Seventy-Seven Clocks

∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

32

Ensemble

The frost that had begun to fern the windows of the Mornington Crescent PCU that evening was felt inside the building as well as out; the workmen had still not managed to fix the central heating.

In the streets below, gangs of home-going secretaries sang drunken Christmas carols, undeterred by strikes and threatened blackouts. The traffic dissipatéd as commuters returned home to be with their families. But within the unit there would be no Christmas. All leave had been canceled. A few miserable paper chains had been strung across the operations room. Bryant’s desk displayed two Christmas cards. May had dozens, but had not found time to open them.

The detectives returned from another uneasy Met briefing to find Raymond Land seated in their office with a mortified look on his slack, tired face. One glance told them that his patience, and their deadline, had both come to an end.

“Sit down, you two,” he said, waiting impatiently while Bryant extricated himself from a new Christmas scarf, a gift from his landlady that appeared more suited to Hallowe’en than yuletide.

“What can we do for you?” asked May casually. Bryant took the cue from his partner and offered his acting superior a careful smile.

“I’d like to know why you contradicted my report to Faraday.”

Bryant raised a tentative hand. “We didn’t think you’d contact the arts minister before discussing the matter with us. As it happens, we disagree with the inferences you seem to have drawn from the forensic reports.”

“Perhaps you’d like to tell me what conclusions you think I’ve reached?”

“All right,” said Bryant, steadily eyeing his partner. “You told Faraday that this man Denjhi is responsible for the death of William Whitstable, whom you presume was killed in some squabble over the painting. You know there’s no forensic proof connecting Denjhi to any other member of the family besides Peggy Harmsworth.”

“But it’s only a matter of time. We’re tearing that man’s house apart, and until – ”

“You’ve ordered that?” asked May angrily. “You had no right.” Denjhi’s widow had been through enough without having the indelicate hands of the Special Branch ripping her sofa cushions open.

“Until you can present me with some solid evidence, I have every right to supersede your orders,” said Land with a faint air of desperation. “You may have ruled the roost at Bow Street and West End Central. Here you take orders from me until I’m replaced by a permanent officer.” He rubbed bitten fingers across a sallow brow. “You have to understand the kind of pressure that’s being exerted on us. These are calculated assassinations, for God’s sake. Front page of the Daily Mail, page three of the Express. The Mirror had four pages on us this morning: maps, diagrams, baby pictures. If it wasn’t for the prime minister’s mess with the unions we’d be splashed all over the broadsheets. Isobel Whitstable is attempting to sue the unit for deliberate obstruction during the course of the investigation. She’s also suing you both personally for incompetence in the wake of her daughter’s trauma.”

“You know it’s impossible to reconstruct the events surrounding the girl’s abduction without being allowed to talk to her,” said Bryant. “She was kept in a disused railway arch, but we’ve found nothing except a few silk fibres on her clothes. We can’t give her mother theories that we cannot prove.”

“This morning our legal department received a letter detailing outlined lawsuits from several other members of the Whitstable family,” Land went on.

“Charging us with what?”

“Failing to protect and uphold the law, among other things.”

“Can they do that?” wondered Bryant.

“I’ve been asked to close the PCU down. But I’m determined to avoid that course of action. Know why? I can see that you’re holding out on me. After all, I’m not an idiot.” Land filled the contradictory silence that followed by trying to appear stern. “There’s no chance of wrapping this thing up today, but I know you have something. Do you understand that you’re about to lose everything you’ve ever worked for? The only possible way you can stay on is by giving me total access to your information. Even then, I’m not sure I can keep this within our jurisdiction any longer.”

“Oh, Raymondo, old chum, the only reason we’re holding out on you is because you’d find it impossible to believe what we’re uncovering.”

“Try me,” said Land. “I’m pretty gullible.”

Bryant shot his partner a look, then proceeded to explain their findings. After he had watched the incredulous expression spread across Land’s face, he sat back in his chair and waited for a reaction.

“You’re saying some kind of century-old satanic ring is killing off the family?”

“Your terminology’s a little contentious, but – ”

“Don’t get smart with me, Bryant.”

“Then I’ll tell you something else,” offered Bryant. “I think Denjhi kidnapped Daisy Whitstable and couldn’t bring himself to murder her. He disobeyed his orders.”

“This is madness. A satanic circle, and the Whitstables all know about it?”

“I never said satanic. But somebody must know, certainly.”

Land slapped his hands on to the desk. “How can I tell the H.O. about any of this?”

“Now you understand our predicament,” said May. “We need you to keep the pressure off for just a little longer. That means retaining all the case files here in the building. Nothing more to go to the Met.”

“But what about the Whitstables?” asked Land, chewing a nail.

“You can leave them to us,” replied Bryant with a reassuring smile.

♦

When they heard the detectives’ demands, the Whitstables’ reaction was predictable – total, steaming outrage.

It was May who had thought of moving them all into William Whitstable’s house. The property was enormous and standing empty. It would be easy to secure from both outside and within. Also, considering the elaborate security operation that was currently in force, it would stop resources being stretched over the yuletide season and save the taxpayers a considerable amount of money.

Twenty-four members of the family had remained in England for Christmas, despite the threat of power strikes. Of those, two were in nursing homes and one was bedridden. That left twenty-one Whitstables to be rehoused and settled without fuss or publicity. The detectives informed the family that anyone wishing to opt out of the arrangement was perfectly free to do so, but they would find police protection no longer afforded to them at any residence other than the Hampstead house.

Four of the younger family members – Christian and Deborah Whitstable and their children Justin and Flora – chose to remain at their home in Chiswick. The rest reluctantly accepted the deal, but not without letting their annoyance be heard and noted by anyone who came within earshot.

Several unmarked police vans had succeeded in discreetly moving clothes, bedding, personal effects, security equipment, and food supplies into the house. The remaining seventeen Whitstables were driven to the rear entrance and installed within its gloomy brown rooms. Shortly after this, Bryant and May risked a visit to make sure that their reluctant charges had settled in.

“No matter what they say, I don’t want you to lose your temper,” cautioned May as they passed the undercover surveillance car parked in front of the main entrance. “Try to remember that we are public servants.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult,” muttered Bryant. “They treat everyone as if they’re hired help.”

May approached the brightly lit porch and rang the doorbell according to the prearranged signal. “This attitude of yours isn’t easing the situation, you know. Try to be nice.”

“What am I supposed to say?” asked Bryant. “It’s demoralizing, trying to help a bunch of arrogant ingrates who aren’t prepared to give us the time of day. What is it that makes them so superior? Owning a few smelly sheep-fields and getting the Queen’s Award to Industry. If we weren’t doing our duty and providing a service we’d be invisible to them. We should have got rid of the class system two hundred years ago, when the Frogs had their spring clean. Let them eat cake. Try saying that with your head in a wicker basket.”

“Anarchist,” said May. “You’re as guilty as the rest of us. Look at the way you’ve been treating the workmen repainting the office.”

“That’s different,” sniffed Bryant. “They’re common as muck, for God’s sake.”

“So what would you do? Machine-gun the royal family?”

“Now that you mention it, that’s not a – ”

“So you’ve finally arrived to gloat.” Berta Whitstable, a voluminous, overdressed woman in her fifties, was holding the door open before them. She had elected to wear all of her most valuable jewellery rather than leave it behind. She looked like a lady mayoress receiving unwelcome guests. “We’re freezing to death in here. The least you can do is show us how to start the boiler. I presume you’re good with your hands.”

The detectives entered. In the hall, noisy children chased each other to the foot of the stairs, thrilled to be staying up so late. Several adults sat morosely in the parlour as if waiting to be told what to do.

“Are there going to be pheasants?” asked one pimply young man with a half-broken voice. “We always have game birds at Christmas.”

“I don’t know,” replied Bryant truthfully. “Did you remember to bring any?”

“Cook takes care of those things.” The boy scratched his Adam’s apple, thinking. “There are people coming in to cook and clean, presumably?”

“Surely there are enough of you here to handle the household chores.”

“We never cook at home. Annie does everything, but they wouldn’t let us bring her because she’s just a domestic.”

“Well, this will be an exciting experience for you, won’t it?” said Bryant maliciously. “You’ll be able to write a book about it. How I Survived Without Someone to Make the Beds.”

“Arthur…” warned May angrily.

“You mean we have to make our own beds?” said someone else. Bryant turned to address the speaker, a young woman in a blue Chanel suit with blond hair arranged in an elaborate chignon.

“I’m afraid so – Pippa, isn’t it? You’ll be roughing it for a while, putting on your own pillowcases, emptying the vacuum-cleaner bag, that sort of thing. It’ll be grim, but I’m sure you’ll pull through. We’ll bring supplies in to you, and you’ll be allowed out in pairs accompanied by a guard, but only for short periods. Like being in prison, really.”

Everyone groaned. They wanted more protection, thought Bryant. That’s what we’re going to give them.

“Of course, I will be allowed to attend my exercise class, won’t I?” asked Pippa. “And I have to look after Gawain. He’s my horse.” She turned to the others and smiled. “A Christmas present from Daddy.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, providing of course that it’s your turn on the roster to leave the house,” said Bryant, enjoying the sense of power. “Unfortunately, you won’t be able to telephone out, because of the risk that one of you may accidentally mention your whereabouts.”

“Just how long do you propose to keep us here?” Berta Whitstable’s voice overrode questions from the others.

“Nobody’s keeping you here,” replied May. “This is for your own protection. Until we find out why this is happening, and who is causing it.”

“And just how long will that be?”

“I hope it’ll be for no more than two or three days,” Bryant said. “There will be a roll call every night and every morning. And a curfew.” More groans. It was harder to protect the outside of the house at night. There were too many trees around the building.

Once all the questions had been answered, the detectives ran through the name list, checking everyone off. Bryant looked at his notepad in puzzlement. There was one name he didn’t recognize. “Who is CH?” he asked.

There was an uneasy silence.

Several of the men awkwardly turned their attention to their children. Bryant turned to Berta Whitstable. “Do you know?”

“That would – probably – be Charles,” she replied.

Bryant frowned. There had been no Charles Whitstable marked on the genealogical table. “I don’t understand. I thought everyone was accounted for.”

“Your family tree shows only the Whitstables living in this country. Charles is based overseas.”

“Where?”

“In India. Calcutta, to be exact.”

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” asked May.

“Of course I am,” said Berta. “I should know. He is my son.”

“Do you have a number where he can be reached?”

“Berta!” called one of the men. “You have no right to bring Charles into this. It’s better to leave him where he is.”

Bryant’s interest was piqued. “I think perhaps we should discuss this in more detail,” he said, placing a hand on Berta Whitstable’s broad back and guiding her out of the room.