American-made Stinger missiles, tentatively experimental divisions like the Peculiar Crimes Unit were the first to feel the financial pinch.
Bryant thrust his hands into his pockets and swung around on his swivel chair. ‘My legs are killing me tonight, so to take my mind off them I thought I’d go through the Permanently Open files, see if there’d been any recent sightings of the Leicester Square Vampire.’
‘And have there been?’
‘Nothing for months. He’s never disappeared for such a long period before.’ The elderly detective had a duty to continue checking. Even though the trail had long gone cold, he owed it to May to track down the man who had indirectly destroyed his family. Pulling the lid from his partner’s coffee, he poured in a shot of brandy from his hip flask. ‘This stuff is undrinkable unless you do something to it.’
‘It’s mine, actually,’ said May.
‘I’ve been thinking about this business with your academic. How did you get on with the wife?’ Bryant poured a second shot of brandy in, ignoring him.
‘Er, OK,’ stalled May. ‘She called me this morning. Apparently, Gareth’s at home studying the Water Board’s survey maps.’
‘Why don’t we go and visit Jackson Ubeda’s office?’
‘And say what, exactly? That we know he’s employed someone to break into buildings built over the estuaries of forgotten rivers?’
‘I don’t mean to visit him when he’s there. I have his business address.’ Bryant could see his partner wavering. ‘He’s based in Spitalfields. I called his number. According to the telephone message, the office is closed until tomorrow. We can take my old skeleton keys.’
‘Arthur, they don’t work with modern deadbolts. Besides, he might have an alarm system. Although Banbury reckons he has something to get around the basic models.’
Bryant knew he would get his partner to agree. Neither of them enjoyed having time on their hands.
‘Where is everyone, by the way?’ May looked about.
‘I sent them home so that the painters could finish up. They’re laying the floor in the lavatory overnight. I suppose you heard that they caught the Camden bin-bag killer? Positive ID, evidence matches, witnesses, the lot. That means it’s make-or-break time for us; Raymond will either find us fresh work or have us closed down. He’s ordered Meera and Colin to seal the remaining files under Longbright’s supervision tonight. They’ll be working through until it’s done, so Janice has gone to KFC for a bargain bucket. They’re dining al desko.’
‘What you mean is, we don’t have much time left to discover what Ubeda is up to,’ said May, throwing Bryant his hat. ‘Then let’s go before anyone sees us.’
Bryant stood back in the street and looked up at the redbrick terrace. ‘It’s a shed,’ he announced.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look at the sign. J.U. Imports Ltd, fifth floor. That must be the tin hut on the roof. How very Dickensian. Perhaps he keeps chickens in it.’
They were standing in the middle of Brick Lane, umbrellas raised against the spattering of broken gutters. Beside them, two Indian boys were attempting to manoeuvre a rack of red leather jackets into their crowded ground-floor outlet. Back in the sixteenth century, tiles and bricks had been kiln-blasted in the area. The reek of the tile kilns had permeated the buildings, but now the air was sweet with the scent of cardamom and curry. Not even the steady rainfall could dispel it. One end of the street was dominated by the Truman brewery, formerly the Black Eagle, now an art gallery, but the overall sense was of a seamlessly transplanted Indian community, which had replaced the Methodists, French Protestants and Jews who had occupied the area in succession. Signs of previous tenancies still existed: a packed 24-hour bagel store, a battered chapel; but mostly there were Muslims and Hindus, taxi-drivers and restaurants, cafés, leather-goods shops—and people, people everywhere, even in the pelting rain, dashing across the street with shirts in plastic liners, splashing through puddles with yellow polystyrene takeaway boxes and armfuls of hangers, even at this late hour.
‘Cover for me, old chap. This only works on mortise locks, so keep your fingers crossed that it’s not a cylinder.’ May slipped a titanium loop through the gap in the narrow brown door and lowered it over the latch bolt. He felt the latch lever raise against the bolt follower, and the door swung back with a faint click, admitting them into the dark hall corridor.
‘Hang about, I’ve got a light.’ Neither of the detectives owned firearms, but both were particular about their torches. May