Bryant & May on the Loose

∨ Bryant & May on the Loose ∧

35

A Vibration in the Air

Arthur Bryant’s chair creaked back as he studied the damp patches on the ceiling. The rain ticked against the windows. The dusty bare bulb above them fritzed. “What do you know about chaos theory?” he asked.

“A small change in initial conditions can drastically alter the long-term behaviour of a system,” said May without looking up. “Invented in 1961.”

“You’re probably wondering why I want to know.”

“Nothing you ever say or do surprises me anymore, Arthur.”

“I’m thinking about the sheer number of people who pass through this area. Instead of asking ourselves why there’s so much crime, why aren’t we asking why there’s so little? Every type of person, every walk of life, all brushing up against each other, everyone in a different mental state. Why aren’t they all randomly slaughtering one another over trespassed territory and differences of creed?”

“They’ve been sedated by a steady diet of celebrity gossip, alcohol and junk food.” May looked up at his partner. Bryant was thinking. Always a worrying sign.

“Clearly social conventions prevail, but I think that each of their little butterfly movements, every flapping wing, disturbs the filthy air of King’s Cross a little. Their lives touch each other faintly, but they carry the effect away with them to other places. Imagine – an embittered, lonely man passing through the station sees a beautiful young woman and feels a pang of sadness for the life he never had with her. That feeling contributes, in a tiny way, to his future actions. You see what I’m getting at?”

“No. Your every utterance is a mystery to me, Arthur. Am I supposed to find relevance in this to our investigation, to see that in some indirect way it will help us locate a murderer?”

“You must agree that we resolve situations by understanding motivation.”

“And you think reading a book on chaos theory will help you do that?”

“Well, all crimes ultimately reduce down to cause and effect, and I’ve a feeling this will more than most.”

“You’ve a feeling? Is that it? A trembling in the air that will shape itself into a dirty great big arrow that points at a murderer? Can you find me something concrete? Preferably by lunchtime?”

Bryant looked at him very gravely. “I’ll do my best, of course,” he said, gathering his hat. “I may have to take some very unusual steps to do so.”

“No, tell me,” said May. “We’ve been partners for long enough; I should at least have some vague inkling of how your mind works.”

Bryant stopped and ruminated for a moment. Crippen was about to enter the room when he saw Bryant and thought better of it. “Well, you remember the Highwayman? How we had no idea what his motive might be? In this case we have a company armed with a genetic determination to turn a massive profit, and the need to remove any obstacles in its way. But if the victims were obstacles, we are left with three seemingly random deaths using the same bizarre mutilation, so our first supposition must be mitigated. It’s like mechanics versus technology. With something like, oh, let’s say the engine of a 1959 Ford Popular, if something went wrong you worked out what was wrong and put it right, and then it would work. With a modern computer, if something’s wrong you leave it for a minute and try again and then it works, for no known reason.”

“That is the least satisfactory explanation I’ve ever heard for anything,” said May, exasperated. “Either we’re looking at a case of sinister property dealings or we’re hunting a monster – they can’t both be right.”

“Well, that’s where I think you’re wrong. There are common factors to all three deaths. Look.” Bryant held up a Google Map printout with three sites ringed in red felt-tip pen. “Here’s where the bodies were found. Draw a line between them and you get a rough triangle.” He tapped the sheet with his pen. “What’s in the middle of it?”

May squinted at the page. In the centre stood St Pancras Old Church. “Oh, I get it. You’re going to tell me they were murdered by a deranged pagan who still believes in an ancient head-severing sacrificial rite.”

“It would be tempting to believe so, because of the date.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sacrificial ceremonies associated with the severing of the head traditionally climax at the end of the third week in May, so his timing is spot-on. But I certainly think it’s someone who knows the churchyard well.”

“Why? What in Heaven’s name has that got to do with it?”

“Simply this. Try to think of another place in Central London so utterly desolate that you could dispose of the bodies of three grown men without being picked up on CCTV. There are a few cemeteries, I suppose, but they’re nearly all locked at night. It has to be someone who’s familiar with the churchyard and its immediate surroundings – the biggest construction site in the city. I just have to find a way to vibrate the air. I have to force him out.”

“Arthur, you may have a point there but please, we need to present a united front on this. Go and hang out with your necromancers and astrologers, but come back with some tangible proof.”

“Jolly good. I shall do just that.”

“Fine. And call me if you get stuck.” May watched, shaking his head in wonder, as his old friend looped his scarf around his neck, took up his walking stick and stumped off along the corridor, into darkness.