Bryant & May on the Loose: A Peculiar Crimes Unit Mystery Page 0,63

later today.’

‘Before you do that, take Meera with you to the site where they found the second body,’ said May. ‘ADAPT has got some kind of PR announcement happening there at ten this morning. There’s a rumour that the event is going to be disrupted by picketers. And Arthur—’ He looked around. ‘Where the hell is Arthur?’

‘He’s on his smoking deck,’ said Longbright.

‘What smoking deck?’

‘That’s what he calls it. The little iron balcony at the back of the building.’

‘Go and get him, will you?’ May ran a hand over the nape of his neck. ‘Keeping you lot in one room is like herding cats. Who hasn’t got anything to do? Renfield, do you feel like doing door-to-door?’

‘Not really, no.’ Renfield was also in a lousy mood, knowing that he had to sneak behind everyone’s backs all week to report to Faraday.

‘Fine, then, it falls to you: I want the rest of the statements, anyone who knew Delaney, or saw him, or employed him, on my desk by the end of the day. Come on, ladies and gentlemen, I want you thinking beyond the obvious.’

‘You’re looking for me?’ Bryant sauntered in, still smouldering from pipe tobacco.

‘You can’t use that platform as a smoking area; it doesn’t look safe,’ May warned. The balcony had once contained a block-and-tackle for raising cargo into the building, but now the iron framework was rusted through, so that the entire cage shifted when any weight was placed upon it.

‘Can I enjoy my pipe in here?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Land.

‘Then I shall continue to indulge this innocent pleasure on my deck. What would you like me to do?’

‘I thought you might like to help me find out who is leaving body parts all over the neighbourhood. You could lend a hand, preferably one that’s still attached to an arm.’

‘Has anyone ever told you you’d make a first-class nightclub comic?’

‘No.’

‘They never will. I think I can help you with the vexed question of extremities,’ said Bryant, tearing open a bag of mints and doling them out. ‘I was pondering the problem just now. Did you know that the Celtic area of Penton, part of King’s Cross, is directly connected with the severing of human heads?’

Land looked blankly back, as if struggling to decipher what he had just heard.

‘It’s true. The Celts believed that the spirit dwelt in the head, and built a sacred mound in which they buried the heads of their enemies. This is the mound that was known as the Penton, hence Pentonville, town of the sacrificial mound. It is also in the diocese of St Pancras, who was himself beheaded. It would seem that the sighting of the Horned One, our chap in the stag’s outfit, and the headless victims are historically linked. King’s Cross is a land of great mystical significance, after all.’

‘No, no! I will not go down this route, Bryant.’ Land raised his hands in complaint. ‘One minute everything is normal, and the next you’ll have crackpots with spirit-meters and dowsing rods taking over the place.’

‘Look, it’s very simple,’ Bryant explained patiently. ‘St Pancras Church as we know it was founded in the third century, but it’s built on a temple to Mithras, and the area has deep connections with the occult. The Horned One is intent on reclaiming his land. I’ve been working too, you know, interviewing witnesses and checking through local records, and I think this vision which has been spotted on the King’s Cross construction site is intended to be regarded as an incarnation of the great god Pan himself, Jack-in-the-Green, London’s oldest and most enduring myth. Now, I’m not saying it is him, of course, merely that it is a representation.’

‘Why do you think this mythical creature would leave a body in a freezer? Why are you so sure that the events are connected?’ May asked his partner. Sometimes Bryant tried too hard to join facts together.

‘If you understand the motivation, everything else follows,’ said Bryant, screening out reasonable argument. ‘Think it through. Once the bulldozers move in, the battle is lost. There are no valuable buildings to save on the site, no architectural wonders to fight for, just derelict factories and barren waste-ground used by prostitutes and drug addicts, so who could possibly raise an objection when companies offer to pump millions into a neighbourhood?’ Bryant raised a wrinkled finger. ‘Ah, but imagine someone with a different agenda, a plan to restore the area’s lost religious significance, someone still intent on disrupting the building schedule. What’s the best