Bryant & May on the Loose

∨ Bryant & May on the Loose ∧

42

Mad Day Out

Before they left for the night, the PCU staff assembled at the front of the second floor in what had become the briefing room, simply because it was the room with the most floorboards. The last two hours of the evening had brought some leads, but hardly the breakthrough they had been hoping for.

“Okay, everyone present and correct?” asked May. “The good news is that we’ve managed to locate Mr Porter’s granddaughter, Ellen. She lives just a few streets away, in Tiber Gardens. The bad news is that she doesn’t know anything about a property deed. Looks like Delaney didn’t have time to track her down. No-one’s been in contact with her.”

“But the deed wasn’t in Delaney’s apartment,” said Bryant. “So where on earth did it go?” He noticed that Jack Renfield had appeared in the doorway. “Ah, Mr Renfield, glad to have you back amongst us. Where did you disappear to?”

“I decided to follow up one of your leads,” Renfield explained. “You kept banging on about the St Pancras Old Church, pagans and such, so I went there and had a very interesting talk with the grave digger. Seems you missed an obvious connection with one of the suspects.”

“I did?” Bryant sat forward, intrigued. “And what did I miss, pray tell?”

“You missed the Mad Day Out.” Renfield looked around the room.

“What are you talking about?”

“The Beatles. Seems the old vicar remembers it well. In 1968, The Beatles were photographed all over London in what became known as their Mad Day Out. They were filmed in seven different London locations by a veteran war photographer named Don McCullin, but four other photographers came along as well. The fifth location was a big series of shots taken in the grounds of the old St Pancras churchyard. The photos were designed to promote their White Album. It’s one of the most famous photo sets in pop history, after the shot of them crossing Abbey Road.

“In your report you say that Richard Standover denied ever having heard of St Pancras Old Church,” Renfield continued, “but he specialises in Beatles memorabilia. He lied to you.”

Bryant looked like he’d been hit with a brick. Besides, he hated being upstaged. “You’re telling me this is about The Beatles?” he asked incredulously.

“No, I’m saying it’s one element.” The sergeant threw the others a smug look. “I did some further checking up last night while you lot were brushing your teeth and making cocoa. Adrian Jesson owned the original photographs from the Mad Day Out, signed by McCullin and all four of The Beatles. Standover was desperate to buy the shots because he owns the sets from the other six locations, meaning that he would have the complete photographic record of The Beatles’ historic day. It would have sent the value of Standover’s collection through the roof. You met him, so you know there’s one problem; he’s got the charm of an open grave. He failed to bargain the photographs away from his old rival after staging a very public argument with him. Everyone in the collecting community knew he was trying to get his hands on them, so when he got turned down he made himself a laughingstock.”

“But if he tried to steal from Jesson, surely everyone would suspect him?” Bryant argued. “And even if he had done so, he wouldn’t be able to sell the collection, because he could never reveal that he was in possession of Jesson’s photographs.”

“That’s right. You can see parallel situations rising between Maddox Cavendish and Richard Standover,” said Renfield. “The connection between them is a desperate desire to steal something. The architect Cavendish steals from Delaney, the collector Standover steals from Jesson, and now three of them are dead. Cavendish the workaholic screws up and kills Delaney, and the process changes him. He’s a murderer now – he has nothing left to lose. Suppose Cavendish knew Standover? Did anyone think of that? Suppose he shows Standover how to get what he wants by killing his rival? And Standover does the job, but he’s worried about Cavendish, who’s nervous and fast becoming a liability. And now that Standover has killed, he’s sure he can do it again. Out of the four, the only one left alive right now is Richard Standover.”

“No, no, no.” Bryant held up a wrinkled hand. “It’s all too complicated. There’s a single, simple thread running through this and we haven’t found it yet.”

“You’d better send someone round to bring Standover in, and quick,” said May. “Renfield, if you’re right, we’ll have a lot to thank you for.”

As the unit mobilised into action, May followed Bryant back to his office. “Don’t take it badly, Arthur,” he consoled. “You can’t get it right every time.”

“Renfield is wrong,” Bryant said sadly. “Everything was pointing to Xander Toth. The area’s history, the fact that his family had been pushed off their land – all the pieces fitted together.”

“No, they didn’t. You were trying to force them together. I’m not saying Renfield’s one hundred percent right, but you have to admit he’s come up with a workable theory. Toth was dressing as a local character in order to bring publicity to his cause, that’s all. The mistake has been thinking that the three deaths must be tidily connected. They occurred in the same place at around the same time, but it’s exactly what you said about chaos theory. Tens of thousands of strangers, passing through here every day – so many of their lives intersect without them realising it.”

“I think you may have hit upon a truth,” said Bryant. “We’re looking at a series of causes and effects rather than a single unified case. There are three distinct events that occurred here two weeks ago, and they triggered disastrous consequences. One, a protester goes too far and makes himself a murder suspect. Two, a company man makes a mistake and tries to rectify it. Three, a collector gets a little too acquisitive. The city draws something out of them, especially here. It’s the King’s Cross effect – too many people brushing against temptation and losing sight of themselves.”

♦

On the way out, Bimsley swung past Renfield. “You missed a revelation, Jack,” he told the sergeant. “It seems our Miss Longbright enjoyed carnal knowledge of PC Liberty DuCaine on the way back from Brighton. See what a bit of sea air does for you?”

Renfield stared at the handsome West Indian constable. “You’re bloody joking,” he muttered.

Bimsley knew he had made a mistake. Swallowing nervously, he quickly left Renfield alone with his fury.