Off the Rails (7 page)

You stupid bitch,
the voice yelled.
You can’t do this, you’re destroying everything, you’re destroying me, there will never be another chance like this, you can’t take it away now! I almost had you!

Surely she wouldn’t go right back down into the station? The Oyster card had to be put away again; it was necessary to see what she would do.

Sure enough, she walked back across the concourse and headed for the Piccadilly Line, but one escalator was out of order and the other had a queue of passengers, so she headed for the central stairs, the static concrete ones that ran between the moving staircases, and in spite of her heels, began carefully walking down, descending and wrecking everything.

There were few people on the middle staircase. Nobody liked using them.

Get further forward, come in as close as you dare behind her.

She knew what she was doing, that was obvious now. She had done it deliberately, building up so many hopes just to smash them at the last minute. A torrent of furious filth rolled forth, silently.

I wish to God she was dead, the selfish bitch.

An anger rose up that could set fire to the world, reddening the tunnel, washing the walls in crimson flames.

She deserved to be punished, to have the life knocked from her body. It was odd to look down and see a disembodied right hand sharply rising to plant itself at the base of her spine. Suddenly she was propelled forward, just enough to throw the balance from those carefully planted high heels. She gave the smallest of gasps as she lurched forward at a startling angle, falling with surprising force and weight. She crashed into one, two other passengers on the staircase, but it wasn’t enough to break her fall.

The steps were steep and the drop was long. Several times it seemed as if her descent might be stopped by the human obstacles in her way, but on she fell. She hit the bottom step facedown and, by the time her body had settled to a stop, she was dead.

The yellow Selfridges bag landed beside her and burst open, rolling smashed cosmetic samples in an erratic rainbow of paint and powder around her, like a pair of iridescent wings.

I
like my tea strong but this stuff’s muscle-bound.’

Bryant sat beside his partner in the Paris Café, St Pancras International station, their elbows on the brushed steel counter, steaming mugs folded in their mitts, listening to the rain hammering at the great arched roof. Bryant refused to go to the Starbucks down the road because he was allergic to any place that attracted children, and was bothered by the little trays of glued-down coffee beans that surrounded their counter.

John May perched straight-backed in his smart navy blue suit and overcoat, his silver mane just touching the collar of his Gieves & Hawkes shirt. Bryant had receded so far into his moth-eaten raincoat that only his broad nose and bifocals showed above his equally threadbare green scarf. White seedlings of hair poked up around his ears like pond grass, and there was cake on his chin. Even after all this time, they still made an oddly incongruous pair.

‘There has to be a way of drawing him out,’ Bryant muttered. ‘He knows we have no way of finding him. But his pathological desire to stay hidden means he’s forced to keep covering his tracks. He’ll get rid of anyone who comes too close. His informants unwittingly provided him with knowledge of his victims, so he’ll have to surface if he wants to guarantee their silence. And that means he’ll reappear in King’s Cross.’

‘You’re saying we should just sit back and wait for him to attack?’

‘No, but we know where he operates. He’s tied to the area around the stations. We need to intensify surveillance. Never our strong point.’

May drained his mug. ‘Well, we don’t have the facilities to do it well, and we can’t get help from anyone else. Come on, let’s get back. I’ve a lot of work to get through, and I’d like to leave on time tonight.’

‘That must mean you’re still seeing that Frenchwoman.’ Bryant refused to be hurried. He dunked his cake, but half of it fell in his mug. ‘Your granddaughter told me she’s very nice. For a divorced bottle-blond alcoholic.’

‘Brigitte has gone back to Paris to see her children,’ May explained as he watched Bryant fishing around for soggy icing. ‘She loves red wine and tints the grey out of her hair.’

‘But she
is
divorced.’

‘Why is it de rigueur to take a shot at anyone who tries to have a life outside of the Unit?’

‘I suppose you’ll be slipping more and more French phrases into your conversation from now on. Is that why you agreed to move the Unit to King’s Cross? So you’d be near the Eurostar?’ Bryant enjoyed teasing his partner because May took so much at face value.

Bryant was wilier and meaner, but May knew how to deal
with him. ‘I’ll bring Brigitte around to meet you next week,’ he suggested. ‘She works for the Paris tourist office. I’m sure she’d love to tell you all about her wonderful city, and how much nicer it is than London.’

Bryant made a face and set the last of his tea aside. ‘I remember Paris, thank you, all garlic and accordions and waiters refusing to cook your meat properly. Parisians are the most argumentative people I’ve ever met.’ He unglued errant crumbs from his dentures with a fingernail. ‘The last time I was in Paris some ghastly woman threw soup over me just because I accidentally sat on her dog. They carry them around fully loaded like hairy shotguns and feed them chocolates. I don’t hold with animals in restaurants unless they’re being eaten. Why can’t you date a London woman for a change?’

‘They have a different mind-set. Frenchwomen argue, but Englishwomen complain. Frenchwomen are thin and think they’re fat, but Englishwomen are fat and pretend they’re thin. Frenchwomen—’

‘All right, you’ve made your point. Come on, Casanova, I’ve done with my tea, let’s get back.’

They were just rising to leave when a skinny boy began moving toward them through the café tables. He looked as if he was on a methadone programme. There were scarlet spots around his thin lips, and his skin was the colour of fishmeat. When he spotted the detectives at the window, he made his way through the tangle of chair legs.

‘Is one of you Arthur Bryant?’

‘That’s him.’ May pointed.

The boy dug in the back pocket of his jeans, produced a crumpled white envelope and handed it across.

‘Who gave you this?’ Bryant asked.

‘Some bloke outside.’

‘What bloke?’

‘Dunno. He’s gone now.’

The boy was already racing away. ‘Wait, come back here,’ May called.

‘No,’ said Bryant. ‘Let him go. Look out of the window. There are about a thousand people out there.’ He tore open the envelope and pulled out a slip of paper. Reading it, he looked up with a grunt of annoyance. ‘The boy won’t be able to tell us anything.’

‘Let me see.’ May took the slip and read.

Beneath this was a small hand-drawn symbol, long red ears, a white snout; a fox’s head.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ asked May. ‘Chaos with a K? Born in Hell? It’s like something Jack the Ripper might have come out with. There was no sign that he was religious, was there?’

‘None at all. This is all we need.’ Bryant’s frown deepened. ‘I humiliated him, so now we have to play cat and mouse. This is about respect. He has to re-establish his power over me.’

‘You can’t be sure it’s from him, Arthur. The press know about this now. It might be anyone.’

‘It’s his method. He uses other people, and always seems to know exactly where we are.’

May rose and went to the window. ‘That means he’s within sight of us. It gives us a chance of catching him.’

‘No, it doesn’t, John, any more than you could run after a real fox and seize it. They say criminals who do this sort of thing want to be caught, but I’m not so sure. I think he’s arrogant enough to assume he’ll always be one step ahead of us. And coming right back here, into the station! The nerve of him.’

‘The message is a bit vague.’

‘Is it?’ Bryant studied the letters, thinking. ‘I wonder. Hell in St Pancras station? Torment and brimstone, down below, underground—underground? You don’t think he’s talking about the tube, do you?’

‘How can you tell? There’s not enough here to go on.’

Bryant tightened the moulting scarf around his neck. ‘I haven’t got any better ideas.’ He pointed toward the underground entrance. ‘Perhaps that’s where we should start looking.’

O
ne bleeding, sodding week,’ said Renfield, watching the Daves as they attempted to thread electric cable through a baseboard with a bent coat hanger. ‘They’re having a laugh over at the Home Office.’

‘They won’t be if we pull it off,’ Longbright replied.

‘Oi, you’re doing that wrong,’ Renfield told one of the Daves. ‘You’ll need to earth it.’

‘You leave the wiring to us,’ the Dave answered, ‘and you can get on with what you’re good at, framing innocent bystanders and knocking protestors unconscious.’

Renfield’s bull head sank between his shoulders as he strode over and snatched away the Daves’ nail gun.

‘Blimey, look at this.’ Longbright pulled a water-stained book from beneath Bryant’s desk. ‘Put him down, Jack.’

Renfield finished nailing the Dave to the wall and came over. ‘What have you got?’

She turned the page around to show him a photograph of a sooty old building surrounded by a howling mob waving burning sticks. ‘This place, taken in 1908. The locals were trying to burn it down. Listen to the caption:
“Police were called in to disperse an angry crowd of residents attempting to incinerate the home of the Occult Revivalists’ Society. According to unconfirmed reports, society members had succeeded in their attempt to invoke the Devil. Evidence of Satanic worship was found on the building’s first floor (third window from right).
” That’s Raymond’s office.’

‘Can you get me down?’ the Dave called plaintively. ‘You’ve ruined my jacket.’

Renfield ignored him. He moved in for a better look at the photograph, although he was also enjoying standing close to Janice Longbright. ‘They summoned the Devil from Land’s office?’

‘That’s what it says here.’

‘That would explain a lot. The pentagram on the floor, for a start.’

‘Maybe they succeeded,’ said Longbright. ‘Maybe
that’s
where Mr Fox came from.’

A fine rain was falling with the kind of wet sootiness that stained the colours from the cityscape. Looking along Euston Road was like watching old monochrome television, thought Bryant, like the original opening credits of
Coronation Street,
grey and grainy and out of focus.

He and May were taking the note back to the Unit so that Banbury could analyse it, but Bryant was already convinced of its sender’s identity. The few civilians who knew about Mr Fox had been interviewed, but their knowledge added nothing. Despite the vigilance of the anti-terrorist police and the ubiquity
of the capital’s camera network, it seemed he could appear and vanish at will.

‘But he’s shown us his greatest personality flaw,’ Bryant shouted to his partner across traffic, wind and rain. ‘An anger so intense that it uncouples his senses and wrecks his plans. And we know exactly where he operates.’

‘Look where you’re walking, Arthur, you nearly got hit by that van.’

‘I have to be patient. I’ve stung his pride. He’ll nurse the grudge until it forces him to show himself.’

‘Then don’t turn it into something personal, not while we need to lock down our unit status. Let’s get the note examined first.’

Bryant almost got squashed between two buses, and was about to bellow a reply when the call came in and changed everything.

The new King’s Cross Surveillance Centre was one of London’s best-kept secrets. The underground room was accessed by an inconspicuous grey metal door, and its personnel monitored all activity above and below the surrounding streets. The local coppers referred to it colloquially as the North One Watch. Over eighty CCTV screens filled the dimly lit control room, and most of the monitors could be manually operated to provide other views in the event of an emergency. The afternoon’s surveillance team was headed by Anjam Dutta, a security expert with almost twenty years’ experience of studying the streets. He welcomed the detectives and led them into the monitor hub.