr May, I have a problem,’ said Ribisi, walking around the desk. ‘We need people like you on the ground. Respectable gentlemen. There’s a lot of work to be done in this city.’

‘So you put a price on everyone, is that it?’ said May. ‘I think you’ve misunderstood the basic principles of policing. I want to see the girl. I know she’s here.’

Ribisi studied his opponent in some puzzlement. ‘You do understand what we’re offering you, do you, Mr May? You see what the Elimination Bureau does.’

‘I think so. You send out the cards and get others who are more easily tempted to carry out your dirty work for you.’

‘They’re well paid. The privilege of membership. At first we thought we might try crowdsourcing illegal activity, but we decided that involved too many unstable elements. Cardholders are checked out for creditworthiness. This is a better system.’

‘So what do you expect me to do?’

‘We want you to help run the legitimate side of things for us. We’ll take care of the rest.’

‘What exactly would be my duties?’ asked May, playing for time.

‘Think of it as a marketing problem. We’re working in the interests of London. You just have to make sure that nothing gets in our way.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Your partner is a liability,’ said Ribisi. ‘He’s an outsider. Not the kind of person any company would actively seek out as a potential member. We’d need to get rid of him.’

May flicked the credit card back at him. ‘I formally refuse your offer and I’m taking you in, so you can stay away from my partner.’

He threw Mangeshkar an urgent glance. She needed to pick up the look and interpret it. Ribisi wouldn’t let either of them go now.

‘Let’s go downstairs,’ said Ribisi, rising and heading over to the barely conscious McFarland with a penknife in his hand. ‘It’s time for you to join Golden.’ He cut the ties holding McFarland to the chair and forced him to his feet.

They might have been visiting dignitaries getting a tour of the plant, heading in single file down the staircase, although they were at the point of the world’s most expensive pistol.

As they reached the first of the printing presses, May stalled for time. He had to shout to be heard. ‘So what happens now?’

‘Look over there.’

He followed Ribisi’s eyeline and saw to his horror that the far side of the press was coated in crimson gore. ‘Golden made the evening edition,’ he explained.

May realized that Ribisi wanted him to keep moving until he reached the metal steps on the other side of the last machine press, which was not for printing at all but for cutting the quad sheets into double pages. The great guillotine blades rose and fell with a terrible zinging sound, separating the paper stock into crisp clean stacks. The papers rolled off around a corner and were collected by steel arms. The thundering sound of the presses was unbearable.

‘It’s your turn. Get in.’

Ribisi punched a red mushroom-shaped button that raised the mesh guard in front of the slithering blades. An alarm added to the cacophony somewhere above them, and yellow lights began to rotate, warning employees that the safety bar was raised while the machine was still in operation. He prodded May in the kidneys and forced him up the steps.

The detective understood the Elimination Bureau’s thinking; they had never expected him to take up their offer. Wiping out the only investigating officers sent a very clear message to the underworld.
There’s a new empire in place, and we’re bigger than the law.
There was nothing he could say or do that would make any difference now. He stopped on the top step and looked back at Mangeshkar, his eyes desperately locked to hers.

May was out of ideas.

The alarm siren was so loud that he couldn’t think. The lights strobed the walls, but nobody came.

The alarm …

It should be connected to the emergency services. Wouldn’t the emergency response unit call to ensure that everything was all right at the plant? May’s question was answered when the alarm suddenly cut out.

Assailed by the smell of hot paper, he looked down at the racing beltway below and knew he could only stall for a few more moments.

Ribisi reached out and gripped May’s arm. ‘Do it,’ he instructed.

Back at the party in the British Museum, Arthur Bryant felt inexplicably bereft. Then he realized why; it just wasn’t the same without John being there. True, his partner would only stand around complaining about the poor quality of the wine and the academics’ inadequate social skills, but he had the common touch and saw through nonsense, something that Bryant never managed to do.

I suppose I’d better invite him
, he decided, digging out his phone.

Unbeknown to May, Bryant had borrowed his partner’s mobile a few days earlier and had asked Dan Banbury to add his own special ringtone to it. To make sure that he got his partner’s full attention, he had Dan remove the volume limiter from the ringtone.

The sudden shriek of a girls’ chorus singing ‘Fair Is Rose as Bright May-Day’ from Gilbert and Sullivan’s
Ruddigore
could be heard above the presses and made everyone start.

McFarland brought Ribisi down so suddenly that in the noise and pulse of the emergency system, it was a moment before anyone realized what had happened. Ribisi lost his balance and the pair of them went over the edge on to the papers.

McFarland darted forward and hit the safety stop, but Ribisi landed ahead of him, and the momentum of the paper track was still carrying on too fast to prevent him from going underneath the blades.

Ribisi screamed as his legs were neatly sliced off by the guillotine. He tried to claw at the pulp beneath him but was drawn into the belly of the machine. A great spray of crimson blasted over the edges of the steel trough, blinding them all. Moments later he disappeared from view, and the machine crunched to a halt. In the ensuing silence they could still hear him crying out from inside.

McFarland stumbled to his feet and climbed back on to the steps. He grabbed May around the throat as he descended, holding the detective in front of him.

Their clinch suddenly ended as McFarland dropped back with a cry. May realized that Mangeshkar had been able to grab Ribisi’s gun before it disappeared into the machine with him. She was still looking at the weapon with some amazement.

‘Be careful with that thing, it’s worth a fortune,’ May said, freeing himself as McFarland slid to the floor. He had been clipped through the shoulder.

‘Wallace reckoned the bullet wouldn’t injure anyone standing behind the original target,’ said May. ‘Looks like he was right.’

‘I didn’t know that when I fired,’ said Meera.

May knelt down beside McFarland, who was more surprised than in pain.

The detective rose and looked over the side of the trough. ‘What’s black and white and red all over?’ he asked.

‘I can still hear him,’ said Meera. ‘Don’t you think we should see if we can get him out?’

‘No,’ said May, ‘I don’t want to get newsprint on my hands.’

McFarland gave each of them a long, hard frown of a stare, then passed out.

Meera shrugged. ‘Lightweight.’ She went to the door, where a squad car was arriving at the same time as the first ambulance.

May looked over Bryant’s shoulder at his typed-up version of the investigation and read a few paragraphs. Bryant was adding the case to his second volume of memoirs. ‘That’s not how it happened at all,’ said May.

‘The arrest was a bit boring in the original version so I pepped it up a bit,’ Bryant explained.

‘Perhaps, but you need to stick to the facts,’ May suggested.

‘Oh,
facts
,’ said Bryant dismissively, ‘I always think they’re terribly overrated, don’t you?’

My favourite filmed murder mystery is the superb but neglected
The Last of Sheila
, written by Stephen Sondheim and Anthony Perkins, directed by Herbert Ross. It’s a brilliantly conceived (and very starry) puzzler set on a yacht going along the coastline of the Côte d’Azur. I love so-called ‘precinct’ stories which keep their characters all marooned together – Christie was brilliant with them – and one day I’ll tackle my own version of a country house murder mystery. Until then, here’s one set on a boat.

Arthur Bryant and John May only ever took one holiday together. They never did it again because it didn’t turn out at all the way they’d expected. It began when they had an argument about sailing.

‘There are only two things I know about boats, and they’re that you can’t wear shoes on board and you can’t put toilet paper down the loo, instructions that seem positively uncivilized,’ said Bryant testily.

‘I take it you’re not one for going to sea?’ May ventured as they sat in their office looking out at a septic September morning comprising equal parts grey clouds, rain and dirt.

‘My father loved water, of course, but only because it gave him a chance to shoot at Germans.’

‘Sorry, not with you.’

‘Royal Navy. I had an unusual experience on the Woolwich Ferry and have stayed off water ever since. It’s not natural, all that bobbing about. Even Horatio Hornblower used to get seasick. Of course he was a fictional character, but you get my point.’

‘You haven’t had a holiday for donkey’s years,’ said May. ‘Why do people say that? Why a donkey?’

‘Rhyming slang, 1923, “donkey’s ears” – “years”,’ said Bryant, not bothering to look up.

‘Well, it’s a chance to get away and we shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth – Hey, that’s another odd one.’

‘You can tell the age of a horse by checking to see how far its gums have receded,’ muttered Bryant. ‘From St Jerome’s “Letter to the Ephesians”, around AD 400: “Equi donati dentes non inspiciuntur.” Who gives a holiday as a gift? I smell a rat. And before you ask, I have absolutely no idea where that expression comes from.’

The senior detectives of the Peculiar Crimes Unit had been offered a week’s holiday on a grateful client’s yacht moored somewhere off the Turkish coast, but Bryant was unconvinced. ‘Why don’t we offer it to Raymondo?’ he suggested. ‘He’s always moaning about having his holidays cancelled.’

‘That’s because he goes to the Isle of Wight. Cancellation is a blessing. No,’ said May. ‘Just think, there’s no internet so there’ll be no emails.’

‘I don’t do emails now,’ Bryant pointed out.

‘The change will do us both good. I’m putting my foot down. We’ll go.’

‘But I have nothing to wear.’

‘It’s a holiday in Southern Turkey, not a dinner party in Finchley.’

‘Fair point. I suppose dressing up in hot countries simply involves putting on shoes. A bit like Wales.’

‘You can’t say that.’

‘I can say whatever I like. I’m a police officer – institutional racism is our stock-in-trade.’ That was the thing about Bryant; you could never entirely tell if he was joking, although May had worked out that if you had to wonder, he probably was.

‘The yacht has its own gourmet chef,’ said May by way of temptation. ‘Fresh fish every day, and Turkish salads are amazing.’

Bryant considered the thought for so long that his stomach rumbled. He saw a steamed sea bass served against a crystalline seascape. ‘I suppose it would be quite nice to go somewhere without a scarf,’ he conceded. ‘Seven days feels like a bit long, though. Maybe four?’

‘Trust me,’ said May, sensing a win, ‘you won’t want to come home.’

Bryant glanced out of the window, where the thick grey drizzle pattered on litter-strewn pavements. Below the trees, a tramp finished eating something out of a rubbish bin and sucked his fingers clean. ‘Perhaps I could manage a week,’ he said.

They flew to Bodrum and were met by a freshly waxed chauffeur-driven Bentley. The outside temperature was 28 degrees centigrade.

‘I can’t even remember what we did for this chap that would make him so grateful,’ said Bryant as they headed over to the mooring.

‘In a roundabout way we saved his daughter,’ said May. ‘She had a boyfriend who was importing Turkish antiquities into London.’

‘Oh,
that
case,’ said Bryant as the memory returned. ‘The dodgy dealer in Anatolian kilims. We got him on drugs offences in the end, didn’t we?’

‘That’s right. Away from his influence, she returned to her father and now helps him run his business.’

Demir Kahraman was waiting to meet them on the deck of the gleaming white Azimut yacht. The little round-bellied businessman wore a blue and gold blazer, a spectacular black beard and a broad white grin, and welcomed them with arms thrown wide. ‘My dear friends!’ he said. ‘What a pleasure it is to have you on board. I hope your stay will be a most relaxing one. You remember my lovely daughter Nevriye?’

A stunningly beautiful girl of some nineteen summers rose to greet them from the cabins below. Her lustrous dark mane lifted in the light breeze as she shook their hands. She was dressed in a fluttering tunic of embroidered white muslin, and wore a fine gold chain around her waist. Even without glancing over, Bryant knew that his partner would have just drawn in his stomach, the silly old fool.

‘You have not met my wife, Yosun,’ said Kahraman, formally presenting the elegantly coiffured, jewel-bedecked lady who swept imperiously on to the deck with a hulking attendant in tow.

‘Enchanted,’ said May, kissing her hand. ‘Forgive me, but your face seems familiar.’

‘But of course,’ said Kahraman, beaming with delight. ‘Yosun is one of Turkey’s most famous actresses. Come, you must be in need of refreshment after your trip. Ymir will show you to your cabins, and we will await you on deck with chilled champagne.’

Below, the detectives found themselves in a corridor of highly polished inlaid teak, with spacious facing rooms.

‘Blimey,’ said Bryant, peering across the hallway from his cabin door, ‘I could get used to this.’