‘Where are we going?’ asked May as they headed towards the museum entrance.
‘One last stop. I promised to meet Janice at the Pineapple pub in Kentish Town. She wants to tell us something.’
The pub was almost empty. Simon, the manager, was rinsing glasses and sending text messages while a handful of regulars stared grimly into their pints. Bimsley and Longbright were folded into a corner with the day’s newspapers.
Bryant brought over beers and set them down. ‘So what’s this big announcement you feel you had to present to us in person?’ he asked somewhat rudely.
‘I don’t know how true this is,’ said Longbright, making room for them, ‘but Gladys, my mother, once told me that when Betty Grable had her legs insured, all the girls went out and did the same thing. Sometimes it takes the action of someone you admire to make you follow suit.’
‘This is all very interesting, but perhaps you could get to the point.’
‘We all knew your big secret, Arthur, your planned resignation. You never adjusted to biros, did you? Still use that Waterman fountain pen – and blotting paper. The one thing you should have written in code, you couldn’t because Raymond had to read it. So after deciphering your dreadful handwriting in a mirror, we took a vote on it and decided that if you were going to leave, the entire department would resign en masse.’
‘I appreciate the gesture, Janice, but you have your own careers to worry about.’ Bryant was horrified. ‘John, talk them out of this lunacy.’
‘I can’t,’ May apologized. ‘I joined them. Chucked in my lot as well.’
For one of the few times in his life, Bryant was speechless.
‘You see, without you there’s nothing left, old sprocket. You’re the connection point between us all – and not just us; think of the hundreds of people you’ve helped in your life, all the people you’ve joined together. You’ve brought so many of London’s outsiders inside, to become part of a wonderful – albeit somewhat alarming – community. You’re at the top of our alternative family tree.’
Bryant shifted uncomfortably on his chair. ‘Let’s not get too sentimental, eh? We’re all broke and out of work.’
‘I haven’t got enough money left to pay my rent,’ said Bimsley gloomily.
‘I feel a bit sorry for poor old Renfield. He only just joined us. The Met will never have him back.’
‘At least we’ll always remain friends,’ said Longbright. ‘Whatever happens, whatever the future holds. All ten of us. I’m including Raymond in this.’
‘Oh, wonderful, the children I never wanted,’ said Bryant. ‘Whose round is it?’
50
* * *
ASHES TO ASHES
Raymond Land set down the food bowl and sneezed violently. ‘What I want to know,’ he demanded, ‘is how come I end up having to look after Crippen when I’m the one who’s allergic to cats. Are you listening to me, Leanne?’
‘No, darling,’ said his wife, who was licking a lipstick pencil and straightening her décolletage in the bathroom, readying herself for a night of sin and self-deception with a Spanish toyboy she had picked up in Castanets Tapas Bar, Streatham.
Land searched forlornly for the litter tray. ‘You always seem to be refurbishing yourself these days. Where are you going?’
‘I’m off to rumple some hotel sheets and have cheap champagne dribbled over my naked body,’ she answered through mashing lips.
‘I thought you were visiting your mother. It’s raining so hard, the cat can’t go out. What have you done with its litter?’
‘I wouldn’t touch the stuff, and if you knew what my nails cost you wouldn’t let me either. Don’t you remember? Sergeant Longbright gave you the tray and the bag when she brought the cat over.’
Land located the litter bag, unfolded it and removed a clear plastic envelope filled with grey powder. Tearing the top with his teeth, he tipped it into the yellow plastic tray as a cloud of dust blossomed and assaulted his nasal membranes. ‘This stuff is awful,’ he complained. ‘It smells like Oswald’s mortuary.’
‘The only thing Oswald’s mortuary smelled of was Oswald,’ said Leanne, pouting her lips in the mirror and wondering about their effect on Hispanic gentlemen under the age of twenty-five.
How could you begin to explain London?
A city once the colour of tobacco and carrots, now all chalky stone and angled steel, but vivid chimney pots can still be glimpsed between slivers of rain-specked glass. Nine billion pounds’ worth of Christmas bonuses have just been spent in the City’s square mile. In the great financial institutions, whirlpools of money are stirred until the ripples splash all but those on the farthest reaches of society. To accommodate this expenditure, the insurance offices and banks of Holborn have reopened as opulent restaurants and bars. At night, drunken merriment splits the capital’s seams, and daybreak arrives more silently than midnight.
You can’t explain London, of course. That is the root of its charm. A pair of elderly men, overlooked by the young, whittling their thoughts into bar banter, ensconced in run-down public houses in unalluring parts of the world’s richest city, what could they know or hope to change?
For if they hoped that their actions might ultimately change the policies of the government, challenge public opinion, inspire the complacent, even alter the course of the city’s history, they were wrong. London, a law unto itself, would continue quite happily without their interference. And yet, without them, it could only be a poorer place.
John May went into University College Hospital on March 3rd for his cancer operation. Arthur Bryant went with him, and stayed by his side until the orderly came to take his old friend down for surgery. As John May passed through the doors, he raised his head from the pillow and gave a look back at his great friend that said, I know what you’re about, and don’t you ever forget it. Everything is understood between us.
The framed photograph placed behind the bar of the Pineapple pub in Leverton Street, Kentish Town, shows a wrinkled tortoise sporting windowpane glasses and a frayed brown trilby, wrapped in a moss-green scarf like an unravelling knitted python. Close beside him, taller and just three years younger, is a ramrod-backed gentleman of debonair demeanour, dressed in a rather gaudy Savile Row suit and a scarlet silk tie.
They are smiling for the camera and for each other, as if they have finally come to understand all the secrets of the city.
APPENDIX
Mr Bryant’s List of London Public Houses Consulted During the Course of His Investigation
The Devereux, 20 Devereux Court, WC2
The Seven Stars, 53 Carey Street, WC2
The Old Dr Butler’s Head, 2 Mason’s Avenue, EC2
The Albion, 10 Thornhill Road, N1
The Pineapple, 51 Leverton Street, NW5
Penderel’s Oak, 283 High Holborn, WC1
The Old Mitre, 1 Ely Court, EC1
The Punch Tavern, 99 Fleet Street, EC4
The Crown and Sugarloaf, 26 Bride Lane, EC4
The Hand and Racquet, 48 Whitcomb Street, WC2
The Green Man and French Horn, 54 St Martin’s Lane, WC2
The Jerusalem Tavern, Britton Street, EC1
The Skinner’s Arms, 114 Judd Street, WC1
The Boot, 116 Cromer Street, WC1
Mabel’s Tavern, 9 Mabledon Place, WC1
The Victoria Cross
The Victoria Park, 360 Victoria Park Road, E9
The Victoria and Albert, Marylebone Station, Melcombe Place, NW1
The Victoria Stakes, 1 Muswell Hill, N10
The Queen’s Larder, 1 Queen Square, WC1N
The Angerstein Hotel, 108 Woolwich Road, SE10
The Old Bell Tavern, 95 Fleet Street, EC4
The Sutton Arms, 6 Carthusian Street, EC1
Williamson’s Tavern, 1 Groveland Court, Bow Lane, EC4
The Viaduct Tavern, 126 Newgate Street, EC1
The Tipperary, 66 Fleet Street, EC4
The Red Lion, Waverton Street, W1
The White Hart, 89 Whitechapel High Street, E1
The Crown and Anchor, 137 Drummond Street, NW1
The Royal Oak, 73 Columbia Road, E2
The Coach and Horses, 29 Greek Street, W1
The Green Man, 383 Euston Road, NW1
The Sun in the Sands, 123 Shooters Hill Road, SE3
The Sherlock Holmes, 10–11 Northumberland Avenue, WC2
The Old Bank of England, 194 Fleet Street, EC4
The Old King Lud, 78 Ludgate Hill, EC4
The Nun and Broken Compass, 42 Warren Street, W1
The Apple Tree, 45 Mount Pleasant, WC1
The Museum Tavern, 49 Great Russell Street, WC1
The Betsey Trotwood, 56 Farringdon Road, EC1
The Ship and Shovell, 1–3 Craven Passage, WC2
The Yorkshire Grey, 29–33 Gray’s Inn Road, WC1
The Plough, 27 Museum Street, WC1
The Water Rats, 328 Gray’s Inn Road, WC1
The Queen’s Head and Artichoke, 30–32 Albany Street, NW1
The Cross Keys, 31 Endell Street, WC2
The Bloomsbury Tavern, 236 Shaftesbury Avenue, WC2
The Exmouth Arms, 23 Exmouth Market, EC1
The Clock House, 82 Leather Lane, EC1
The Magpie and Stump, 18 Old Bailey, EC4
The White Lion, 24 James Street, WC2
The Hope and Anchor, 74 Crowndale Road, NW1
The Hope, 94 Cowcross Street, EC1
Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
About the Author
Praise for Christopher Fowler’s
Also by Christopher Fowler
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Peculiar Crimes Unit
Staff Bulletins
The Victoria Vanishes
1. Asleep in the Stars
2. The First Farewell
3. End Times
4. Brinkmanship
5. Mortality
6. Observation
7. Reliquary
8. Introductions
9. Random Acts of Slaughter
11. Mistaken
12. Ecdysiast
13. Forgetting
14. Disposal
15. Visible Evil
16. The Heart of London
17. Asleep in the Trees
18. Pub Crawl
19. Conspirators
20. Irrationality
21. Dating and Dancing
22. Questions and Answers
23. Vandalism
24. Hangovers
25. Rite of Passage
26. Nomenclature
27. Last Orders
28. Maternity
29. Wraith
30. Solidarity
31. The Angerstein
32. Pigmentation
33. Conspiracy
34. Gazumped
35. Interpretation
36. Greater Darkness
37. Open and Shut
38. Disappearance
39. Security
40. Recollection