Full Dark House

∨ Full Dark House ∧

3

FULL CIRCLE

Five days later, Longbright stood in a private, neglected section of Highgate Cemetery, watching as a simple service placed a public seal on Arthur Bryant’s life. Behind them, journalists and Japanese tourists took photographs through the railings. Arthur had no surviving relatives. His landlady Alma was the only non-official in attendance. She had threatened to talk to the press if she wasn’t allowed at the graveside. Alma was privy to most of the unit’s secrets, via her indiscreet tenant.

Longbright remained beside the wet rose plot containing her colleague’s urn as members of the unit trooped by, awkwardly pausing to offer their condolences. Liberty DuCaine led the new generation of unit employees. It felt like the passing of an era.

Longbright was strong. She preferred to stand alone, and refused to cry. Her fiancé offered to drive her home, but she told him to wait in the car. The cemetery grounds were still waterlogged from the recent torrential rain. Briars and nettles drooped over fungus-stained stone, nature anxious to hide all signs of earthly disturbance. Arthur Bryant had arranged to be buried here sixty years earlier, after the death of his greatest love. The retired detective sergeant found it hard to appreciate that a man of such peculiar energy could be so totally obliterated: the forensic lab had identified his body by the melted set of false teeth Bryant had been fitted with during the year Margaret Thatcher came to power.

Some kind of songbird was making a fuss in the tree behind her. Longbright turned towards it, and found May standing silently in her shadow. “I guess that should be a symbol of hope,” she said, “but I wish I had a gun.”

“I know how you feel,” admitted May. “I don’t know what to do without him, how to begin going on. What’s the point? It’s as though someone tore up the world.”

“Oh, John, I’m so sorry.” She took his hands in hers. She felt angry, not sorry. She wanted to accuse someone and blame them for the loss of their friend. She had seen more of life’s unfairness than most people, but it did not stop her from wanting revenge. Alma Sorrowbridge came over and stood quietly with them. The West Indian landlady wore a large silver cross on her black-lace bosom. She was very old now, and shrinking fast.

“John, I wanted to speak to you earlier, but they” – she pointed back at the journalists – “they were watching me. I have something for you.” She pulled a newspaper-covered oblong from beneath her coat. “I found this in Mr Bryant’s flat. It’s addressed to you. Not that I’ve been touching his things, you understand.”

May accepted the slim folder and tore off the wrapping. His breath condensed around the cream linen cover as he studied it. “This is Arthur’s handwriting,” he said, tracing an ink indentation with his finger. “Has anyone else looked at it?”

“I showed it to Detective Sergeant Longbright earlier.”

“I took a section of the binding for forensic testing,” Longbright explained. “Just to make sure it was his.”

May examined the gilt edge of the paper. “I’ve certainly never seen it before. Might be the first chapter of his book.”

“It was stuck down the back of the wardrobe,” said Alma. “I moved it to hoover. He told me he was going to write his memoirs, and wanted to borrow my old fountain pen because it had a broad italic nib.”

“Why would he want to write with that?”

“You know how he had these funny ideas. Never let me clean under his bed in sixty years. He had things growing.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“No, in round glass pots.”

“Ah, Petri dishes, yes, he did that sort of thing all the time. Thank you for this, Alma.”

Bryant’s landlady made her painful way out of the cemetery. May wondered how long she would cope without her tenant. He watched her go before returning his attention to the book. His numb fingers carefully parted the pages. Inside was a single loose sheet covered in dense scrawl. “He never kept case notes like this,” he told Longbright. “Arthur wasn’t organized enough. He couldn’t even find his dry-cleaning tickets.” Despite Bryant’s lack of proficiency with laundry collection, it appeared that he had indeed written something in the last weeks of his life. Unfortunately, it wasn’t readable.

“It’s in shorthand,” explained Oswald Finch when May talked to him later. The unit’s staff had been temporarily rehoused in storage rooms on the top floor of Kentish Town police station. Finch was, strictly speaking, a retired forensic pathologist but knew a thing or two about indecipherable writing, as anyone who had seen his own handwriting could testify. “Definitely shorthand. Not the most recent kind either, an older version. This is tachygraphy of the type that Samuel Pepys used in his diaries. Before the nineteenth century it was popular among lawyers and naval officers. Hopelessly arcane now, of course. Be interesting to see how he copes with modern vocabulary. Analogous nouns and phonetic spelling, probably. That’s why he wanted the broad nib, to place emphases.”

“But can you transcribe it?” May asked impatiently.

“Good heavens, no. But I might be able to download a program that can. Could you leave it with me for a few days?”

“I’d rather read it myself. Can you forward the program to me?”

Finch had almost forgotten that May had once trained as a codebreaker. “I don’t see why not. It won’t be very user-friendly, though.”

“How typical of him not to write it in plain English. I’ll call you with a new e-mail address and security reference. I’m going to be on leave for a while. I have to get out of London.”

Finch understood. Arthur Bryant was virtually a symbol of the city. There were memories of the man and his cases almost everywhere you looked.

A few days later John May drove down into the Sussex countryside, and it was there, on the rich green downs above Brighton, seated in the attic room he had rented above an unpropitious pub called the Seventh Engineer, that he downloaded the translation program and set to work.

At the start of the document was a note from Finch:

John – I’ve tried to give you a head start by programming substitutions for the most frequently used words, but some of it’s still a bit wonky. Bryant appears to have used a very peculiar writing style. It’s rather rambling and all very indiscreet, the only good thing being that many of the people in his account are presumably dead and therefore unavailable to pursue lawsuits. I hope it throws some light on what has happened. Perhaps DS Longbright can help you fill in the gaps. From the way Arthur hid it, he seems to have anticipated that something disastrous might occur. If you think this has any bearing on the blast, we’d better put together a report for RL.

RL was Raymond Land, the unit’s impatient and unforgiving new acting head. May’s eye was drawn to the postscript:

By the way, you might be interested to know that Longbright’s mother features in the case. I’d forgotten she once worked at the unit. I think Arthur had a crush on her.

May set about copying the pages of the notebook into his laptop. After typing in a few hundred words, impatience got the better of him, and he ran the translation program. His fingers idled against the keyboard as he tried to make sense of what he read.

He was looking at an account of their first case, the start of a memoir. Through the fractured text he began to hear Bryant’s voice. Pouring himself a gin, he began typing again. He transcribed the single loose sheet and ran the translation program, watching as the letters unscrambled themselves.

An uncomfortable sensation began to take hold of him. The loose page was a fresh addendum, a confidence not intended for publication. Its final line acknowledged a failing: “I know I will go back, because I cannot leave the past alone…” May was suddenly sure that Bryant had done something to cause his own death. You didn’t work with a man for sixty years without gaining an insight into his behaviour. Arthur had disturbed the past, and somehow it had killed him. The idea was preposterous, but stuck fast.

He stared at the words on the screen and thought back to their first meeting in the Blitz. That strange, exhilarating time had also ended with a consignment to flames. It was as though events had somehow come full circle. Bryant had known that his actions could place him at risk. Why else would he encode the memoir and hide it?

The elliptical translation wasn’t enough to provide an explanation. May knew he would have to rely on his own elusive memories in order to appreciate what had happened. As the sun slipped below the trees and the shadows became scented with damp earth, he closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to drift across over half a century, to a time when London’s character was put to a test few other cities could have hoped to survive.

He tried to remember how the seeds of their future had been sown. It was 1940. It was November. A nation was at war, and the world had blundered into darkness.