The Memory of Blood

∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

3

Indiscretion

“Madame Blavatsky?” said May as they headed downstairs later to a newly opened tea shop just beneath the Unit. “You’re the last of your species, you know that, don’t you? One day you’ll be in your own glass case in a museum. Label: the London Eccentric, Londinium insolitum, shy, hardy, solitary worker, difficult to breed, uncomfortable out of its native habitat – an area extending no more than five miles either side of the Thames, liable to bite when provoked.”

“You missed out my key attribute,” said Bryant. “My eidetic memory. It’s unconventionally arranged, but more useful than any of your fancy computers. The world seems so intent on erasing its past that someone has to keep notes. That’s why I’m good at my job. I make connections with my surroundings. It’s like throwing jump leads into a junkyard and sparking off the things you find there. No one else can do that. It’s why we’re still in business.”

Bryant was being a little disingenuous, and knew it. In truth, his mental connections were extremely haphazard and just as likely to short out. Moreover, he was unable to function without his partner. John May was indeed the acceptable face of the PCU, friendly with officials, kind to staff, linked to the Zeitgeist. May had never allowed himself to become an institutional officer, the kind who blankly processed criminals through the system. He believed in the innate decency of humankind, and Bryant’s innocence kept his belief alive. Such an old-fashioned approach to teamwork was not encouraged in the league-table mentality of the new century.

“I want you to meet someone,” said Bryant, pushing open the door of the Ladykillers café. The new tea shop had been named after the famous 1955 Ealing film that had been shot in the neighbourhood. It had begun life a few weeks earlier as a pop-up shop, but the owners, two sisters who dressed in identical postwar fashions, had taken up the lease and now served teas in a setting that perfectly replicated a period neither of them was old enough to remember. The girls were in their early twenties, and had adopted the café’s styling as an ironic pose. Instead, they had attracted the wrong clientele: older locals who took the environment entirely at face value.

Bryant made his way to the blue Formica counter and studied the merchandise: Battenberg cake, quiche Lorraine, Bath and Banbury buns under glass.

“Hello,” said one of the girls, “can we help you? I’m Brenda and this is Yvonne.”

“That seems highly unlikely,” said Bryant rudely. “Those are working-class names and judging by your accents your families are from the stockbroker belt, Thames Valley, probably. Any blue-collar customer would find your prices outrageous.”

Yvonne looked at Brenda nervously.

“It’s all right,” May explained to them, “that means he likes you. We’re from the police unit upstairs. I’m Mr May and this is Mr Bryant. A pot of English Breakfast tea and a couple of those buns, thanks.”

Now the girls studied the men; appearances had proved deceptive in both directions. “There’s a lady over there waiting for you,” said Yvonne. The pair set about serving.

“Anna Marquand is editing my memoirs,” replied Bryant, waving an ebony walking stick in the direction of a thin, oval-faced woman of around thirty-five, seated alone at the furthest table.

“I thought your editor was male,” said May as they made their way over.

“I had to fire that one. He accused me of being inconsistent. I told him it wasn’t true, because he had annoyed me from the outset, so we parted company. Anna was recommended by my old friend Dr Harold Masters, at the British Museum. She called to tell me she’s got proofs of my first volume of memoirs. I thought you might like to meet her.”

May was slightly puzzled by this, as his partner rarely asked him to meet friends. Anna Marquand rose and removed her pink plastic spectacles, shaking their hands with an air of grave formality.

“Anna transcribes for the historians in the Classical Studies department, and freelances for Icarus, the specialist publishing house that has taken the book. Anna, this is my partner at the PCU, John May.”

“You’re younger than I was led to believe,” Anna remarked as they seated themselves.

“You were doubtless expecting someone more decrepit,” said May.

“Well, Mr Bryant’s description – ” She stopped awkwardly, then dug into her plastic shopping bag. “I have the finished text, Mr Bryant. They told me it’s not likely to be a big print run, but it’s going to be a nice-looking volume.”

“Hopefully the first of three,” Bryant beamed, thumbing through the proofs.

“Wait, let me see,” said May, snatching it away. “Where does this go up to?”

“It’s not chronological; rather it’s a selection of our more eccentric cases,” said Bryant carefully. “I’ve covered the Leicester Square Vampire, that business with the Belles of Westminster, the Deptford Demon, the Shepherd’s Bush blowtorch murders and the hunt for the Odeon Strangler.”

“I’m afraid I had to take out some of the more politically sensitive passages,” said Anna apologetically. “Your boss was very concerned about showing the Home Office in a bad light. Also, I checked with a lawyer and found that three of the sections fell foul of the Official Secrets Act. I excised those, but I couldn’t make all the minor changes you wanted. I mean, you sent me an awful lot of revisions, and many of them contradicted each other. There simply wasn’t time to include them all, and the deadline was so tight – ”

“There’s nothing in here that’s going to upset anyone, is there?” asked May, riffling the pages. His partner had a reputation for being appallingly indiscreet.

Anna Marquand glanced uncertainly at Bryant. “Well, um, there are one or two passages that could be construed – ”

“What has he said? Arthur, what did you put in this book?”

“So many sections were blue-pencilled and then reinserted that I don’t honestly remember,” Bryant admitted. “But I think I mentioned Raymond’s wife.”

“What did you say about Leanne Land?”

“I might have pointed out that she was having an affair with her flamenco instructor. But I only did it to explain why Raymond was going bald and was so hopelessly inefficient at work.”

“Mr Land wanted to read it for himself,” Anna explained, “so I sent him the section on disc.”

“Oh, Arthur,” May admonished. “Did it never occur to you to spare Raymond’s feelings?”

“Not really, no.”

“When did you do this, Anna?” asked May.

“About a week ago.”

“Then there’s still time to get it back. Raymond’s not good with books. He virtually moves his lips as he reads. He probably hasn’t got around to looking at it. You two stay here. I’ll go back and find it. It was very nice meeting you, Anna.”

“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” said Anna when May had gone. Bryant looked at her anxious brown eyes and his heart softened. He could see her history laid out before him as neatly as parts in a model aircraft kit. Erudite and quick-witted but nervous and lacking in confidence, afflicted with apology, generous but broke, partnerless, the renter of a small flat in Stepney or Bermondsey, a solitary drinker, underpaid and underappreciated, she was probably still dominated by her mother.

All this could be easily read by anyone with a vaguely Holmesian turn of mind. Anna Marquand’s plastic shopping bag was from a cheap supermarket usually situated at the wrong end of a high street, where the rents were lower. In the bag he could see a loaf of white processed bread and a half-litre of Gordon’s gin – if she lived with a partner, she’d probably have bought a full-sized bottle. There was also a packet of menthol cigarettes in there, but Anna wasn’t a smoker. Not a man’s brand, but one popular with older women starting to worry about their health. She had recently given money to charity – there was a sticker from the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children on her jacket. There was also a slim paperback of Robert Browning’s poetry collection Men and Women in the pocket. Her hair was a mess and the ballpoint pen she had laid on the table was badly chewed. There was something inexplicably South London about her. Bryant wanted to clasp her hands and tell her to be as strong as she felt inside.

“I can’t stay long, I’m afraid,” she told him. “Since my father died I’ve been looking after my mother, and she doesn’t like to be left alone. Our area – well, there’s been trouble before. You said you didn’t want to keep the original notes and documents, so once I’d inputted them I made a single copy on disc and wiped my hard drive. I usually just return the material, because I don’t like to leave potentially sensitive documents lying around on an old computer somewhere.” She removed a clear plastic slipcase from her shopping bag and handed it to him.

“Have you got a pen?” Bryant asked. “I’ll forget what it is otherwise.” She handed him a felt-tip and he scribbled his name across the disc’s label. “Mind you, I’m just as liable to leave it on the bus. I got a terrible ear-bashing for losing the cremated remains of our coroner.”

“I keep a safe at home. My academics are paranoid about their work, so I always shred their annotated copies once I’ve retyped them and file away my version. You’d be surprised what I get sent – Ministry of Defence work, big oil companies… I feel like a spy sometimes. Except it’s mostly boring technical stuff. I enjoyed doing your book, though. A breath of fresh air for me.”

“Then perhaps you’d better keep hold of this.” Bryant handed the disc back. “Your hands are clearly safer than mine.”

Anna rose to go. “I must be heading home. My mother will worry.”

“Well, I’ll see you at the launch party. I mean, it’ll just be a drink in a scruffy old pub, but – ”

“I’d like that very much.”

“So would I,” said Bryant, offering up such a genuine smile that his false teeth nearly fell out.

On his way back up to the office, he realized he had really taken quite a shine to Miss Marquand, and decided he would try to find a way to help her. Perhaps Raymond Land could be persuaded to employ her in some freelance capacity – provided he didn’t stumble across her exposure of his wife’s extramarital sex life first.