she had attacked someone with a knife in a moment of passion; there had been no moments of passion at all, only the nagging ache of failure, and blinding, debilitating panic.
She studied the bare white walls without emotion. From now on her life would consist of being in communal government rooms like this, but it didn’t matter. She had no care for where she lived, because now she lived inside her head.
‘You could do with some paintings on these walls,’ she stated imperiously to no one in particular. ‘You might brighten the place up a little, make it more lived in.’
It was only when no answer came that she realized she would never again find home.
‘What has he been painting?’ asked Alma Sorrowbridge, peering over Sergeant Longbright’s shoulder. The pair of them had decided to tackle the daunting task of clearing up Bryant’s study while he was out, and had discovered the half-finished canvas set on an easel beneath a south-facing window in his cavernous new apartment.
‘It appears to be an allegorical depiction of the end of the world,’ Longbright suggested, stepping back to decipher the chaotic muddle of purples and greens. ‘What do you think?’
Alma sniffed with vague disapproval before wielding her J-cloth on his work surface. ‘That big naked lady in the middle is a very odd shape.’
‘I think he painted her from memory,’ said Longbright, tilting her head.
‘Then he must be getting Alzheimer’s,’ Alma told her, spitting on the cloth and settling down to a good scrub.
‘John’s putting him on a refresher course. They’re double-dating tonight. Monica Greenwood and Jackie Quinten.’
‘The only toy boys in town with bus passes. Mr Bryant has never been very successful with the ladies. His idea of a chat-up line used to be asking a girl if she’d like to see where he had his operation.’
‘What did he show them?’
‘The Royal Free Hospital.’
Their laughter could be heard in the street, where the lamps glowed into life, lighting all paths to home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHRISTOPHER FOWLER is the acclaimed author of twelve previous novels, including the Bryant & May novels Full Dark House and Seventy-Seven Clocks. He lives in London, where he is at work on his next novel featuring Arthur Bryant and John May, Ten Second Staircase. Visit him on the web at www.christopherfowler.co.uk.
ALSO BY CHRISTOPHER FOWLER
FULL DARK HOUSE
SEVENTY-SEVEN CLOCKS
And coming soon in hardcover from Bantam:
TEN SECOND STAIRCASE
“Invulnerable, genial, and crafty,” raved the Los Angeles Times of the superb—and utterly unique—sleuthing duo of Bryant and May. Now the odd couple of London’s Peculiar Crimes Unit returns in a tantalizing new mystery guaranteed to keep you reading late into the night.
Read on for a special early look into Christopher Fowler’s Ten Second Staircase, coming soon in hardcover from Bantam Books. And don’t miss any of the Bryant and May mysteries—look for them at your favorite booksellers!
a cognizant original v5 release november 11 2010
Ten Second
Staircase A Bryant & May Mystery
CHRISTOPHER FOWLER
On sale summer 2006
Ten Second Staircase
On sale summer 2006
SMALL PROVOCATIONS
‘I hope you’re not going to be rude and upset everyone again.’
Detective Sergeant Janice Longbright examined her boss for signs of disarray. She scraped some egg from his creased green tie with a crimson nail, then grudgingly granted her approval.
Arthur Bryant took a deep breath and folded his notes back into his jacket. ‘I see nothing wrong with speaking my mind. After all, it is a special occasion.’ He fixed his DS with a beady, unforgiving eye. ‘I rarely get invited to make speeches. People always think I’m going to be insulting. I’ve never upset anyone before.’
‘Perhaps I could remind you of the Mayor’s banquet at Mansion House? You told the assembly he had herpes.’
‘I said he had a hairpiece. It was a misquote.’
‘Well, just remember how overwrought you can get at these events. Did you remember to take your blue pills?’ Longbright suspected he had forgotten them because the tablet box was still poking out of his top pocket. ‘The doctor warned you it would be easy to muddle them up—’
‘I don’t need a nurse, thank you. I’ll take them afterwards. I haven’t quite drifted into senility yet.’ Unlike most men, Bryant did not look smarter in a suit. His outfit was several decades out of date and too long in the leg. His shirt collar was far wider than his neck, and the white nimbus of his hair floated up around his prominent ears as though he had been conducting experiments in electricity. Overall, he looked like a soon-to-be-pulped Tussaud’s waxwork.
Peering out though a