The Invisible Code (42 page)

BOOK: The Invisible Code

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‘Sorry, of course. It would help if I explained my thinking a little. There’s a governing rule of investigation:
lex parsimoniae
, the law of succinctness. It means that the simplest and most likely explanation, the one which feels organically right, is usually most likely to be correct. In this case we had an answer suggesting itself from the outset. Given our past dealings with Oskar Kasavian and knowing how Machiavellian he could be, it seemed highly likely to me that he poisoned his own wife. Even though he hired us to look into the case, and seemed genuinely distraught when he heard of her death, everything always pointed back to him.’ The room’s background banter and tinkling teacups receded into silence as he explained. It seemed that everyone was listening.

‘But, you see, there was another, deeper level of
lex parsimoniae
at work, perhaps less rational, and it was something I began to realize I had sensed from the outset. A certain, shall we say, distaff element to the case. The subject of witches kept arising.

‘Amy O’Connor was reading
Rosemary’s Baby
, and had folded down the corner of
see here
, in which Rosemary opens a book called
All Of Them Witches
. Lucy and Tom, the children who hunted her in the courtyard of St Bride’s Church, were playing a game called
Witch Hunter
, loosely based on the medieval instructions for searching out witches. Sabira Kasavian told me it was witchcraft, that she had been placed under some kind of spell, but she was at a loss to explain how it worked. And whenever she talked about the cause of all her problems, she said “they”, never “he”. Which was odd, considering she knew
her husband had covered up a government-sanctioned murder. Even Oskar told me that his wife was the subject of a witch-hunt.’

Now it appeared that even the pianist had ceased playing and was watching them with interest.

‘Then, of course,’ Bryant continued, ‘the three of you told my detective sergeant you always protect your men. You described in some detail how you controlled your weak husbands from the sidelines. And yet there we were, ignoring this deeper truth for the more obvious idea that Oskar Kasavian was the culprit. After all, he had been responsible for covering up a whole series of deaths, although technically they were suicides. And perhaps Peter Jukes drowned himself too. For all I know, he may have been an unwitting part of the test group.

‘Sabira Kasavian discovered the truth about her husband, as wives are wont to do. She named him in the code she sent us, but I should have realized that she wasn’t referring to the architect of her own troubles. She was talking about his work. He had murdered in the course of duty. How did she find out about him, I wonder? Did he toss guiltily in his sleep, speaking of the terrible burden that still haunted him? That seems rather unlikely. It’s obvious Oskar sleeps pretty easily at night. It was more likely something prosaic. Sabira often went to the Pegasus offices to wait for her husband, and it’s likely that she read something she shouldn’t. Little notes that looked just like taxi receipts. She was a bright girl. She quickly realized what he was hiding. But who could she tell? Not any of you, all of whom she hated, because you were a class above – and she knew you were searching for opportunities to advance your husbands.

‘I don’t know which of you first discovered that Mr Jukes’s girlfriend was in London, but I imagine her arrival was enough to stir you into action once more. Your husbands were all on the board and in the club; any
exposure would taint them. You had taken steps to hide the past before, hiring a former member of the Russian militia to remove my biographer. You didn’t even need to get your hands dirty. Such men live invisibly, work cheaply and are untraceable, so why not do it again, and close the circle by getting rid of Miss O’Connor? You weren’t to know that she knew nothing. You just knew that she was Jukes’s girlfriend, and had started visiting his old haunts.

‘That should have been the end of it. Except there was Sabira again, making accusations, talking to strangers, throwing tantrums, being
common
, and you couldn’t just have her whacked. You hired someone to watch her and report back. No wonder she felt persecuted! As you took turns to visit her you poisoned her mind against her husband, and then you poisoned her body with your helpful ministrations. “Try taking two of these every morning, Sabira, they’ve always worked for me.” “Take one of these before bedtime.” As for Oskar, well, I imagine that when he heard about O’Connor’s death he assumed the government cover-up was continuing without him, never realizing that you were taking care of the business, destroying his wife and undermining his career.’

The women stared and stared at him, frozen to their chairs, all thoughts of food forgotten.

‘Apart from switching the folder of evidence Sabira found with one full of taxi receipts, all you had to do was make the odd phone call to an untraceable number and draw out some cash. But Sabira had a mouth on her. She talked to the photographer, who traced O’Connor to the church. She talked to her girlfriend, and things just kept getting more complicated. Best not to think of it as murder, you told yourselves, more like an act of self-preservation. But here’s the funny thing. If you hadn’t interfered in the first place, you could have let events unfold naturally and most of your problems would have been taken care of.

‘One thing puzzled me. If Sabira suspected the three of you, why on earth did she take your pills and your poisoned advice? And then I realized what I should have known from the start; that it was a class issue. Even though Sabira was afraid of you, she obeyed you because you were posh. Oh, she complained about you to me, but whenever you arrived full of apologies and turned on the charm and
deferred
to her, she thought that she might finally be gaining acceptance. But you weren’t accepting her. You were killing her. The children were right. There really are witches.’

A waiter dropped a tray, making everybody jump.

‘What children?’ said Ana Lang, confused.

For once, the women were dumbfounded. They looked even more shocked when a pair of constables from Savile Row nick appeared at the end of the table ready to take them into custody, but Bryant suspected it was more to do with the embarrassment of being arrested in Claridge’s than any real resentment at discovery.

‘To save time and energy,’ said Bryant, ‘I’d rather we didn’t have to go through the tedium of denials. You covered your tracks, but of course the Russians like to know who they’re dealing with and did some checking up on you. They recorded your calls. Guess whose mobile just got handed in?’

The wives rose with the little dignity they could muster. ‘John, put this on my bill, would you?’ Mrs Lang told the maître d’ with an impressive level of imperiousness.

‘Do you need a taxi, madam?’ asked the maître d’.

‘No, we’ll probably walk if the rain has stopped.’ Ana Lang leaned into Bryant as she passed. ‘I’ll tell you what will happen now, you nasty little old man. First, the lawyer. Then, your head.’ She brought her hand up swiftly and would have slapped his face had not one of the constables been quick enough to stop her.

‘On second thoughts,’ said Bryant, ‘you’d better handcuff the three of them together. They’re clearly dangerous.’

So it was that the county wives of the Home Office were removed from the dining room of Claridge’s locked to one another like common criminals, as the clientele watched in open-mouthed amazement.

THE OUTSIDERS

THE DETECTIVES TOOK
everyone, including Crippen, to the Nun and Broken Compass that night. Oskar Kasavian was in Paris representing the views of the British government, and Raymond Land had agreed to stick the Home Office with the drinks bill.

Jack Renfield unloaded the beer tray and squeezed in beside Longbright as they raised their glasses. It was the British version of a midsummer’s evening: rain fell against the windows and there was a fire in the grate. Through the window they could see umbrellas turning inside out.

‘What do you think will happen now?’ he asked Bryant, tearing open a packet of crisps.

‘Oskar will get the new position, the wives will be indicted and the department will be swept clean,’ said Bryant, sipping his porter. ‘It’s a perfect opportunity for HMG and GCHQ to be seen to be putting their houses in order while burying the past. Nothing will actually change.’

‘Except that Kasavian will have to follow through
on his promise to grant us full status under the City of London,’ said May.

‘In that case I’d like to propose a toast,’ said Maggie Armitage, who had wedged herself next to Raymond Land. ‘May the purple candle of friendship neutralize the effects of karmic retribution.’

As toasts went it didn’t strike a very upbeat note, but everyone raised their glasses, and much beer was spilled. Did they realize, as they sat huddled together in the corner of the snug, that they were all outsiders in one way or another? Marked apart by the fierceness of their curiosity, they moved among the docile majority unacknowledged, mistrusted and unloved to the point where they only found solace in one another’s company.

‘Where did you suddenly disappear to this afternoon?’ asked May.

Bryant glanced across at Maggie. ‘I went to see someone who confirmed my theory. He told me to re-examine everything through the eyes of the children. They were hunting witches. And so were we. As soon as I changed perspectives, everything made sense.’

May’s mobile suddenly rang. He checked the text and frowned. ‘Arthur, it seems that somebody wants you,’ he said, holding up the screen. The message read: ‘Send Bryant outside’.

Just at that moment, something crackled and glowed beyond the pub window. Everyone rose and headed for the door.

On the rain-spattered pavement before them was a trail of fire. As it began to die down, they could read the words it had formed:

T
IME TO PAY
M
Y FEE
–
M
R
M
ERRY

‘Do you have any idea what that means?’ asked May.

Bryant caught Maggie’s eye and silenced her. He turned
to his partner, his wide blue eyes swimming with the innocence of one whom London has made truly devious. ‘No idea at all,’ he said. ‘My round, I think.’

Back inside the pub, Crippen gave birth to nine kittens.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Christopher Fowler
is the multi-award-winning author of over thirty novels and twelve short-story collections, including
Roofworld, Spanky, Psychoville, Calabash, Hell Train
and ten Bryant & May mystery novels. He recently wrote
Red Gloves: 25 New Stories
to mark his first twenty-five years in print, created the ‘War of the Worlds’ videogame for Paramount (with Sir Patrick Stewart) and won the Green Carnation Prize for his memoir
Paperboy
. He currently writes a weekly column in the
Independent on Sunday
and reviews for the
Financial Times
. He lives in King’s Cross in London. To find out more, visit
www.christopherfowler.co.uk

Also by Christopher Fowler

FULL DARK HOUSE

THE WATER ROOM

SEVENTY-SEVEN CLOCKS

TEN-SECOND STAIRCASE

WHITE CORRIDOR

THE VICTORIA VANISHES

BRYANT & MAY ON THE LOOSE

BRYANT & MAY OFF THE RAILS

BRYANT & MAY AND THE MEMORY OF BLOOD

PAPERBOY: A MEMOIR

For more information on Christopher Fowler and his books,