The Memory of Blood

∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

46

Party!

“The London Dungeon. This is your grand idea, is it?” said Land, looking up at the swinging sign that dripped with painted blood. The rain was pounding down on the deserted pavements, as hard and heavy as the spray from a thousand showerheads. Bryant had ducked under the cover of the doorway. He peered round the corner like an exhibit planning an escape.

“I thought it would appeal to their sensibilities,” he replied. “Plenty of Ella Maltby’s gruesome tableaux inside.”

“And hardly any light. What if you do catch one of them out and he makes a break for it? How are you going to find them?”

“There are only two exits. We’ll have Meera and Colin, and Jack and Fraternity positioned in front of them. We’re putting them in guards’ uniforms. Nobody will even notice them.”

“This is the most deranged thing I have ever let you do,” said Land wearily. He checked his watch. “They’ll be here in a few minutes. Well, I suppose we’re committed now. Show me how this is going to work.”

Bryant led the way inside, past a skeleton in an iron gibbet. “They’re geared up for parties,” he explained, pointing to a table laden with wine and glasses.

“Wait a minute, who’s paying for all this?”

“I got it out of petty cash. Listen, Raymond, I wouldn’t be doing this if I thought there was any other way. I think the killer has finished his work but won’t be able to resist turning up for one last gloat. Robert Kramer was made to suffer and now he’s finally dead. I should have been able to save him. I should have acted on my instincts but I held back.”

“For once I really wish you’d done something crazy earlier,” Land admitted.

“This is our last chance. You’ve seen this sort of thing before, people who turn up to watch the ambulance services removing the bodies of the victims they’ve killed, murderers who stand by as the houses they’ve set alight burn down. Our killer shared his victim’s sense of the macabre – that’s why he continued to use the puppets. Tonight we will get to the truth, or the Unit will go down trying.”

A few minutes later, just as Bryant had predicted, the guests began turning up. The show’s female lead, Delia Fortess, was still in her closing scene costume, a black diamante basque hidden by a long red overcoat.

Neil Crofting, the veteran actor who had been Mona Williams’s best friend, looked years younger in jeans and a sweatshirt.

By contrast, Marcus Sigler, the male lead of The Two Murderers, looked sickly and unwell.

Unsurprisingly, Judith Kramer was putting in an appearance under sufferance.

Ray Pryce was already inside, helping May to learn his lines.

The director, Russell Haddon, turned up with an extremely young woman on his arm who was protruding from her minuscule dress, and appeared to be under the mistaken impression that she was attending some kind of premiere.

Ella Maltby, the set designer and props wizard, strolled in as if she were coming home, and in a sense she was.

The wardrobe master, Larry Hayes, arrived with his suspiciously pretty male assistant.

The corpulent Hard News critic, Alex Lansdale, came with his publisher, Janet Ramsey.

Lastly, Mohammad al-Nahyan (carpenter) and Jolie Christchurch (front of house) arrived together.

Just before the doors were shut, Gail Strong made her entrance alone. She looked lost and far less confident than she had a week earlier at Robert Kramer’s party.

“Who are all these extra people?” Land asked. “I thought you’d only invited the suspects.”

“I invited everyone from the office to make up numbers and be on hand if there was trouble,” said Bryant. “Plus, they heard there was a party.”

“Obviously we had to invite everyone who was there on the night Noah Kramer was killed,” said Ray. “It would have looked really odd just to have half a dozen people sitting under statues of torturers drinking cheap white wine.”

“I’m sorry,” Bryant apologized. “The Unit budget wouldn’t run to good plonk.”

“Well, now what happens?” Land demanded.

“We crank up the music and let them get a few glasses down. Then John makes his announcement.”

At first, the guests stood uncomfortably beneath the exhibits, keeping to their usual groups while John May and Ray Pryce circulated between them. Bryant sat at the back of the room watching carefully. Russell Haddon’s girlfriend was called Naida, and seemed to be drunk already. Gail Strong and Marcus Sigler were most noticeably different. They stayed clear of each other, and seemed to be eyeing everyone else with suspicion.

May checked his watch and turned to Bryant. “OK, let’s get this started.”

Ray Pryce stepped up onto the low dais that stood at the rear of the room and called for everyone’s attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I know it seems odd to be having a party without Robert here to play host, but, in spite of the week’s extraordinary events, we couldn’t let the production close without marking the occasion in some way. The Unit detectives investigating these dreadful deaths were anxious to meet with you so that they could make themselves accountable and answer as many of your questions as possible. I’m sure you’re anxious to know what happened to Robert, and where the police now stand with regard to ending the investigation. They’ll be at your disposal during the course of the evening, and they hope that by doing this we can achieve some sense of closure and be able to move on with our lives. I’ve been asked to explain that anything said in this room tonight will operate under Chatham House Rules – in other words, all information goes no further than here.”

“That goes particularly for you, Janet,” said Bryant, noticing the editor of Hard News, who looked furious.

“In order to encourage a spirit of openness and to make sure that no one is tempted to mention what passed here this evening, we’ll be keeping the main doors locked until midnight. After that, you are all free to go.”

Everyone started talking at once. If nothing else, it seemed like an outrageous and somewhat morbid offer from the police.

Bryant and May stepped out into the crowd and waited as the first tentative guests came forward. Within moments, everyone was asking them questions. Was it true that Robert Kramer had been staked through the heart? And that Mona Williams had been treated as if she were a witch? Was witchcraft involved? Had necromantic rituals been performed at the theatre? Had the show been cursed? What about their producer, had he taken his own life or had someone made his death look like suicide? And what were Ella Maltby’s dolls doing at the scenes of the crimes?

After the first barrage of questions, Bryant noticed a fresh element creeping into the conversation – veiled accusations. Someone had heard that Maltby was a little too fond of her dolls. Someone said the killer was probably the playwright, because he had a creepy turn of mind. Someone had spotted Russell Haddon having a huge argument with Mona Williams about her overacting the day before she was found dead. Someone suggested that Judith Kramer was more cunning than she appeared to be.

“This is going to get ugly very quickly,” Longbright warned. “How are we going to stop them fighting?”

“Between you and me, I think that’s what Arthur wants to encourage,” said May.

“How’s it going?” asked Ray, coming over. May had noticed that the actors were shunning the writer now that it was clear he was helping the police. “They all seem to have a lot to get off their chests.”

“They’ll have more when they see this.” May unfolded a large spreadsheet Longbright had printed out. “It’s the cross-referenced time line of everyone’s movements at the party. We’re going to show it to them. Give me a hand.” He shook out some drawing pins and together they hung it along the nearest wall.

“How does this work?” asked Ray, pulling out his glasses and perusing the colour-coded graphs.

“What happened to your spectacles?” May pointed to the tape holding one of the arms in place.

“Oh, I had to repair these. Mona sat on them at the Kramers’ party. I’m having another pair made. She was always doing things like that.”

“Was she now?” said Bryant. He turned to the spreadsheet. “Well, there you are, you’re the red stripe here, two trips from the main lounge in the course of the evening, one for a smoke and one for the bathroom, both witnessed, and by two different people, Mona Williams and Marcus Sigler, which clears you. But take someone else – Neil Crofting, say, two trips from the room also, only one witnessed, by Ella Maltby – or Russell Haddon, two trips, neither remembered by anyone at all.”

“Does that make Russell more of a suspect?”

“Only in terms of opportunity. He has no motive I can think of. And that’s the trouble. Nobody here really has a proper motive for killing the child except Robert Kramer, and in his case we would have to assume he would only have done it if he’d known then that the baby belonged to his wife’s lover.”

Gradually, the crowd shifted over to examine the huge spreadsheet, their sense of curiosity mingled with outright suspicion.

“What do we do now?” asked May in desperation.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m going out for a pipe,” said Bryant cheerfully.

“I thought you weren’t letting anyone out.”

“I’m not. There’s a small bricked-in area at the back of the building. It opens into a courtyard with sheer walls. Nobody’s leaving that way.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “if the smokers amongst you would care to follow me, we can grab a quick drag and a gasp on the patio.”

The release of tension in the room was palpable as the crowd split in two, one half heading for the patio.

“Bloody hell, I need a drink,” groaned Renfield, wiping his forehead.

“Not until after midnight,” said May. “You’re on duty.”

“Do you honestly think anything’s going to come of this? Let me tell you, I’m putting in for a transfer after this shambles is over. At least the Met officers were professionals. You lot are like a bunch of bloody children. Men and women are dying out there on the London streets and we’re all in here playing some elaborate version of Cluedo, looking for Colonel Mustard in the sodding library with the lead pipe. I’ve had it. Actually, why wait? I wish to tender my resignation, right now.”

“I don’t think you want to do that, old stick,” said Bryant, wandering past with his unlit pipe in his mouth.

“You can’t stop me,” Renfield warned.

“Maybe not,” Bryant agreed, “but I’d give it a few minutes yet, just to watch the fireworks.”

“What fireworks?”

“The metaphorical ones that will go off when I do my Hercule Poirot impersonation and announce who the murderer really is.”

“Wait a minute.” May stopped him. “You mean you know who it is?”

“I have a most definite suspicion. Have had for quite a while. But now I need proof.”

Raymond Land grabbed Bryant’s arm as he led the smoking pack through the room. “On the dot of midnight the street doors of this place will be opened and it will be over,” he hissed. “That’s it, investigation suspended, all files get packed up and shipped off to Islington CID.”

“There’s still another twenty minutes to go,” said Bryant, flicking the brim of his trilby. “Care to join me for a pipe?”