Strange Tide (52 page)

‘It's funny to think that the Thames was so essential to Victorians. From up here it seems utterly insignificant.' Bryant traced a forefinger on the angled glass wall. Below him was spread an alien city, a vast plain of winking lights. ‘You can hardly make out any landmarks at this height at all. Perhaps that's the appeal of buildings like this.'

‘What do you mean?' May asked, turning his glass.

‘Anonymity. We could be looking down on Shanghai or Bangkok. Urban sprawl as far as the eye can see, and from up here it's the same as anywhere else. London and New York are roughly the same size, approaching eight and a half million people. Guangzhou is five times as big. But from far above all cities are the same.'

‘Then you have to get down into the streets again and start rediscovering what makes the place unique,' said May. ‘You can't let London beat you.'

‘It beat Ali Bensaud,' said Bryant, extracting the kiwi and raspberry kebab from his drink. ‘He came here with an ambitious dream and the city poisoned it. London took his girl and his money and it corrupted him. And the river – it's not sacred or dangerous any more, it's forgotten. I'm finding it harder and harder to stay in love with London, John. It's failing those who come here looking for a better life.'

‘Not all of them,' said May, trying to offer his partner some hope. ‘We don't know where Ali is now. He's had a taste of success. I don't think he'll give up easily. Hey, come on, no more depressing thoughts. You should be celebrating. You got your mojo back.' May raised his glass.

‘Perhaps,' said Bryant, disdainfully removing a baby tomato from his concoction of tequila, pineapple, rum and almond liqueur. ‘But I do feel different now. Something inside me has changed. I've seen glimpses of something else. I'm not sure what exactly but there are – images.'

‘What of?'

‘I don't know. A ghost city, an alternative version of London I imagine and long for rather than the place I live in. I was warned there would be after-effects.'

‘Then there's only one thing you can do,' said May. ‘Learn to enjoy them. Time is short but it hasn't run out yet. I'm going on a date – yes, at my age, have your laugh. After decades of worrying about everyone else I'm going to finally start enjoying myself.'

‘You're right, of course,' said Bryant, setting aside his glass. ‘That's exactly what I should start doing. Embrace the changes, and if any more phantoms appear I'll sit down for a pint with them and ask them about the London
they
know.'

‘So you remember who you are now,' said May as the waiter dropped a terrifying bill on their table and beetled away. ‘The last time we finished a case together you weren't so sure.'

‘Yes, I think I'm getting the hang of it again,' said Bryant. ‘You have no idea how nice it is to be able to remember where you live.'

‘And where do you live?' asked May.

Bryant pointed to the chromatic matrix of lights that lay in every direction beyond the angled glass. ‘Out there,' he said.

Janice Longbright closed down her computer, folded up her make-up box, turned off her desk lamp and hunted for her coat. Now that the case had been closed and the unit's demise had been deferred she felt strangely empty inside. It was late. Looking around her eerily tidy office, she wondered what to do next.

‘How come you're always the last one to leave?' asked the square-set silhouette in the doorway.

Longbright squinted. ‘Jack?'

Sergeant Jack Renfield stepped into the room. She hadn't seen him since he broke up with her on the towpath of the Regent's Canal.

‘What are you doing here?' she asked.

‘I heard about Fraternity moving on,' he said casually. ‘A shame that. He's a decent guy, just like his brother was.'

‘We'll still see him. He's going to be working with Giles.'

Renfield looked around the room. ‘That means there's a vacancy here.'

‘Not for long,' said Longbright. ‘John has someone in mind: a German forensics specialist. She's supposed to be very good. Brilliant, in fact.'

‘Oh. I guess that ship sailed without me.'

‘I thought you hated it here,' she said, folding her arms.

‘I didn't say that. I said I couldn't stay here after what had happened between us.'

‘You asked me to marry you for the wrong reason, remember? Because you thought you'd lost me.'

‘Yeah, I thought about that,' said Renfield. ‘I shouldn't have asked you to give up the job. That was selfish. Sometimes I forget it's a vocation.'

‘So – why are you here?'

‘Oh—' He didn't know what to do with his hands, so he stuck them in his pockets. ‘Your internal investigations officer asked me to collect some files and shred them. It sounds like she's not going to present her case against the unit.'

‘And?' Longbright was waiting.

‘And I've got them stacked in boxes in the hall, all ready to go. I told you, I'm not like Bryant and May, Janice. I'm not like the rest of you. But I do miss it. The Met's boring compared to here. The PCU isn't like a regular unit. It's more like—' He struggled to think of an appropriate simile. ‘Like working in a condemned funfair.'

‘Well, you gave it up.'

‘I gave you up.' He bit his lip. He was never the most articulate of officers, and hated talking about his feelings. ‘It made me realize. If someone makes you happier when you're with them than when you're alone, you shouldn't let them go.'

‘And what the hell makes you think that person would ever take you back?'

Renfield screwed up one eye. ‘Er . . . I was counting on a sudden endorphin rush.'

‘Jack, did you just make a joke?'

‘I think so, yes.'

She laughed. ‘Blimey, there may be hope for you yet.'

He looked up at her sheepishly. ‘Then what should I do?'

‘Apply for the job.' She smiled. ‘We'll see how it goes.'

Fraternity DuCaine sat under a dripping plane tree beside the canal and watched the rain creating sound waves on the water. Beside him, in a plastic bag, were the few personal items he needed to keep from his days at the PCU. He couldn't bring himself to tell Raymond Land the real reason for wanting to leave the unit. It was true that he had a great job lined up, but every day when he entered the office a wave of sickness swept over him.

His brother had been killed while working for the unit. At first Fraternity thought he could handle it, but everyone around him had known and loved his brother, and the awkward pauses that followed every mention of Liberty's name were more than he could bear.

It hurt him to go because he liked them all, even Raymond Land. They tried so hard and often failed but still they stayed, underappreciated and underpaid, like employees in a company manufacturing children's toys that had long since fallen from favour. He couldn't understand what kept them at their posts until he realized that they had no other option. Like many public sector officials they were institutionalized beyond the point where change was possible, and that was what made them happy.

He smiled to himself and rose from the damp grass.
I did it for you, Liberty
, he said to himself.
Now it's time to move on.

‘Is there a bone running through this?' asked Colin, sawing away at the orange brick on his plate.

‘There shouldn't be,' said Meera, ‘it's chicken Kiev. Normally all it does is spit boiling garlic all over you.'

‘Yeah, like that dinosaur in
Jurassic Park.
'

‘That wasn't garlic. It was venomous sputum.'

‘It was a joke, Meera. Lighten up.'

They were chewing their way through mountains of carbohydrates in La Veneziana while Gary Garibaldi sang ‘My Way', pulling at his gusset every time he hit a high note.

‘I wish he wouldn't keep doing that,' said Meera through a mouthful of spaghetti. ‘Why do Italians always have to play with themselves?'

‘It's a matriarchal society,' Colin replied, still sawing.

Meera put down her fork. ‘What's that got to do with it?'

‘Well, they have to keep checking everything's still there.'

‘I suppose that was a joke, too.' She sighed. ‘I'll never get used to you.'

‘I don't know, you came on a date.'

‘We're having dinner.'

‘But a dinner is a date.'

‘No, dinner is dinner.'

‘What about if you have dessert?'

‘Trust me, you're not getting dessert.'

There was a controlled explosion of garlic sauce. Colin wiped it off his shirt with a nonchalance that suggested it happened every time he ate, which wasn't far from the truth. ‘Don't look now,' he said, still wiping, ‘but John's on the other side of the – I said
don't look
!'

Meera turned in her seat. ‘Oh, he's with the fire officer. She's quite attractive without her helmet and gumboots.'

‘Is
he
on a date?' Colin asked.

‘He's having dinner, like we are.'

‘Yeah, but whatever you say, we're here because I won the bet.'

Meera gave in. There wasn't any use in arguing any longer. ‘OK,' she said, ‘we're on a date.'

The idea dawned on Colin. ‘We're on a date,' he said, jumping up and grabbing her.

‘Colin, what are you doing?' Meera tried to wriggle free but he only held her tighter. He was like Pepé Le Pew hugging a black cat that had accidentally got white paint down its back. He gave her an over-emphatic garlicky kiss before releasing her and plonking back in his chair.

‘Sorry,' he said, ‘I know you don't like PDAs.' He looked down at his wet shirt. ‘I'm a mess.'

Meera gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘I've seen you covered in bits of cabbage.'

Colin smiled. ‘I've pulled you out of a bin.'

The thought that perhaps they deserved each other after all crossed both their minds as they ordered dessert.

In the unlit basement of 231, Caledonian Road, one of the two Daves called to the other. ‘Give me a hand with this, will you?' He pointed his torch at the great box, approximately eight feet long and three feet wide, that they had uncovered in the centre of the river-damp floor. ‘The lid weighs a ton.'

The other Dave sidled over with a cage lamp and set it down. He took up his place at the corner of the lid and together they strained to lift it. As it was made from a single slab of Portland stone it proved too heavy to raise, so they were forced to slide it over, and even then it would only move inch by painful inch.

After twenty minutes they had managed to shift it halfway, but then it reached its tipping point and dropped, slamming to the floor, where it split in half. The Daves jumped out of the way to avoid having their toes crushed.

One of them crept forward with the cage light and gingerly lowered it over the edge.

‘Is there something inside?' asked Dave One, straining to see.

‘Not something,' replied Dave Two. ‘Some
one
.'

Before heading off to meet Blaize Carter, May had given his partner a lift home. Pulling up on the corner of Euston Road and Judd Street, he reached over to unlock the passenger door. ‘Are you going to be all right from here?'

‘Of course I am,' Bryant replied. ‘It's only a short walk through to Harrison Street. We won't find Ali Bensaud, you know, and nor should we look for him.'

‘He tried to kill someone,' said May.

‘Let's say there were extenuating circumstances.' He smiled ruefully. ‘I'll see you in the morning, bright and early.'

‘You don't need picking up?'

‘No, I can manage perfectly well, thanks.'

The sky had cleared and diamond stars augured the first winter frost. Unable to clear his palate of the taste of the raspberry and almond cocktail, Bryant headed down into Cromer Street, to the scruffy little Irish pub on the corner called the Boot. It was always empty at this time of night.

As the wall-mounted television was showing football highlights on Sky Sports with the colour turned up so high that the entire room was emerald green, he bought himself a cleansing pint of Camden Pale Ale and took it outside. Although it was cold, a lone stranger sat at the single wooden bench table with his hands around a pint of stout.

‘Do you mind if I join you?' Bryant asked.

‘Not at all, sir,' said the gentleman, shifting his book over to make room.

Bryant sneaked a look at his fellow imbiber. He had a peculiar tonsure of dark chestnut hair swept forward and up at the sides, and a straggling, greying beard that seemed determined to fly in all directions at once. His velvet-collared jacket had the widest lapels Bryant had seen since the disco years. He was perhaps in his mid-fifties, although it was hard to tell for his eyes were young and shone brightly.

‘What are you reading?' Bryant asked companionably.

‘Not reading,' said the gentleman, with a look that suggested he was pleased to be asked. ‘Rehearsing, sir.'

Bryant tried to see the cover of the book and failed. The light from the overhead globes was low. ‘Are you an actor?'

‘We are all actors in the pantomime of life, are we not?' The reply came with a knowing smile. ‘But no, too itinerant a life. I am merely a reader. At least, I shall be reading aloud, from this.' He raised the cover of the book and Bryant saw that it was
Our Mutual Friend
. ‘I cannot countenance the idea of making another assault on Tiny Tim this Christmas, so I thought I would give them something of a rather more demanding nature.'

Bryant took another look at his companion, and his blue eyes widened.

He recalled that between 1868 and 1869 Charles Dickens gave a series of so-called ‘farewell readings' across Great Britain. He was contracted to deliver one hundred in all but the strain proved too much, and after he collapsed the tour was cancelled.