The Victoria Vanishes

∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧

24

Hangovers

“You’ve all been drinking,” said May, shocked. “Look at the state of you, you’re half smashed.”

He glanced around the briefing room. Raymond Land was nodding off, Renfield looked sloshed, Banbury was poking about in a packet of Cheese ‘N’ Onion crisps and Meera was wearing a suede fringed jacket with the king lives written across it in red, white and blue sequins.

“Only in the cause of research, sir,” said Banbury, crunching crisps.

“Has anyone seen Bimsley?” asked May.

“Outside, sir. On the street.”

“What’s he doing out there, for heaven’s sake?”

“Snogging a girl, sir. Tongues and everything. Pretty hot stuff.” Banbury wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and looked about the room. Meera attempted to kill him with a well-aimed stare.

“He gave me his notes,” said April, unfurling a ball of paper and smoothing it out.

“Well, at least you’ve all been able to turn some in. I think the evening has given us a chance to reflect on the events of the past few days. I know how these women came to meet their deaths. I want the why.”

“With all due respect, old chap, we’re not going to be able to crack that nut overnight,” said Kershaw. “We don’t have any clear suspects.”

“We now have witness descriptions,” said April, looking up from the collated notes she had laid neatly across the desk. “Naomi Curtis and Jazmina Sherwin were both approached by a man in his early thirties, attractive despite the fact that he has a large wine-coloured birthmark covering the left side of his face. We think he might be a former North London barman who was fired from his job. It shouldn’t be so hard to get a name.”

“That depends on whether he was using his own,” said Bryant. “Bar staff sometimes pay substitutes cash in hand to take their shifts.”

“Then we have to hope this one was legally employed,” said May, glaring at his partner.

“There’s something else,” said April. “Three of the victims knew each other.” She held up a photograph that clearly showed Naomi Curtis, Jocelyn Roquesby and Joanne Kellerman standing together in a bar holding glasses of red wine.

“Where on earth did you get that?” asked Bryant, amazed.

April pointed across the room to Renfield. “Jack found it among the photographs of drinkers pinned behind the bar in the Old Bell, although it doesn’t look like it was taken there. The décor is different,” she told the group. “Dan, perhaps you could examine the shot and get some clue to the location.”

“The barmaid thinks it’s a recent addition, because she doesn’t remember it being there when she started working behind the bar last month,” said Renfield.

“Then it’s conceivable that the killer was drinking or working in a pub on the night they met there, and singled them out.” Kershaw tapped the photograph with a manicured nail. “When it came to meeting up with them separately, he clearly had a way of posing as one of the other two, using Kellerman’s cell phone. I’m guessing via text messages. Could they have all been members of the same pub club?”

“They met in a public house because it was secure,” said Bryant.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s what Masters said, a pub is neutral territory. Why, the very word public suggests openness. They wanted somewhere safe and busy to meet, so that they could discuss something where they wouldn’t be bugged, watched or monitored, something common to all of them.”

“Or someone,” said Longbright. “Jazmina was stalked.”

“The fundamental problem remains,” said Bryant. “He’s changed his MO and didn’t take Sherwin’s phone this time, so how do we predict whether he will strike again?”

“Start narrowing the search,” said Renfield. “We put out a description to every pub in North and Central London. He’s not going to leave his hunting ground. You said yourself that he feels comfortable there, Bryant. He’s local to the area. We could have him locked away by this time tomorrow.”

“That would require extra manpower, which means involving the Met,” Bryant pointed out.

“What, you have a problem with that?” Renfield wanted to know.

“We don’t but they do. They won’t help us, or you, despite the fact that your mates are still there.”

“Bryant’s right.” Land seemed suddenly alert. “We’ll have to do it ourselves. Let’s start making the calls and getting people out of bed. Nobody goes home tonight.” A collective groan rose in the room. The staff clambered from their perches and started to disperse.

“It still doesn’t feel right,” said Bryant, shaking his head as the office emptied. “We’re looking at the victims instead of the victimiser.”

“You’re trying too hard, Arthur,” said May. “You always do.”

“No, this time my gut instinct is valid. I think – ” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, as if searching for ideas in the dusty cornicing. “I think I need to be alone with my books for an hour.” He rose with a grimace and stumped off to his own room.

May knew it was pointless trying to control his partner. He could only follow and wait for revelations, no matter how wrongheaded they might be.

♦

Dan Banbury had scanned in the photograph of Naomi Curtis, Jocelyn Roquesby and Joanne Kellerman drinking together, and section by section, expanded the background illuminated in the flash of the digital camera, a 3.5 megapixel by the look of it. There were plenty of cell phones offering that level of quality. The top left of the photograph showed the edge of a window. From its placement, he could tell that the pub was on a corner. The light suggested early evening. Through the window he could make out a swathe of green plastic, a canopy made of metal rods, rows of what appeared to be oranges and bananas: market stalls. Two small gold letters had been painted in reverse on the glass, E and X.

After that, it was simply a matter of running a search on all street markets in the central London area, and finding a corner pub with the letters E and X in its title. Only one fit the bill: the Exmouth Arms, in Clerkenwell’s Exmouth Market.

Banbury checked his watch and punched the air. The entire process had taken him less than fifteen minutes. He had a feeling they were finally getting somewhere.

♦

“All right, come on, you’ve had your hour. What is it you’re looking for?” May shut the door behind him as he returned to the office.

“I’m no good at understanding psychology,” said Bryant. “I’ve always left that to you. But it seems to me that the taking of human life involves shame and regret as well as arrogance and cruelty.”

“I wouldn’t say that was always true. Serial killers usually fail to produce normal emotional responses. What are you thinking?”

“That part of him wants to be caught. My problem is Jazmina Sherwin, the odd girl out. She’s younger, more overtly attractive, different in every way from the others. She doesn’t fit the pattern, and yet she’s linked to the others by a description of the man who followed her. It doesn’t add up, John. Then there are the locations, all grouped together in a tight circle. He’s anxious to be stopped, and is trying to expose himself.”

“Then why wouldn’t he just turn himself in?”

“Something is driving him on to these acts of violence. No, violence is the wrong word, because I don’t think he hates women. The attacks are almost gentle, as if he just wants them to fall asleep in his arms.”

“All right.” May seated himself on the corner of the desk, thinking. “If he was very lonely – if he felt that the birthmark on his face kept him from being attractive to the opposite sex – this might be his way of preserving a moment forever, of keeping women by his side in a place where he feels happy and comfortable.”

“Then why aren’t all his victims like Jazmina? Look, do you remember when we were much younger, you tracked down a man who was attacking girls on Number Seventy-five buses – 1968, I think it was. The first thing he said when you took him into custody was ‘Why did you take so long to stop me?’ I think this is something similar, and it makes me wonder if he’s leaving me any more explicit clues.”

“You say leaving you clues. You don’t think it’s someone who knows you?”

“It has crossed what’s left of my mind,” sighed Bryant. “If only my memory was sharper. I’ve another appointment with Mrs Mandeville first thing tomorrow morning. She hypnotised me the other day, you know.”

“Did it help to improve your memory?”

“I think so. When I woke up, I suddenly remembered who I’d lent my electric drill to in the summer of ‘86. It seems I accused the wrong person of stealing it. I should never have filled his garage with bees.” His mind changed track. “You know there’s one thing about all these pubs, don’t you? We’ve been to them before, every single one of them.”

“Yes, but so have thousands of other Londoners. If you like public houses, you’re bound to have tried a few on the list at some time in your life.”

“I daresay. But I’ve told you, I don’t think this is just about the victims. It’s about the locations. Give me a hand, would you?” Bryant wobbled onto the top of his chair and reached for a collection of tatty albums on the uppermost shelf. He passed them down to May, who caught some of the titles: Signs of the Times: A Guide to London Names, English Symbols, The Secret Language of Codes, Urban Semiotics.

“You don’t honestly think these are going to help?” asked May.

“The others will be searching through employment records and contacting witnesses, tackling the prosaic tasks of criminal investigation,” Bryant reminded him, holding out a hand to descend. “Leave me to potter in the past by myself; it’s what I’m best at. I might surprise you yet.”