White Corridor

34

“Where on earth is everybody?” Raymond Land asked April when he arrived on Thursday morning. “I thought they were supposed to be working through the night.”

Outside the PCU, the overnight snowfall was turning to tobacco-coloured slush as the temperature rose above zero. Wet boots were lined up by the hall radiator, and Crippen was guiltily wolfing the lardy remains of Bimsley’s breakfast burger because Bryant wasn’t there to feed him.

“They have been working, sir,” said April. “Mr. Banbury and Mr. Kershaw are running some further tests at Bayham Street. PCs Bimsley and Mangeshkar went to talk to Owen Mills’s neighbours. Detective Sergeant Longbright has gone back to Camden Town nick-‘ She checked the hurried notes she had made half an hour ago. Lie to Raymond if you have to, but hold him off and keep him calm, Longbright had told her. And Arthur wants to know if you can do anything to get today’s ridiculous royal visit cancelled.

“Meanwhile, my star detectives are building bloody snowmen somewhere near the English Riviera,” Land snapped.

“What am I supposed to say to the Princess? ”I’m sorry, your Royal Highness, we’re not quite ready for your visit, seeing as one of our best men has been murdered, possibly by another member of staff, and as they’re all under house arrest we haven’t had time to nip out and purchase your bouquet.“ What are you doing?”

“I’m holding the fort,” said April, feeling useless.

“Then you’ll have to meet up with the Princess’s social secretary at noon,” warned Land. “This Armstrong woman wants to go through protocol to make sure everyone knows exactly how to greet Her Magnificence and what to say if she deigns to speak to them. You’ll have to nip up to the Esso garage and buy flowers and refreshments. And get this place looking decent. And hide anything unsavoury from the royal view. You might start with Mr. Bryant’s office.” Here, Land was thinking specifically of the marijuana plant Bryant kept beneath his desk ‘for his rheumatism,“ the reeking Tibetan skull on his shelf, and some of the more outre and explicit books with which he surrounded himself.

“Sir?” April raised a timid hand. “Mr. Bryant asked me to warn you about the petri dishes he keeps in his cupboard. He’s been growing some virulent bacillus cultures, some experiment he’s conducting into plague transmission in the Middle Ages. I accidentally knocked over one of them yesterday. I don’t want to worry you, but do you think it’s wise to expose the Princess to a possibly dangerous virus? Perhaps we should cancel her visit.”

“Don’t try to bamboozle me, girl,” snapped Land. “Bryant’s had those pots and dishes for donkey’s years. He made us all as sick as dogs in ‘85 after using one to serve cocktail sausages in at the Christmas party, but they’re inert now. I even saw Crippen eating from one of them. We have to do something about that cat. He smells quite indescribable when he’s wet. Bryant’s just attempting to get the visit postponed, but it won’t work.”

“There’s another problem,” April blurted. “The network cabling. The carpenters have had to tear the floorboards up, and they can’t guarantee they’ll be able to put everything back in time. Surely you don’t want the Princess falling through our floor.”

“Then I’ll put a rocket up them, you watch,” snapped Land. “They’ll finish the job by lunchtime if I threaten to withdraw their pay.” He stamped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

You can’t say I didn’t try, Uncle Arthur, she thought. Checking her watch, she saw that it was nine-fifteen a.m. They had less than eight hours to solve the mystery of Oswald’s death before Oskar Kasavian presented the unit for public ridicule and closure.