The Victoria Vanishes

∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧

34

Gazumped

Raymond Land was uncomfortably perched on the cracked red leather seat of a nineteenth-century tapestry-backed chair in Leslie Faraday’s office, nervously waiting for the minister to return.

As he toyed with a loose thread, he wondered whether he would be able to curry favour from the case’s fast conclusion. His superiors would see that the PCU could compete with the Met in terms of efficiency, and as he was acting head of the division he would surely be commended for resolving a situation that might well have caused a national panic. The monotonous regularity with which the HO attempted to shut down the unit would be ended, and its officers would finally be allowed to continue in an atmosphere of mutual respect.

He looked down and realised that the tapestry thread was wrapped around his fingers. Peering over at the back of the chair, he saw to his horror that he had unravelled a substantial portion of the ancient design. The shepherdess now had no head, and two of her sheep had partially evaporated.

Faraday waddled into the room rubbing his hands. “Ah, there you are, Land,” he boomed cheerfully. “I’m having Deirdre rustle us up some tea. You’re white with two sugars if memory serves.” Faraday’s memory always served. Indeed, it was his singular talent, and all that kept him from being booted from his fine Whitehall office into the gutter. Faraday was as slow as treacle but remembered where all the financial corpses were buried, and therefore it was expedient to keep him where ministers with more competence and cunning could keep an eye on him. “I must say you’ve done jolly well to put this frightful business to bed. I thought it would be a good idea to tell – ”

A chill breeze trembled through Land’s heart. He suddenly knew who Faraday had told.

“ – Mr Kasavian,” said Faraday, holding open the door. “He wanted a word with you himself.”

This could not be good. Whenever the cadaverous Home Office security supervisor became involved in their affairs, babies cried, women cowered, innocence was punished and blame was wrongly apportioned. As he entered the room, Land fancied he heard the distant sound of noosed bodies falling through trap doors. Certainly the sun went in and drained all warmth from the room.

Oskar Kasavian did not smile so much as bare his lower teeth. As Land rose and held out his hand, he realised that his palm was still filled with material from the damaged chair. Like a shamed schoolboy, he let it drop onto the floor behind him.

“I understand our public houses are once more safe enough for the populace to become drunk in,” said Kasavian, waving Land back into his seat, “although it would have been preferable to bring the malefactor to justice rather than spreading him all over the A102.”

“My officers risked a great deal trying to prevent the flight of a mentally unstable man,” Land explained.

“Quite understood.” Kasavian examined his nails as though checking for evidence that could link him with murder. “Trying circumstances for everyone involved, and I look forward to reading your full report. But I am here about another matter entirely. The Peculiar Crimes Unit currently occupies the site at 1b Camden Road, does it not?” Kasavian opened a folder and produced a photocopied map of the area, with the footprint of Mornington Crescent station marked in shaded lines.

Land was bewildered. He leaned forward, peering at the proffered document. “That is correct.”

Kasavian tapped a long hard nail on his front tooth. It made a sound like water dripping from a corpse onto an upturned tin bucket. “You see, the thing is, there has been a rather unfortunate oversight. Probably no more than a clerical error, but an error all the same. Your lease – ”

“ – extended to 2017; I signed the documents myself,” said Land hastily.

“Indeed you did, but for some reason I can hardly begin to fathom, the document was never notarised by the Land Registrar. Which means that the lease was never officially extended.” Kasavian had employed his legal team for over a month, searching for some loophole by which to remove the PCU from his sight. The unratified lease had fallen into his etiolated hands like disinterred treasure.

“Then surely it is simply a matter of presenting the lease once more,” said Land hopefully.

“Would that things were so simple.” Faraday wrung his hands together so tightly that Land expected to see drops of blood fall from them. “With the lapse of the lease, all existing documentation between the former leaseholder and the Crown Estate, which owns the site, is voided.”

“Can’t we draw up new documents based on the previous arrangement?” asked Land, already knowing the answer.

Kasavian gave him a dry, hooded look that suggested he could not be bothered to come up with any more excuses. “The unit is required to vacate the premises at noon on Monday.”

“But tomorrow’s Saturday,” squeaked Land. “Where are we to be rehoused?”

“Alas, we do not have the facility for rehousing such a government unit at present.”

“Then what are you suggesting we do?”

Faraday pretended to spot something of great interest outside the window, which was unlikely as he was facing a brick wall in Horseferry Road. “Mr Kasavian has kindly agreed to placing all members of staff on partially paid leave until the situation can be sorted out,” he said.

“We hope to find new premises for you within three to four months. Meanwhile, we will be offering a generous ‘opt-out’ scheme to your staff, for those members who feel unable to continue with the unit.”

“Do you know how many times the Home Office has tried to disband the PCU and failed?” said Land hotly. “Without us, this type of crime would go undetected and unsolved.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Kasavian. “The unit has clearly had its fans in the Home Office, but many members of the old guard are reaching retirement age and handing over the reins. There are reasons why you never made superintendent, Land, just as there are now reasons to assume that the Metropolitan Police Force could handle this kind of work with greater cost-efficiency.”

“So that’s what it comes down to?” asked Land. “Money?”

“It’s a matter of security. It may have escaped your notice, but the capital is on a permanent ‘Severe’ terrorism alert. There is no room for your little cottage-industry detection unit. You’re an anachronism, an unacceptable security risk; you’ve admitted so yourself.”

“That was in the past, before – ”

“Before your detectives won you over? Ask yourself, Land, what has changed? The answer is nothing, and that’s the problem.”

“Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?” Land pleaded. He glanced back at Faraday, who had just noticed that his tapestry chair was ruined.

“It’s too late for that,” said Kasavian. “I’m afraid the building has already been sold. Tomorrow is your very last day at Mornington Crescent. You’d better go and tell your staff to pack up their belongings.” His smile was as mirthless as any carnival huckster’s. “Don’t worry, we won’t do anything as drastic as changing the locks. I remember only too well what happened the last time we tried that. We’re all civilised adults, Mr Land, I’m sure we can reach an amicable agreement.”

“You mean you’d like us to reach a compromise on the terms of moving out?” said Land hopefully.

“Good God, no,” said Kasavian. “It’s merely an expression. There’s nothing you can do now except go.”