Bryant & May 09; The Memory of Blood

∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

44

Intruder

On Monday morning, Janice Longbright took time off from the investigation to visit the Marquands’ house in Bermondsey once more. She had not been able to concentrate on the Kramer case for days, knowing that someone was prepared to kill in order to keep Arthur’s memoirs hidden.

Whoever was behind the plot knew the players well. They had followed Anna Marquand’s routine, and knew enough about Bryant to understand that even he would not be able to remember what was in his notes. All he possessed was a book of proofs with the most contentious details missing. Everything hinged on finding the disc that contained the missing sections of the manuscript. Rose Marquand’s helper had not been able to finish searching the house – now it was up to Longbright.

She arrived to find Mrs Marquand in a state of extreme nervousness. “I just called,” she told Longbright, “but the police said they were too busy to deal with it right now.”

“What happened?” asked Longbright, coming in, but she could already see. The kitchen window had been smashed and opened.

“I can’t move about quickly. I heard the glass break and tried to get back here. It was that Hagan boy. I scared him off.”

“How do you know it was one of the Hagans?” Longbright asked.

“Who else could it be?”

“When was this? Did you see where he went?”

“It was about ten minutes ago – that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t know where he went. He didn’t go off down the garden. I think he might still be in the house. I’ve been too frightened to move from here.”

Janice searched the ground floor, then went to the foot of the stairs and listened. There was no sound from upstairs. The house was less than a decade old and nothing creaked. She peered up and watched the light in the hall above, searching for shifting shadows. She rarely felt nervous when she understood the kind of person she was dealing with, but the anonymity of the intruders invading Rose Marquand’s house made her uneasy.

“I don’t think there’s anyone here now.” She looked through the rear hall window and saw the magpies hopping into the garden. Rose had been complaining about them. Suddenly Longbright realized what she was looking at: Mrs Marquand had strung CDs on her clothesline. It was a tried and tested deterrent. The glittering discs were meant to scare off the birds.

Instead of venturing upstairs she went to the back door and out into the garden. She recognized the spidery handwriting at once. Bryant’s disc was there, strung on the line along with Shirley Bassey and Neil Diamond. As she was trying to free the clothesline she looked up and saw the face in the window, watching her. A man whose outline was familiar, late twenties, heavy, well over six feet tall, cropped hair and scrub beard, hard army build. She knew in an instant that the tables were about to turn.

Unable to free the line from the tangle of knots Mrs Marquand had made, she pulled out her penknife and sawed through the nylon, catching the CD in her hand as the back door opened and he came running for her.

She saw his boots leave the grass and the distance he covered was astonishing. He barrelled into her with such force that she was knocked off her feet. Before she could begin to rise, she sensed she was in serious trouble. His grip felt mechanical, his bulk unbelievably solid. He closed his hands around her wrists and forced her back. She brought her knee up between his legs but he closed his thighs, blocking her.

Then he punched her in the side of the head.

The disc jumped out of her hand and rolled across the wet grass. She felt herself blacking out. Without even climbing from her he was able to reach back and seize the disc. As he concentrated on slipping it into his zipped pocket, she brought up her elbow and smashed his nose.

Turning his attention back to her, he punched her hard in the solar plexus. Longbright vomited into the lawn, the pain burning across her ribcage. He was astride her now, studying her. Wiping his bloody nose, he raised a fist over her face and brought it down.

She shut her eyes hard, readying herself for the blow, knowing he would shatter bone.

But nothing happened.

There was a dull thud, and she felt his weight suddenly ease from her. When she opened her eyes, she saw Mrs Marquand standing beside them with a brightly painted concrete gnome in her hands. There was blood dripping from its pink hat.

Longbright’s attacker was out cold. Blood oozed thickly from a cut on the back of his head. She shoved him aside with difficulty and dug her hand into his padded black nylon jacket.

“That’s not one of the Hagans.” Mrs Marquand set down the gnome. “I don’t know who he is.”

Longbright found the CD, but nothing more. He was carrying no wallet, no personal belongings of any kind. She tried his outer pockets and his trousers, her fingers closing around a slender slip of paper in his back pocket. As she rose with it, the garden swam before her. The side of her head was already starting to swell and there was a searing pain in her stomach. Mrs Marquand held out her arm and helped Longbright inside. Longbright knew she had to make a call to ensure that the intruder was taken into custody, but she needed to sit down for a moment – just thirty seconds, to get her wind back.

Helped to the lounge sofa, she fell into soft cushions and closed her eyes. She awoke nearly ten minutes later. Mrs Marquand had locked the back door and was standing by it.

“What’s the matter?” asked Longbright, puzzled.

“He just got up,” she whispered, peering out. “I thought I’d killed him.”

Longbright looked through the lounge window and saw the empty patch of grass where her attacker had lain. The garden gate hung open. She unlocked the door and ran outside, but the alley beyond the garden was already empty.

Remembering the slip of paper she had taken from him, she pulled it from her jeans and read it. Her heart sank.

Most modern offices in Whitehall operated on electronic swipe cards which had to be returned after you had visited the building, but a few of the older departments still used visitor slips. You signed yourself in, adding the time, date and the name of the person you were visiting, and were meant to return the slip as you left, but most people forgot to do so.

The white slip had a government crest on it. Underneath was a name: Mr T. Maddox, timed in at 7.45 p.m. a week ago, at the Department of Internal Security, Home Office, 50 Queen Anne’s Gate, London SW1.

Next to the box that read ‘Person Visiting’, the receptionist had written Oskar Kasavian.