The Victoria Vanishes

∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧

37

Open and Shut

“What do you mean, the case isn’t closed?”

Raymond Land looked like someone had just thrown a bucket of iced water over him. Bryant had never seen him looking so tired. There were bags like suitcases under his eyes, and for once he hadn’t tried to plaster his remaining strands of hair across his head.

“I’ve just told you; we think there may be at least two more victims, people we haven’t considered. They could have been kidnapped by Pellew before he made a run for it. And there’s something else. Pellew was being monitored by a community warden called Lorraine Bonner. When he skipped his apartment, she notified his probation officer. The authorities knew he’d broken the terms of his release, but it looks like they did nothing about it. Why?”

“I can’t go back to Faraday and tell him the case is still open. He’ll have kittens.”

“I don’t care about upsetting Faraday’s little world when there may be human lives at stake.”

“And anyway – I suppose I’d better tell you – there’s another problem.” Land’s sigh was like air leaking from an old accordian. “Kasavian’s closed the unit.”

“Again? My dear Raymond, every time we take on a case he closes the unit. It’s getting so that people come here half-expecting to find us shut at odd hours. We’re a crime-detection unit, not a French patisserie.”

“Listen to me, Arthur: This time it’s for good. They’ve removed our lease on the building, with immediate effect. We’re required to vacate the premises today.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bryant scoffed, before suddenly losing confidence. “You’re not serious?”

“As a heart attack. They’ve sold the property. There’s another department moving in on Monday at noon.”

“How long are we supposed to vacate for? Where are we to go?”

“Kasavian says we’ll be rehoused eventually, but I don’t believe it for a second. It really is the end of the line.”

“Oh, you’ve said that before. We’ll continue on, we always do. I haven’t finished my autobiography yet.”

“For God’s sake, Bryant, be realistic for once in your life!” Land shouted, startling them both. “We have no funding, no offices, nowhere to work, no support – nothing, you understand? It’s all gone. Everything you worked for all these years, it’s finished, over.” He dropped his head into his hands, surreptitiously eyeing the aspirin bottle on his desk. “Go home, I can’t talk to you anymore.”

“Well, I’m very disappointed that you won’t go to bat for us,” said Bryant. “It can’t end here, you know. So long as we can prevent a single death, there’s cause to go on.”

“Really? Are you sure you’re not doing this for yourself, because you know that without the unit you have absolutely nothing left?”

“That was cruel, Raymond.” Bryant did his best to look hurt.

“You’ve been hanging around with people from the Home Office for too long. There was a time when you cared about doing the right thing.”

“I have to be practical about this. I looked inside the envelope you put in my jacket at Oswald’s wake, Arthur. I know I wasn’t supposed to, but curiosity got the better of me. You’d reached the decision to resign, and I know how you feel. Out of step with the present day. Heaven knows I’ve felt that often enough. I have no idea what people are thinking anymore; all I know is that I don’t like anyone very much. Some evenings I walk to the station and it seems as though every Londoner under forty is completely drunk. I’m getting to the point where I hate everyone. No wonder people shut themselves away. So you see, I understand your position. That’s why I have to accept your resignation.”

“But I don’t want to resign now. I have a reason for not doing so.”

“The case is closed.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You identified the murderer.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You caught him red-handed.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“And now you’re saying he didn’t do it after all.”

“No, I’m saying he did.”

“Then how in God’s name can someone else have done it?”

“I! Don’t! Know!” Bryant realised they were shouting at each other, and turned his hearing aid down a fraction. “But. I. Am. Going. To. Find. Out.”

He saw Land turning red and shouting something back, but had no idea what he was saying. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad that’s settled. I’ll get back to work.”

Land’s next sentence was more creatively constructed than anything he had said in the last five years, mainly because it was spectacularly obscene, but Bryant heard nothing at all as he left the room.

♦

“I’ve got something for you,” April told her grandfather, commandeering his laptop and flipping open a file before him. “You’ll love this; it’s technology gone mad. In November 2005 Jocelyn Roquesby caught a flight to Ancona in Italy. She returned from Rome five days later. Giles found a torn piece of the ticket stub in the bottom of her handbag. He gave it to Dan Banbury, who used the information to locate her British Airways frequent-flyer number. By buying an on-line ticket in her name, he was able to access the rest of her personal data.”

“You can do that?” asked John May in surprise.

“We’re simply stealing the tricks of the identity thieves,” said April. “From that tiny row of digits Dan was able to get her passport number, her nationality and her date of birth, but better still, they led us to Roquesby’s home address, academic qualifications, profession and current account details. We can tell you what car she drove, how much she bought her house for – and where she was working. Dan reckons most machine-readable ID documents carry flaws that make them pretty easy to crack. Although the new RFID-chipped passports demanded by the U.S. have military-standard data encryption technology, they’re unlocked by supposedly ‘secret’ keys that use readily available information. There are identity thieves who just work the airports, reading documents over travellers’ shoulders and entering data into cell phones.”

“So who was Jocelyn Roquesby working for?”

“A company called Theseus Research, based in King’s Cross but registered out of Brussels. Dan cross-checked their employment records and came up with a total of seven names in the same London department, employed over roughly the same dates. Guess who they were?”

“Roquesby, Joanne Kellerman, Naomi Curtis, Carol Wynley and Jazmina Sherwin.”

“Close. You’re right about the first four. But it looks like Uncle Arthur was correct about Sherwin not being part of the canonical selection of victims, though, because we have new names in fifth, sixth and seventh places.”

“The ones we haven’t found.” May leaned forward and read down the screen. “My God, I recognise one of them.”

“You do?”

May found himself looking at three further female identities – Mary Sinclair, Jennifer Winslow and Jackie Quinten.

“Mrs Quinten has helped the unit out in the past. She’s the lady who keeps trying to get Arthur to come over for dinner. Have you tried calling them all?”

“I’ve spoken to Jennifer Winslow; she’s currently working at Ohio State University, and we can therefore assume her to be out of danger, at least until she returns next week. Mary Sinclair is at home in London, and we’re providing her with immediate police protection, although from what or whom I have absolutely no idea. Right now, Jackie Quinten is our problem. There’s no answer from her landline or her cell phone. Meera is on her way to Mrs Quinten’s house in Kentish Town to see what’s happened.”

“Poor Arthur,” said May. “I think he has a bit of a soft spot for her. He knocked a drink over her at the Yorkshire Grey and had a moan about her harassing him for a dinner date, but I know he secretly loves being pampered. He’ll never forgive himself if something has happened to her.”