White Corridor Part 12

'A bit shaken, that's all.' She brushed herself down and looked at him. 'How's your arm?'

Bimsley checked his elbow. 'I'm good. Padded jacket, no broken skin.'

'I guess she locked it in there before she went out.'

'Someone will remember the dog even if they don't know her.'

'I suppose I should thank you.'

'You don't have to. What's that?'

Mangeshkar had knocked the sofa back as the Alsatian bowled her over. She held up the library book revealed beneath it. 'Women Who Can't Stay Faithful, by Felicity Bronwin. Lilith Starr was into self-help books. Incredible how people can delude themselves.' by Felicity Bronwin. Lilith Starr was into self-help books. Incredible how people can delude themselves.'

'What do you mean?'

'Come on, Colin, she overdosed in a shop doorway. She had bigger problems than staying faithful.' Meera threw the paperback onto the sofa. 'Let's get out of here.'

'Wait.' Bimsley picked up the book and stared at the back cover, turning it around for Meera to see. 'The author's shot looks a lot like her, don't you think? Family resemblance?' He took out his mobile and thumbed open the image of Lilith Starr in the morgue. In death it had become almost identical to the photograph on the book. 'Looks to me like Felicity Bronwin might be her mother. This is probably why she changed her name.'

It was one-fifteen on Wednesday morning, and DS Janice Longbright was fighting to stay awake. She had drunk two Red Bulls and a Starbucks grande latte with an extra syrupy shot, but her eyelids were succ.u.mbing to forces beyond her control. She would sleep on John May's couch tonight, but not until she had written up notes of the day's events, something Arthur Bryant always insisted upon doing before going home.

She was puzzled by Owen Mills.

The boy had finally admitted that yes, Lilith Starr was his official girlfriend, and that they had argued the previous night. She had left his flat a little after four A.M. A.M., heading for Camden High Street, where she expected to score hash and cocaine. When she had failed to return, Mills had walked over to the spot on the south side of the ca.n.a.l bridge, at the entrance to Inverness Street Market, knowing that dealers always congregated there. After wandering around the area for what seemed like hours, he had finally found her lying in the doorway. He didn't think she was breathing, couldn't find a pulse, so he called the emergency services, refusing to give his name, and watched from the opposite corner while a constable checked her out, then had her loaded into an ambulance.

He knew she was dead because the ambulance had driven away in silence, without its lights or siren. And he knew that she'd be taken to the Royal Free or UCH, because those were the two hospitals where all A&E cases were taken. But he'd called both, and n.o.body in admissions had checked her in. So then he had called the morgue at Bayham Street, because she wasn't the first dead junkie he had seen removed from the pavements of Camden Town.

Longbright had looked into his wide brown eyes and seen a strong intelligence cloaked with a mistrustful att.i.tude. She had no reason to disbelieve his story, but felt sure there was something that he had decided not to tell her about their relations.h.i.+p. She thought back to their final exchange about his visit to Oswald Finch, just before she allowed Owen to leave the PCU.

'I didn't argue with him, didn't hurt him. I didn't know him, hadn't ever seen him before. He was okay about letting me see her. Unzipped the body bag, explained why she died. He showed me the notes he was writing. I must have put my hand on them, and the ink came off. He was using this old pen. But I swear I didn't take them. I was there five minutes, that's all.'

'You wanted something to remember her by,' said Longbright. 'You took the neck chain. Can I see it?'

Owen had clutched the chain tight to his throat. 'It's all I got of her now.'

She knew she should have persisted, keeping him longer at the unit, but the PCU made its own rules, and those were set by the two old men she had always relied upon to make all her decisions.

Now, until they were safely back in London, the responsibility for everything that happened in the following hours would rest with her.

30

HUNTERS 'We have to warn everyone who's still stranded,' said Bryant. 'He could attack anyone.'

'How do you propose we manage to do that?' snapped May. 'We don't even have any proper shoes. I haven't been this cold since I fell off the pier in Cole Bay when I was twelve. I can't feel my b.u.t.tocks. Even my teeth are cold. It's below zero and the wind is strong enough to knock you off your feet-G.o.d knows you're not steady at the best of times. You think you're going to wade through the drifts banging on car windows shouting "There's a killer loose"? All we can do is report the death and wait for someone to turn up. Have you any idea what's going on in other parts of the county? There are sixty people trapped in a supermarket in Canterbury because the roof has collapsed under the weight of snow. We're not going to get priority. This sort of thing happens almost every year on the moor.'

He looked across at his partner and softened. Bryant's white fringe was now sticking up around his ears in stiffened tufts, like stalagmites. His watery blue eyes peered up at him above his travel blanket. 'Try to get some sleep, at least until it's light. We'll figure out what to do in the morning.'

They awoke into a strange new world of opalescent whiteness. The sky was a vulgar shade of heliotrope that reminded May of a Maxfield Parrish painting. The undulating snow dunes were as s.h.i.+ny as vinyl, and extended to the tips of the lowest trees. The road had been transformed into a sparkling white canyon. Some vehicles had been twisted and tipped by the snowpack that had s.h.i.+fted down from the surrounding moors.

Bryant peered sleepily out from his blanket. 'What time is it? My back's killing me. I feel like I slept on a bag of spanners.'

'Seven-fifteen,' said May. 'I've just spoken to the Highways Authority emergency services. They're hoping to get a supply helicopter out this morning if the wind speed stays low. Do you want something to eat?'

'No. I need to venture outside and perform my ablutions, but the thought of lowering my trousers in these temperatures is a trifle unappealing. Give me a minute, then let's get into the back of the van and see if there's anything in there that can help us.'

When he returned, they dragged open the great canvas bags that Alma and Arthur had wedged behind the props and flats for the convention performance, and checked their contents.

'What kind of a show were you planning to stage?' asked May, pulling out a grotesque crimson papier-mache devil's head with an ax in its skull and b.l.o.o.d.y eyeb.a.l.l.s on springs.

'They're not just our props. There are all kinds of activities taking place throughout the convention. I agreed to take down equipment for other attendees. There are lots of indoor and outdoor events planned, ceramics, divination and crystal healing, bungee jumps, potholing, all kinds of extreme-'

'Don't tell me you've got equipment bags for potholers here. Where are they?' May pulled at an immense backpack covered in h.e.l.lo Kitty stickers and opened it, releasing a pile of blue nylon all-weather suits covered in pockets.

'They belong to the Women's North Wales Adventure Team,' said Bryant, 'but they're pretty big la.s.ses, so we could probably fit them, although the flies do up on the wrong side.'

In minutes, the pair had zipped themselves into ungainly but practical outfits, although they had been forced to roll up the legs and stuff spare socks into the toes of the boots. They clambered from the truck like s.p.a.cemen, and stopped to examine the road. Snow was still falling, but now the flurries were light and manageable. The exact number of stranded vehicles was hard to determine, but the jewelled spine of traffic snaked around the next bend in the valley like the bones of a great dinosaur.

'Let's start with the cars nearest the spot where we found the dead Bentick's driver,' said May, hauling his floundering partner out of a deep drift. They reached the abandoned truck, but were unable to open the frozen door. Sc.r.a.ping ice from the window, May saw that the body had frozen solid. 'At least the temperature will preserve it until we can get it to a morgue,' he said. 'I think our murderer must have gone back. I haven't seen anyone pa.s.s us. No sign of the witness either, and we'll need his statement. Let's start with the cars behind.'

They approached a blue Nissan and sc.r.a.ped at the window. 'Empty,' said Bryant. 'Next one.'

A black BMW and a red Fiat were both abandoned, but in a silver Mercedes saloon they found a young couple fast asleep, warm and safe beneath all-weather jackets. A straggle-haired businessman still dressed in a tightly knotted tie mouthed at them through the window of his Vauxhall Signum, indicating that he could not open the door. May ran the edge of his penknife around the edges, but it made no difference. Ice had frozen the wet seals as firmly as if they had been welded shut.

'What's he saying?' asked May, trying to read the driver's lips.

'He's from Kettering,' said Bryant.

'I'm in catering,' said the driver, opening the window an inch before it stuck. 'I've got plenty of food to last, so don't worry about me. The same thing happened two years ago. To be honest, it made a nice break from the wife. You might take an Eccles cake back to the lady behind me. It's all I can pa.s.s through the window.' He slid the cake through the gap. 'She looks very upset.'

The detectives trudged farther back. A grey-faced woman in a green Barbour jacket watched them anxiously. The door of her Volvo saloon was iced shut, but she could open one of the rear pa.s.senger windows. 'We're police officers,' Bryant explained, tapping the gla.s.s. 'Don't open this to anyone else. Have an Eccles cake. Do you need anything else?'

She shook her head miserably. 'I've been listening to the radio. There are people much worse off than me. I manage a farm outside Holbeton. My husband knows I'm here. There was a man outside a while ago, just after dawn. He tried to get in, but couldn't open the door.'

'What did he look like?'

'I'm sorry, it was dark and snowing, I really didn't see.'

'At least the ice is preventing him from entering other cars,' said Bryant as they made slow progress up the hill.

'He'll be able to get into trucks, though. Their cabins are built to withstand extreme weather.'

'If this fellow knows there was a witness, that Chinese chap will be at risk. I wish he'd stayed with us. Any one of these stranded motorists could be the person we're looking for.'

'Given the circ.u.mstances, he'll be hiding in plain sight. My concern is over our situation here. There's no backup, no threat of legal retribution we can invoke. The man we seek will probably be younger and fitter than us.'

'My dear chap,' said Bryant, 'everyone is younger and fitter than us. What have we got on our side? Decrepitude, mid-afternoon narcoleptic attacks and ill-timed lapses of memory. Although being the oldest, I am of course less afraid of dying and therefore liable to do anything, no matter how uncalled-for and dangerous.' is younger and fitter than us. What have we got on our side? Decrepitude, mid-afternoon narcoleptic attacks and ill-timed lapses of memory. Although being the oldest, I am of course less afraid of dying and therefore liable to do anything, no matter how uncalled-for and dangerous.'

May eyed him warily. 'Thanks for the warning.'

'Now, we need to enlist some aid and organise a search. There are plenty of others trapped out here. It's no use just waiting for the authorities to turn up. Let's do what we've always done at the PCU, and get some civilians to help us.'

A quarter of a mile from the detectives, in the half-buried Vauxhall van, Madeline's thoughts were also turning to her nemesis. He took me to the huntsman's villa in the hills, He took me to the huntsman's villa in the hills, she remembered, standing watch over Ryan while he peed circular traces in the snowdrift beside the car. she remembered, standing watch over Ryan while he peed circular traces in the snowdrift beside the car. He knew its owner was lying dead on the floor. Why would he have taken such a risk? He knew its owner was lying dead on the floor. Why would he have taken such a risk? 'Finished?' she asked aloud. 'Let's get back inside.' 'Finished?' she asked aloud. 'Let's get back inside.'

'Can't I play for a while?' Ryan peered up at her over the folds of his scarf.

'No, it's not safe. In you go.'

'All this snow and I can't build a snowman-what else is it good for, anyway?'

It keeps us trapped here, she thought. she thought. He's from a village in the mountains; he knows how to get around in weather like this He's from a village in the mountains; he knows how to get around in weather like this.

'I'm hungry,' said Ryan. 'How much longer are we going to be here?'

'It won't be long now.' The van and its engine were frozen into a single solid, but their combined body heat, together with the warmth from an extra blanket they had discovered under the rear pa.s.senger seat, had guaranteed their survival. There were patches of brilliant blue in the sky, and although the wind still seemed high it felt milder than the previous day. She could hear trees creaking and dripping. Perhaps Johann had decided to leave them alone, and had struck out in the direction of the nearest town. Perhaps the worst was over.

The envelope with the pa.s.sport and the photographs lay on the floor of the van, behind her legs. This time, she knew, she would do the right thing, and have him stopped before he could hurt anyone else. She laid her head back against the seat rest and closed her eyes, just for a moment, not meaning to fall asleep.

Johann's leg still hurt, and the icy wind bit deeply into his chest and thighs, numbing them further. He had slept the night in an abandoned carpenter's van which had, at least, supplied him with some useful tools, but he needed to find weatherproof clothes. This, he felt, was to be his greatest test, a battle fought with the demons that had pursued him all his life, the same demons that pursue all lonely men. If I can't convince her to see the truth, I have nothing left, If I can't convince her to see the truth, I have nothing left, he thought. he thought. I know no-one else in this terrible country. She has to be here somewhere. All these cars look the same now. She even has nature working on her side I know no-one else in this terrible country. She has to be here somewhere. All these cars look the same now. She even has nature working on her side.

He could see drivers hunched across their seats, vague organic shapes huddled down in positions of protection, barely recognisable as human beings. They had been reduced to rudimentary life-forms with the most basic requirements: shelter, food, warmth. The adverse conditions could work in his favour, he decided. He was free to rise above them, to prove his fitness and strength, against them all.

He knew that Madeline would never come back to him; that was no longer the issue. Part of her had retreated too far to be reached. He had behaved stupidly, impulsively, and saw nothing but uncomprehending hatred and the madness of maternal protection in her eyes. He would make her understand, then take back the packet and go on his way, lose himself in the empty coastal towns, never returning to the fierce light of Southern France, where he would be forced to exist as a failure beneath G.o.d's ever-watchful gaze.

He seated the carpenter's tools more firmly in his back pocket and trudged on, searching each of the vehicles in turn. He felt he was close; the corridor of snow had locked them in at either end of the stretch of road. He could escape across the moor, hoping that the break in the weather held. In the mountains of his childhood, storms could arrive within seconds, trapping unwary climbers. He had watched clouds roll over the cliffs like the fallout from some great explosion. Was it the same here, in these deceptive woodlands? And the people; he had always considered the residents of the Alpes-Maritimes to be a suspicious, private people, but they were nothing compared to these faceless shapes sealed in their cars. What would it take to prise Madeline from her hiding place?

31

LOST CHILD The roads surrounding Camden Market had been severed by its network of sepia railway lines and ca.n.a.ls, but also by the bombs that had removed so many Edwardian yellow brick houses, allowing them to be replaced by sixties buildings distinguished only by their paucity of imagination. In the high street, the area's boom-and-bust arc was most p.r.o.nounced. Ground floors had been converted into shops selling household items, then art deco antiques, then shoes and thrash metal T-s.h.i.+rts and finally magic mushrooms, drug paraphernalia and tattoos. It was into this last parlour that Banbury and Kershaw now stepped.

The store was called Tribe, and had proven popular with the gentle, literate Goth set. With a Chelsea haircut, cable-knit sweater and corduroy trousers marking him as a member of the upper middle cla.s.ses, the medical examiner looked hopelessly out of place, but with their superiors still stranded in the West Country and all leave cancelled at the unit, he had little choice but to help out wherever he was needed.

'I can't believe anyone in England would allow themselves to be tattooed with that,' he told Banbury, pointing to a design of a flaming skeleton riding a Harley. 'Don't they consider how bad it will look when they're sixty?'

'No-one looks their best at sixty,' said Banbury absently. 'Check these out.' He pointed to a series of photographs tacked on the wall. A fat bare back adorned with a gigantic red spider, wide chrome studs pinning a spine from neck to sternum, a horned devil with hands like crab legs spread across a woman's back. A centipede wrapped around a man's pale chest, its claw-feet ending in hooks that actually pierced the skin. Beyond the examples of the tattooist's work were photographs of more extreme scarification, multiple bolts through cheeks, steel horns inserted into foreheads, rivets through scrotal sacs...Banbury looked like he'd accidentally stepped on a three-pin plug in his socks.

'Anyone home?'

A scrawny, sallow man who resembled an old-time carnival barker stepped out from behind curtains adorned with tarot symbols. Above his shaved eyebrows the word SATAN was spelled out in naked women. 'Help you?'

'Police officers,' said Banbury. 'Do you know this girl?' He showed the tattooist the image he had taken on his mobile. 'She would have asked for a tattoo on her left arm about eight months ago.'

'I'm registered,' said the tattooist. 'Everyone's kept on file with proof of their age and details of what they want done. I don't work on anyone underage. I can't tell from this picture.' He handed back the phone.

'She would have come back to you more recently to try and get the thing removed, but she was refused.'

'That narrows it down. Give me a minute.' He checked the ancient Dell computer on his counter, refining his search. 'I remember this one. She wanted it taken off, had a real go at me because I wouldn't do it. I'm not licenced for laser removal.'

'Recall anything else about the day she came back?'

'Let me think. I've a pretty good memory for the difficult ones.' He scratched absently at a demon in a flaming hot rod. 'We did the original tattoo in two sessions, and both times she was alone. When she returned for its removal she was with a little black dude, the new boyfriend I guess. They were holding hands. Don't often see that these days.'

'After she left you, she went ahead and carved the tattoo from her arm with a penknife.'

'That's not my responsibility. Be easier to find more details if you had an ID.'

'Lilith Starr, but that's unlikely to be her real name. Try Bronwin.'

'No, she's here under Starr, and it was a real traditional job, red-and-blue heart with an unfurled name panel.'

'Do you have a picture of the design?'

'Sure. I always take a picture once it's complete. Sometimes they get the design altered somewhere else, then come back to me for a repair job, so I have to keep the original as reference.' He turned the screen around. Lilith had pulled up her slash-neck T-s.h.i.+rt sleeve to reveal the tattoo. Her round face and snub nose were instantly recognisable, but her beautiful red hair had been raggedly cropped. Her small, freckled b.r.e.a.s.t.s appeared barely more than p.u.b.escent. She appeared ill at ease before the camera, frowning into the flash with discomfort.

Beneath her photograph was a copy of the design: a plump red heart with a banner wrapped around it, upon which was written a single word. The tattoo was almost as wide as her arm.

' "Samuel," ' said Banbury. 'She must have been pretty serious about him to get that done, yet she wanted to erase his memory very soon after meeting Owen Mills.'

'Happens a lot,' said the tattooist. 'They fall for someone else and try to get the name changed, but she just wanted it taken off.'

'Maybe Owen told her to get rid of it,' replied Kershaw, raising an eyebrow.

'You think that's why he came with her to get the thing removed? To make sure she did it? He doesn't look the dangerous type.'

'Difficult to know,' said Kershaw. 'Women see something in men that we hardly see in ourselves. We don't find him threatening, but she might have been terrified of him.'

'Or terrified of Samuel,' said Banbury, thinking of the tattoo's ragged remains.

DS Janice Longbright was not good at handling women like Felicity Bronwin. The author was a well-preserved woman in her mid-forties with all the a.s.surance of someone who was used to being right, and clearly expected others to agree with her opinions. Her apartment was on the third floor of a polished-brick mansion block that provided a graceful lacuna within the arbitrary imperial architecture of Knightsbridge. Its decor was county-woman-in-London: traditional, floral, cluttered, and cold.

Felicity sat before the sergeant in a brown woollen skirt, legs neatly crossed at thick ankles, and exuded impatience, despite having just been informed that her daughter was dead. Her husband was little more than a ghostly presence in the room, grey in mustache and suit, washed-out, silent, keen to be among trees once more. He sat in the chair behind her, watching his wife intently, as if waiting to edit or censor her words.

The detective sergeant had asked if she could take something belonging to Mrs Bronwin's daughter. With reluctance, Felicity had handed over a pink furry diary Lilith had left behind on her last visit.