The Water Room

18. THE HOUSE IN BRICK LANE

Arthur Bryant wedged his crowbar under the lid of the mildewed pine storage crate and prised it off, scattering rusty nails all over the floor of the office at Mornington Crescent. The box had been kept under a railway arch in a lock-up at King’s Cross, but construction companies were tearing down the arches, and he had been forced to find a new home for his collection. It had been May’s idea to bring his partner’s memorabilia into the unit, because he felt sorry that Bryant had lost so much in the blaze, even though it had been his own fault.

Bryant knew that he was being provided with a displacement activity, something to quell his overactive imagination until Raymond Land sanctioned a new case. Inside the musty container were relics of his greatest successes. He carefully eased out Rothschild, his mange-riddled Abyssinian cat, and set it on the shelf above his desk. He had replaced its missing eyes with a pair of coloured marbles, but there was no substitute for the back leg that had fallen off some years ago. The stuffed feline had once been the familiar of Edna Wagstaff, the renowned Deptford medium, who had now sadly passed to the Other Side herself, to join Squadron Leader Smethwick and Evening Echo, her informants from beyond. Most of Bryant’s books had been destroyed in the fire, but reaching into the box he was pleased to discover battered copies of Malleus Maleficarum, The Oxford Handbook of Criminology (first edition), Mayhew’s London Characters and Crooks, J. R. Hanslet’s All of Them Witches, Deitleff’s Psychic Experience in the Weimar Republic, Fifty Thrifty Cheese Recipes and Brackleson’s Stoat-Breeding for Intermediates. Further down were items that stirred long-dormant memories: a programme from the Palace Theatre for Orphée aux Enfers, the scene of their first case; the claw of a Bengal tiger found pacing about a west London bedroom; a monarch butterfly that had acted as a vital clue in stemming a Soho drug epidemic; a runic alphabet used to solve a bizarre suicide in the city. He had begun to write up each case as a chapter in the unit’s memoirs, and knowing that they could not be published in his lifetime, made them as scurrilous and slander-packed as possible, a cathartic exercise that temporarily expunged the bitterness he felt at being held back by idiots.

As happy as a child in a dressing-up box, he fished out each item and carefully wiped it, looking at his shelves with pride. Satisfied that he had made the room homelier, he took down his copy of The Luddite’s Guide to the Internet and decided to tackle May’s new Macintosh laptop.

Half an hour later, May arrived and noticed that the building had become ominously quiet. He went to check on his partner.

‘Ah, there you are. What do you know about Hot Dutch Interspecies Love?’ Bryant looked up from the computer. ‘Specifically, how to get rid of it?’

‘What have you done?’ asked May, dreading the answer. ‘You know you’re never supposed to touch my things.’ He cleared a patch in the chaotic landscape of Bryant’s spreading paperwork to set down his Starbucks cup. The last time Bryant had accessed police files via the Internet, he had somehow hacked into the Moscow State Weather Bureau and put it on red alert for an incoming high-pressure weather system. The Politburo had been mobilized and seven flights re-routed before the error was spotted and rectified.

‘I was trying to find the address of the Amsterdam Spiritualist Society. I had to give these people my credit details for some reason, and then the screen filled up with the most disgusting pictures of ladies in barnyards. When I tried to cancel my American Express card, I somehow went through to the Parker Meridien Hotel in New York, specifically their internal telephone system. I followed the recorded instructions about entering a code, then everything went dead and a man started threatening me with a lawsuit. He says I’ve crashed their switchboard, and now all these horrible animal pictures are popping up again. I hope I haven’t broken the Internet.’

‘Don’t ever give anyone your credit-card details.’ John turned the keyboard around and began closing his files. ‘You just have to accept that there are some things you shouldn’t attempt. Let me do it for you.’

‘I think I caused electrical interference somehow. I didn’t want to bother you.’ Some aspects of Bryant’s ageing process had begun to mutate into characteristics more commonly associated with troublesome babies.

‘It bothers me a lot more when your experiments in the digital domain start to produce global effects. I don’t want you messing around with my laptop. It’s bad enough that I can’t receive email at home any more.’ Bryant had somehow managed to get his partner blacklisted by every server in the country. May had explained the principles of the Internet dozens of times, but always ended up being sidetracked into the kind of arcane discussions Bryant enjoyed having, like how the Macintosh apple symbol represented Alan Turing’s method of suicide, or how Karl Marx had once run up Tottenham Court Road (where May purchased his computer equipment) drunkenly smashing streetlamps.

‘What are you still doing here, anyway?’ May asked. The division’s promised casework had been delayed pending the arrival of new equipment that had so far failed to materialize. Wyman, the mistily evasive Home Office liaison officer, was full of excuses. At a time when terrorist splinter groups had been caught attempting to blast London targets with American-made Stinger missiles, tentatively experimental divisions like the Peculiar Crimes Unit were the first to feel the financial pinch.

Bryant thrust his hands into his pockets and swung around on his swivel chair. ‘My legs are killing me tonight, so to take my mind off them I thought I’d go through the Permanently Open files, see if there’d been any recent sightings of the Leicester Square Vampire.’

‘And have there been?’

‘Nothing for months. He’s never disappeared for such a long period before.’ The elderly detective had a duty to continue checking. Even though the trail had long gone cold, he owed it to May to track down the man who had indirectly destroyed his family. Pulling the lid from his partner’s coffee, he poured in a shot of brandy from his hip flask. ‘This stuff is undrinkable unless you do something to it.’

‘It’s mine, actually,’ said May.

‘I’ve been thinking about this business with your academic. How did you get on with the wife?’ Bryant poured a second shot of brandy in, ignoring him.

‘Er, OK,’ stalled May. ‘She called me this morning. Apparently, Gareth’s at home studying the Water Board’s survey maps.’

‘Why don’t we go and visit Jackson Ubeda’s office?’

‘And say what, exactly? That we know he’s employed someone to break into buildings built over the estuaries of forgotten rivers?’

‘I don’t mean to visit him when he’s there. I have his business address.’ Bryant could see his partner wavering. ‘He’s based in Spitalfields. I called his number. According to the telephone message, the office is closed until tomorrow. We can take my old skeleton keys.’

‘Arthur, they don’t work with modern deadbolts. Besides, he might have an alarm system. Although Banbury reckons he has something to get around the basic models.’

Bryant knew he would get his partner to agree. Neither of them enjoyed having time on their hands.

‘Where is everyone, by the way?’ May looked about.

‘I sent them home so that the painters could finish up. They’re laying the floor in the lavatory overnight. I suppose you heard that they caught the Camden bin-bag killer? Positive ID, evidence matches, witnesses, the lot. That means it’s make-or-break time for us; Raymond will either find us fresh work or have us closed down. He’s ordered Meera and Colin to seal the remaining files under Longbright’s supervision tonight. They’ll be working through until it’s done, so Janice has gone to KFC for a bargain bucket. They’re dining al desko.’

‘What you mean is, we don’t have much time left to discover what Ubeda is up to,’ said May, throwing Bryant his hat. ‘Then let’s go before anyone sees us.’

Bryant stood back in the street and looked up at the redbrick terrace. ‘It’s a shed,’ he announced.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at the sign. J.U. Imports Ltd, fifth floor. That must be the tin hut on the roof. How very Dickensian. Perhaps he keeps chickens in it.’

They were standing in the middle of Brick Lane, umbrellas raised against the spattering of broken gutters. Beside them, two Indian boys were attempting to manoeuvre a rack of red leather jackets into their crowded ground-floor outlet. Back in the sixteenth century, tiles and bricks had been kiln-blasted in the area. The reek of the tile kilns had permeated the buildings, but now the air was sweet with the scent of cardamom and curry. Not even the steady rainfall could dispel it. One end of the street was dominated by the Truman brewery, formerly the Black Eagle, now an art gallery, but the overall sense was of a seamlessly transplanted Indian community, which had replaced the Methodists, French Protestants and Jews who had occupied the area in succession. Signs of previous tenancies still existed: a packed 24-hour bagel store, a battered chapel; but mostly there were Muslims and Hindus, taxi-drivers and restaurants, cafés, leather-goods shops-and people, people everywhere, even in the pelting rain, dashing across the street with shirts in plastic liners, splashing through puddles with yellow polystyrene takeaway boxes and armfuls of hangers, even at this late hour.

‘Cover for me, old chap. This only works on mortise locks, so keep your fingers crossed that it’s not a cylinder.’ May slipped a titanium loop through the gap in the narrow brown door and lowered it over the latch bolt. He felt the latch lever raise against the bolt follower, and the door swung back with a faint click, admitting them into the dark hall corridor.

‘Hang about, I’ve got a light.’ Neither of the detectives owned firearms, but both were particular about their torches. May removed a large cinema flashlight from his overcoat. He had been given the red-tipped Valiant by an usherette at the ABC Blackheath in 1968. All he could remember about her was that she had slapped his face halfway through They Came to Rob Las Vegas.

The beam illuminated a corridor as twisted as a funhouse walkway. The damp brown stair carpet covered rotten wood; an acrid smell of mould filled their nostrils. The building had hardly changed since the arrival into the area of Huguenot silk-weavers. As they crossed the sloped landing, rainwater cascaded down the window, seeping through its cracked frame in tobacco-coloured streams.

‘It doesn’t have the smell of a man with money,’ said Bryant. ‘I wonder how he can afford to pay Greenwood?’

‘Perhaps we should let Janice know where we are. I left my mobile in the car. Have you got yours?’

‘I’m not sure when I had it last.’ Bryant studied the cracked ceiling as he tried to think of a way to explain that he had mislaid it. By way of diverting attention and taking a breather on the gloomy stairs, he paused to unscrew the cap from his engraved pewter flask. ‘That coffee gave me the taste. Here, have a tot of this-buck you up.’

May took a swig and choked. ‘What on earth are you drinking?’

‘Greek Cherry brandy goes surprisingly well with fish,’ said Bryant, taking back the flask. ‘Confiscated from an unlicensed Cypriot restaurant with asbestos ceilings in the Holloway Road. They were mixing it in a tub at the back of the shop.’

‘Your sense of taste never ceases to amaze me.’

As they continued climbing, the stairs grew darker. ‘Careful-there’s a broken floorboard here,’ warned May.

‘Hang on.’ His partner had paused on the landing to regain his breath. This is embarrassing, Bryant thought, fighting to catch the air that seared in his chest. An investigation called off because the poor old bugger can’t handle five floors without resting on every landing. He gripped the bannister once more and followed May up the next flight. He wasn’t about to admit defeat.

Because his mind was so active, May sometimes forgot that his partner’s body was failing. Arthur’s heart attack had occurred eight years ago, in the middle of an exhausting investigation. His doctor had warned him to cut back on his office hours, but he seemed to be spending more time than ever at work. The truth was, he hated the lack of structure that came with being alone. Having toiled with no holiday longer than a fortnight since he was eighteen, he found it impossible to break the habit of putting in punishing shifts.

‘Don’t worry, there’s no need for both of us to go up,’ said May gently. ‘If there’s anything special you want me to look for-’

‘Don’t patronize me, I just need a minute.’ They waited together, listening to the crackling rain. Something scurried on tiny feet across the floor above.

‘Wonderful, rats as well. I wouldn’t let you go up there alone, John.’ Bryant reached the top of the steps as the unhealthy warmth spread from his sternum to his shoulder. Sam Peltz, the unit’s doctor, had tried to put him on a treadmill once a week, but had given up with him after Bryant dropped pipe tobacco into the mechanism, jamming it.

Pressing a palm over his ribs, Bryant detected the muscles of his heart flexing with considerable violence. Strangely, the problem only occurred in overheated rooms. Placed in a cold wet environment, he developed the stamina of a salmon in a stream. The irony of it was that he always felt cold, and, being forced to wrap up, risked further health problems. The elderly, he decided, thought too much about illness. Weak health accompanied seniority, and debilitated further by being dwelt upon. Still, he was glad when the floor levelled out before them into a short corridor.

There were just two doors, neither locked. The first opened into a cluttered office that appeared, with the exception of an elderly computer, not to have been modernized since the 1950s.

‘Looks like Mr Ubeda is bankrupt,’ said May, shining his torch into the top drawer of a grey filing cabinet. ‘These are all unpaid bills, threatening letters, legal warnings. He’s just shoved them into folders, as if he doesn’t care.’

‘He’s relying on the outcome of his venture with Greenwood to bail him out.’

‘What’s in the other room?’

‘It’s just the toilet,’ called Bryant. ‘How do we get up to the shed?’

‘Hang on.’ May checked the landing ceiling. ‘It’s a pull-down ladder. There should be a pole around somewhere.’ He found it leaning in a corner, and hooked the end through the brass ring in the trapdoor above him. The hatch opened, and a set of steel steps telescoped down.

‘I won’t be following you up there with my legs, I’m afraid,’ said Bryant.

‘All right, I’ll report back.’

May climbed up and vanished. ‘My God,’ he called down. ‘You won’t believe this.’ Then an uncomfortable moment of silence.

‘What is it?’ asked Bryant impatiently.

‘Some kind of shrine. There are statues everywhere-all the same figure, but all different sizes. I wish you’d come up.’

‘I wouldn’t get back down.’

‘You’d make more of this than me. I recognize the image.’

‘Can you show me one?’

‘Here.’ May reappeared in the hole, smothered in chalk dust. He shifted the torchbeam on a foot-high plaster figure, broken at the neck. In his other hand he held the head of a jackal.

‘Well, that’s Anubis,’ said Bryant. ‘Ancient Egyptian god of the underworld, protector of the dead and the embalmers, guardian of the necropolis.’

‘There must be thirty or forty identical statues up here. They’re all broken, every single one of them.’

‘Let me see that one in your hand.’

May passed it down to his partner.

Bryant ran a finger across the figure’s snout and around its long pointed ears. ‘It’s a cheap replica of a genuine artefact,’ he sniffed dismissively. ‘The paintwork is far too vivid. Very few of the real article still have this kind of dense black colouring. What a pity. And they’re all broken? It’s easy to find replicas in one piece. How odd.’ He handed it back. ‘The Egyptians gave their god the head of a jackal because so many of the animals wandered about their graveyards. Priests would wear jackal masks during the mummification process. He’s inspired all kinds of worshippers. Perhaps our Mr Ubeda belongs to some kind of a cult.’

‘This is giving me the creeps,’ said May. ‘I don’t like dealing with obsessives, they’re unpredictable and dangerous. These things are on the floor, on shelves, everywhere. There are some on the walls, too, painted on papyruses. There’s even what looks like a mummified dog up here. Its head is severed from its body as well. What’s the point of collecting this sort of stuff if it’s damaged and worthless?’

Bryant had walked back into the office, and was trying the cupboard doors. ‘I think we’d better go before he returns,’ he called.

‘Why?’ asked May. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘Let’s just say I agree with you about obsessives.’ Bryant was looking at the gun on the cupboard shelf.