Bryant & May - London's Glory: (Short Stories) (Bryant & May Collection) by Christopher Fowler Page B
Authors: Christopher Fowler
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good heart. I did what I could for her. You do what you can, don’t you? She met Phantasos and he offered to look after her. Then she found out what that involved.’
‘What did it involve?’
‘Keeping the clients sweet. Doing anything they wanted. I mean,
anything
.’
‘You’re saying he prostituted her out to them?’ said Bryant, always one to title a gardening implement accurately.
‘She said no, of course. But he found plenty of other ways to compromise her.’ Kaylie took a sudden alarming gulp from her gin, nearly finishing it. ‘She told me he started using her identity to hide cash in different accounts, all kinds of dodgy goings-on. I keep away from him. If he knew half the things I know, I wouldn’t fancy my chances.’
‘Do you think he had something to do with his wife’s death?’ asked May.
‘He must have done,’ Kaylie replied, prodding the table-top. ‘See, she was smart. She kept everything written down in a little notebook, just in case there was ever any trouble.’
‘What sort of things did she write down?’
‘Account numbers, deposit dates, details of all the rental contracts he faked, the councillors he bribed, everything.’
‘I don’t suppose you know where she kept this book?’
‘She never told me. Not at home. Maybe in one of the rented properties, but there’s forty or fifty of those. He’s got people everywhere. They’re always on the lookout for trouble, that lot.’
‘And you think that’s why she died? Because she was keeping track of him?’
‘You have to understand, he goes on about arriving in London without a penny, how he built up an empire, how no one can stop him. Then she started standing up to him. She told me she’d had enough. She was going to take the notebook to the police.’
‘When was this?’
‘She said it again last night. She’d said it loads of times before, but this time I think she was really going to do it.’
‘We’re going to find out who killed her,’ said May.
‘If we can find out how he did it,’ said Bryant.
The temperature was dropping again, and the froth of brown pavement ice had become treacherous once more. May kept a tight hold of his partner’s arm as the pair made their way around the corner to their unit. Central London in the snow was never picturesque for more than the first hour.
‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ said Bryant. ‘You can see the kind of a man Kastopolis is, a feral throwback, something out of the 1970s, crafty but not too bright. His wife was lured out into the middle of that park and killed – that’s why somebody called her from a phone box just before her death, to make sure that she was keeping her appointment. You heard what Miss Neville said: Kastopolis has men everywhere. Central North is his turf. Everybody knows the local villain, and that’s the way he likes it. He needed this to happen off his patch. What I don’t understand is how he did it, and he knows that we don’t know.’
‘Maybe he’s smarter than you think he is,’ said May. ‘Perhaps he wants to divert our attention into trying to work out how it happened.’
‘Let’s talk to Giles,’ Bryant decided. ‘He might have had a chance to examine her properly by now. Perhaps he’s turned up something.’
They found Giles Kershaw in the darkened forensic pathology office at Camley Street, where he had recently taken up the position of coroner for St Pancras. ‘You’ve caught us at a bad time,’ warned Giles, ushering them in. ‘The power’s out. Ice pulled down the lines. The fridges are on a separate grid but we’re working by torchlight until tomorrow morning. I don’t know how Canada manages. A few millimetres of snow here and the whole of London grinds to a halt.’
‘What did you get from Mrs Kastopolis?’ asked Bryant. ‘Is there any tea going? I’m perished.’
‘I didn’t get much from her, and it’s probably not what you’re after,’ said Giles, leading the way. ‘I
‘What did it involve?’
‘Keeping the clients sweet. Doing anything they wanted. I mean,
anything
.’
‘You’re saying he prostituted her out to them?’ said Bryant, always one to title a gardening implement accurately.
‘She said no, of course. But he found plenty of other ways to compromise her.’ Kaylie took a sudden alarming gulp from her gin, nearly finishing it. ‘She told me he started using her identity to hide cash in different accounts, all kinds of dodgy goings-on. I keep away from him. If he knew half the things I know, I wouldn’t fancy my chances.’
‘Do you think he had something to do with his wife’s death?’ asked May.
‘He must have done,’ Kaylie replied, prodding the table-top. ‘See, she was smart. She kept everything written down in a little notebook, just in case there was ever any trouble.’
‘What sort of things did she write down?’
‘Account numbers, deposit dates, details of all the rental contracts he faked, the councillors he bribed, everything.’
‘I don’t suppose you know where she kept this book?’
‘She never told me. Not at home. Maybe in one of the rented properties, but there’s forty or fifty of those. He’s got people everywhere. They’re always on the lookout for trouble, that lot.’
‘And you think that’s why she died? Because she was keeping track of him?’
‘You have to understand, he goes on about arriving in London without a penny, how he built up an empire, how no one can stop him. Then she started standing up to him. She told me she’d had enough. She was going to take the notebook to the police.’
‘When was this?’
‘She said it again last night. She’d said it loads of times before, but this time I think she was really going to do it.’
‘We’re going to find out who killed her,’ said May.
‘If we can find out how he did it,’ said Bryant.
The temperature was dropping again, and the froth of brown pavement ice had become treacherous once more. May kept a tight hold of his partner’s arm as the pair made their way around the corner to their unit. Central London in the snow was never picturesque for more than the first hour.
‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ said Bryant. ‘You can see the kind of a man Kastopolis is, a feral throwback, something out of the 1970s, crafty but not too bright. His wife was lured out into the middle of that park and killed – that’s why somebody called her from a phone box just before her death, to make sure that she was keeping her appointment. You heard what Miss Neville said: Kastopolis has men everywhere. Central North is his turf. Everybody knows the local villain, and that’s the way he likes it. He needed this to happen off his patch. What I don’t understand is how he did it, and he knows that we don’t know.’
‘Maybe he’s smarter than you think he is,’ said May. ‘Perhaps he wants to divert our attention into trying to work out how it happened.’
‘Let’s talk to Giles,’ Bryant decided. ‘He might have had a chance to examine her properly by now. Perhaps he’s turned up something.’
They found Giles Kershaw in the darkened forensic pathology office at Camley Street, where he had recently taken up the position of coroner for St Pancras. ‘You’ve caught us at a bad time,’ warned Giles, ushering them in. ‘The power’s out. Ice pulled down the lines. The fridges are on a separate grid but we’re working by torchlight until tomorrow morning. I don’t know how Canada manages. A few millimetres of snow here and the whole of London grinds to a halt.’
‘What did you get from Mrs Kastopolis?’ asked Bryant. ‘Is there any tea going? I’m perished.’
‘I didn’t get much from her, and it’s probably not what you’re after,’ said Giles, leading the way. ‘I
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