Bryant & May on the Loose

∨ Bryant & May on the Loose ∧

27

The First Mr Delaney

From the early edition of the Evening Standard:

THREE HURT IN PROTEST CLASH WITH POLICE

Protesters demonstrating against the plans of property developers clashed with police in King’s Cross today, injuring three bystanders. Fighting broke out after the peaceful picket turned nasty, say local Met officers. This is the third time that protesters have fought with security guards from ADAPT, the property company behind the multi million-pound project to transform the urban wastelands behind King’s Cross station into a new eco-friendly town.

“We are bringing thousands of jobs to a deprived area,” said Head of Development Marianne Waters, “but a small, vocal minority is still trying to disrupt work.”

Several companies say they have already pulled out of the controversial new plan after being subjected to threats and intimidation from the protesters. Earlier this week a workman was injured in mysterious circumstances, and construction teams have threatened strike action. This latest protest was sparked after confusion arose over the boundary line between picketers and company officials.

The police have been criticised for using heavy-handed tactics.

“This is an area of historical importance,” said Xander Toth, the leader of the Battlebridge action committee, “but ADAPT has no respect for the capital’s heritage. Time and time again it has attempted to bypass planning restrictions.”

“The residents were consulted at every stage of the planning process, and their rights are being carefully observed,” the company’s Senior Public Relations Officer, Chris Lowry, told us. “Many of these protesters are former offenders and ex-employees with grudges who have nothing better to do with their time.”

The construction area is now being guarded twenty-four hours a day to prevent acts of vandalism. Work to the west of the York Way area is not expected to be completed for another three years.

Arthur Bryant and Janice Longbright met with Terry Delaney’s girlfriend, a hard-faced blonde who stood on the street furtively smoking until it was time to be interviewed. Her name was Casey, and Longbright thought she looked like a younger, more feral version of Delaney’s wife. She had been informed that Delaney was dead, and was handling the news without emotion.

“I don’t know why I was with him,” she told the detectives. “All he ever did was talk about his ex. I said to him, ‘There’s three of us in this relationship. Someone’s got to go,’ but he never got around to making a choice.”

“Did he have any financial worries?” asked Longbright. “Was he broke?”

“Terry didn’t like talking about money. I got the impression he was behind on his child support, but that’s nothing unusual, is it? I mean, with men.”

“What about the evenings when you didn’t see him? Where did he go?”

“Down the pub with his mates, the usual stuff.”

“Any problems?” asked Bryant. “Drink, drugs, gambling? Anything that would get him into debt?”

“Not that I know of. We’d both been through some hard times, but he’s a good man.” That phrase again, suggestive of strong morals and respectability but conveying nothing of use.

“What sticks most in your mind when you try to describe him?”

“He’s dependable,” said Casey, her face softening. “He’s one of those people who picks up everyone else’s rubbish in the street. He’d tell off a kid for putting his feet on a bus seat. He was always trying to help people he hardly knew. Like, there was this woman he was trying to trace.”

Bryant’s ears pricked up. “What kind of woman?”

“Terry had something of hers and wanted to return it, but I have no idea what it was. I suppose I should have asked.”

“Do you know who she was?”

“No idea. But he was very anxious to get it sorted out quickly.”

“Do you know if he succeeded?” To Bryant this was a point of significance.

“I don’t know. As I told you, the last time I saw him was on the Sunday night, when I stayed over. He’d already left for work by the time I got up.”

“Can you think of a reason why anyone would want to hurt him?” Longbright asked.

“Not at all,” Casey replied, at a loss. “As I said, everyone liked him. Terry was the sort of man you would go to if you were in trouble. A good man.”

“You don’t murder someone because of their goodness,” said Bryant, disappointed.

♦

Colin Bimsley’s doctor said that his lack of spatial awareness had been exacerbated by the misalignment of his spine and the differing optical fields in his left and right eyes. None of which was any consolation when the detective constable fell over the edge of the fire escape at the rear of the Paradise Chip Shop.

“Are you all right?” called Banbury, who heard the crash.

“I’m fine; I landed on my head. The railing was rotten. Give me a hand up, will you?” Scrambling to his feet amidst bags of builders’ rubble and shards of shredded timber, Bimsley tried to find a way to climb back out of the stairwell.

He was rubbing his sore, stubbled pate when Banbury came out onto the fire escape. “I can’t lift you, you’re too big,” he called down to the DC. Banbury was trying to work out a method of levering Bimsley up when his nostrils detected a familiar but highly unpleasant smell. He was instantly reminded of the odour that lingered on the lab coat of the PCU’s late medical examiner, Oswald Finch.

The dark space between the buildings housed the ventilation shaft of the takeaway, but had been used by builders as a dumping ground for the shop’s old interior.

“Can you smell something?” Banbury sniffed and followed his nose, sifting out the musky odours of mildew, moss and London dirt.

“Rotten food,” replied Bimsley.

“Have a poke around down there, would you?” Banbury indicated a wet, dark corner filled with plastic sacks.

“I’ve got my good shoes on, Dan. I’m going out tonight.”

“Just do it, would you?”

Pulling aside half a dozen bags stuffed with mortar and plaster, Bimsley dug down into the waste, listening to the scuttle of fleeing rodents.

In a cement bag, he came to the source of the smell. Gingerly opening the top of the sack, he shone his pencil torch inside.

A single blue eye glittered back at him.

Bimsley yelped in alarm, but was drawn back to the thing in the sack. The skull had been so badly battered that only the eye was left intact. “Oh, man.” He covered his nose and instinctively released the bag.

“What is it?”

“I think we’ve located the missing part of the first Mr Delaney.” He took another look. The head was surrounded by pale mounds of spaghetti, giving it the appearance of the Medusa. He realised that he was looking at the remaining piece of the body from the freezer, buried here where only someone with an acute sense of smell and a predilection for digging in trash would ever think of looking for it. “Maybe now we’ll find out who he really is. And how many of him there are.”