The Victoria Vanishes

∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧

22

Questions & Answers

“In the film The Ladykillers, what was the screen name of the old lady Alec Guinness and his cronies were trying to murder? We’re talking about the original British version here, not the remake.”

May looked around at the hunched shoulders and lowered heads. The room in The Old Dr Butler’s Head, London Wall, where Joanne Kellerman had been found dead, was silent but for the scratching of 2H pencils. As he wrote ‘Mrs Wilberforce’ on the sheet before him, May accidentally caught the eye of the woman at the next table. She snatched her sheet aside, suspecting him of trying to cheat. They want to be back at school, he thought, each of them vying to be top of the class once more.

“Last question in our film round: Give me the name of the ancient kingdom discovered in Passport to Pimlico.”

May wrote ‘Burgundy’ and turned over his paper, ready for collection. He looked around the room at the assembled players, trying to see if any were alone. We always assume killers operate singly, he caught himself thinking. But what if there are two of them, perhaps even a man and a woman? Suddenly the conspiring, whispering pairs in the room appeared more sinister. None of the victims had told their partners, relatives or friends where they were going. Was that in itself significant? If the attacks were completely random and their killer moved to a fresh venue every time, catching him became a matter of luck. There are nearly six thousand pubs in London, he thought. What are we expected to do, close them all down? Suppose he switches to another crowded public place, inside the tube, on rush-hour buses or crowded city pavements?

The case had resonance with a number of other, more extraordinary killings that had occurred in London over recent years. A Bulgarian dissident, Georgi Markov, had been poisoned on Waterloo Bridge with the sharpened tip of an umbrella. Roberto Calvi, the Vatican banker, had been found hanged in a convincingly staged suicide underneath Blackfriars Bridge. And former KGB agent Alexander Litvinenko was fatally dosed with radioactive thallium in a busy sushi bar. In all three cases there had been no guns, no knives, just the careful and quiet determination to end a life.

It was difficult to shake off a sense of impending failure.

May was inclined to disagree with his partner, who felt that the attacks were based on opportunity and location as much as on the women themselves, but the fact remained that they had uncovered no common denominators other than the link between their cell phones. None of the calls had been under surveillance, so there was no way of tracing what had been said.

And there was another problem: Jazmina Sherwin’s cell phone had been found on her body, so the killer wasn’t using a consistent MO. If it can be proved that they all knew each other, May thought, it might be possible to discover the identities of other women in danger. He handed in his quiz form and sipped at his pint, watching the quizmaster at work. That’s who I need to talk to, he decided. He’ll remember everyone who’s ever come here to play. The kind of men who compile quizzes always do….

♦

The Grand Order of London Immortals were, in their own words, primarily interested in London’s most infamous characters: political brigands, celebrity criminals, unapprehended murderers and anyone else who had been stencilled into the city’s collective memory by doing something notorious and getting away with it.

Dr Harold Masters knew that the order shared some members with his own Insomnia Squad, and had recommended it to Bryant as a group who might unwittingly shine a light on the path to uncovering a murderer. This month they were meeting in the Yorkshire Grey, Langham Place, a small greenpainted Victorian establishment with hanging baskets, exterior tables and memorabilia from the nearby BBC on its walls. Workers from the garment district frequented the bar, but tonight the Immortals, a grandiose term for what was essentially a band of disgruntled scholars, were holding loudly forth in the rear of the saloon.

Bryant recognised a number of old friends who had helped him in the past, including Stanhope Beaufort, a bombastic architectural expert who volunteered advice on London’s ancient monuments, and Raymond Kirkpatrick, a verbose English-language professor who had been banned from lecturing at Oxford because of his habit of playing deafening heavy-metal music while he researched. The Immortals attracted their own groupies, not as glamorous perhaps as those who lurked backstage at rock concerts, but every bit as tenacious. Among these was Jackie Quinten, the maternal widow who had tried to tempt Bryant back to her larder with the offer of a steaming kidney casserole when they had met in the course of the PCU’s investigation into the so-called ‘Water Room’. He had turned her down, not because he disliked her cuisine but because she seemed to view him as potential husband material, which could only lead to tears.

He had spotted her sitting in a corner reading, and was careful to skirt the edge of the room in order to avoid her. Unfortunately, as he was creeping past with his head drawn down into the folds of his scarf, he caught his foot in somebody’s handbag strap and lurched forward, precipitating half a pint of Samuel Smith’s Imperial Stout straight into her lap.

There was a detonation of yelping chaos followed by a commotion of mopping and sponging, during which time Bryant stood helplessly by, caught between profuse apologies and the desire to sprint for the exit.

“Really, Arthur,” Jackie Quinten cried in exasperation as she wrung out her skirt, which was woollen and perfectly designed for absorption, “there must be better ways of announcing yourself.”

“I’m most dreadfully sorry, Jackie, I didn’t see you sitting there. You’re rather invisible in that corner.”

“Thanks, you always know how to make a woman feel special.” When she saw the look of mortification on his face, she relented. “Come and sit down for a minute, at least.” Bryant squeezed in beside her, breathing in the yeasty scent of fermented hops.

“I suppose you’re here on business.”

“After a fashion. I’m trying to stop a most unusual murderer.”

“You always are, Arthur. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but this one is particularly slippery. He corners middle-aged women in public houses and puts them to sleep.”

“I know an awful lot of men like that.” Mrs Quinten did not appear in the least surprised. If anything, she looked as if her worst fears had been confirmed. Perhaps, thought Bryant, the widow had considered herself to be in London’s last safe place, only to find its status suddenly removed. “I presume they die in the process; otherwise, you wouldn’t be involved. Why would he want to do that?” she asked.

“Because he probably hears voices and is appeasing a desire, attempting to restore an equilibrium only he understands. Who knows? Ask why men kill and you open the door to one of life’s most paradoxical mysteries.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“Trying to learn how you can make a pub disappear. What about you?”

“Oh, the usual, listening to a bunch of rambling old lecturers and writers talk utter rot. I have to get out occasionally, Arthur, otherwise I’d go insane. Besides, I’ve always had a soft spot for academics.”

“Their endless curiosity about the world does seem to keep them young,” Bryant admitted.

“And I can’t stay indoors making chutney every day, you know. I refuse to watch the toxic drivel that passes for television these days. I thought that by coming to these sorts of events I might get a clearer understanding of the world. I wonder what it is that drives the old to such questioning.”

“These days the young accept the status quo to an alarming degree, but I find I’m getting more rebellious as I age,” agreed Bryant.

“So many of life’s good intentions seem to go wrong, and I feel I’d like to know why. Have we merely been disappointed with our lives, do you suppose?”

“When I was young I fantasised about the future.” Bryant flicked a droplet of splashed beer from Jackie’s sleeve. “Now that I’m living in it, I find it all a bit tatty. I was expecting us to be on other planets by now. I wanted genetic transformations and orbiting cities instead of Internet porn and small improvements in personal stereos.”

“I know what you mean,” Jackie agreed. “Take this lot. They have plenty of ideas but no application. At least you might find them useful. Stanhope Beaufort sounds like your best bet, over there. He’s an architect.”

“Yes, I know,” said Bryant. “Do you mind if I go and talk with him?”

“No, but before you go, perhaps I can hold you to the promise of dinner. I’m not trying to lure you, Arthur. I’d make a rather unprepossessing siren. I just enjoy your company.” She seemed hesitant about continuing. “And I’d appreciate your opinion about a private matter. On a professional basis, you understand.”

“On that basis, I’ll do my best to oblige,” Bryant relented, rising. “I’m free on Saturday.”

Mrs Quinten looked disappointed. “That’s the one day I can’t do. I’m meeting one of my gentleman academics.”

“Oh, what an enormous pity. Another time then.”

“Perhaps after I finished – ”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude and spoil your evening.”

He was aware of Jackie Quinten’s eyes on his back as he moved across the room. I’ll admit she’s a not unattractive woman, he caught himself thinking. I rather admire a firm maternal bust, but I’m damned if I’m eating her kidney casserole.