Christopher Fowler - The Water Room

‘You’ll have to let it go some time. You heard what Kershaw said.’ The young forensic scientist had come up with an ingenious solution to the water found in Mrs Singh’s mouth. He had speculated on the possibility that she might have inhaled dust containing dried residue from the river, reconstituted into a thin fluid by the mucus in her lungs brought about by a coughing fit. It seemed no less likely than any of their other scenarios, except that the solution had been found in quantity, and lacked the necessary viscosity.

‘Well, it’s bloody odd that I’ve never come across anything like it in fifty years. I knew about London getting blasts of Sahara sand under certain weather conditions, and I had a boring conversation with Banbury about the creation of dust patterns in urban environments, but I’ve never heard of anyone accidentally inhaling a river bed.’

‘You can’t make a mystery out of everything, Arthur. Death by natural causes can be strange. Sometimes the heart just stops beating for no apparent reason. Look at SDS.’ No one had yet discovered what caused Sudden Death Syndrome, or why it so often affected young males in perfect health.

‘So you’re saying I should just accept some things as inexplicable.’

‘Nothing’s cut and dried these days, you said so yourself.’

‘Fine.’ Bryant returned to his case-files, only to look over the tops of his reading glasses at May. ‘So I should let it go.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ May looked up in annoyance. ‘According to Janice, nobody saw anything, nobody came or went, nobody visited the house the night before, she was in there alone. It’s all in the notes, and you know exactly who’s been there since the body was discovered, because I showed you the Scene Log, OK?’

‘Then you clearly don’t know that a man called at her front door on Sunday night,’ said Bryant triumphantly. ‘Medium height, dressed in some kind of peculiar old-fashioned coat. He was seen speaking to Ruth Singh on her step.’

‘Who told you this? Have you done something you’re not supposed to?’

‘I merely sent Colin Bimsley back to pick up the remaining interviews. I’m entitled to do that. Besides, we need to occupy the staff in order to keep them out of the Met’s claws. This so-called “Camden Bin-bag Murderer” is operating a little too close to Westminster. Why else would Scotland Yard be giving television briefings every five minutes? Land will be under pressure to rent us out, and you know how easily he gives in. We fought long and hard to hire staff, and once we lose them, we won’t be able to get them back. Remember, we don’t answer to the Met any more, so if you and I can keep the unit on late shifts and full time-sheets, they won’t be able to poach us.’

‘What else did Bimsley find out?’

‘That’s pretty much all. One of his interviewees was a television producer called Avery. He spotted the pair of them talking in the doorway of number 5 as he was coming back from a takeaway outlet in the high street.’

‘Perhaps it was just another neighbour.’

‘Possibly-Avery couldn’t tell. He had no reason to be looking in the first place.’

‘God, Arthur, it’s not much to go on, is it? An anonymous visitor with rotten dress sense. Why did he recall the coat?’

‘He remembered thinking it didn’t fit properly. The weather broke on Sunday evening,’ Bryant reminded him. ‘It rained solidly for several hours. Avery was on the other side of the road and didn’t get a good look-you know how it’s difficult to concentrate when you’re carrying a box of fried chicken-but he can at least place the time close to Ruth Singh’s death.’

‘So the verdict’s been settled, and now you have a possible suspect. You do realize that we can’t go any further beyond this point.’

‘Understood,’ Bryant agreed. ‘Absolutely against the rules, not worth the risk, we’re publicly accountable, God knows what would happen if Raymond Land found out.’ He patted various pockets for his pipe, his shredded winter-mixture and his matches. ‘Don’t worry, I fully appreciate that the case is now “officially” off limits.’

May heard the parenthesis in his partner’s voice and bridled. ‘Arthur, wait! You come back here!’ But Bryant’s selective deafness had muffled everything except a song from the first act of The Gondoliers, which he hummed as he set off for the freedom of the fire escape.

May walked to the window and wiped a clear arc through the condensation, looking down into the glistening street. He needed to think of another way to keep the unit fully occupied until the Met’s senior officers stopped eyeing up his bright new team. Luckily, it didn’t take him long to think of a solution.

‘Oh God, this is so disgusting.’

Meera Mangeshkar found herself holding a pair of paisley-pattern Y-fronts as large as a shopping bag. ‘What kind of man chucks his pants in the dustbin? Is this the best job May could find to keep us out of circulation?’ Rooting carefully within the bin, she pulled out the remains of a Marks amp; Spencer family fruit pie, some haddock heads, a broken pink dental plate and a brassiere, the cups of which were filled with sponge cake. ‘I haven’t been given rubbish duty for years.’

She and Bimsley were on their knees in the back garden of a house in Belsize Park, sifting through half a dozen binliners. Under normal circumstances, the bags would have been removed and examined at a secure site because of the danger from contaminated sharp waste, but Banbury’s steel micromesh gloves were proving a success, even though they were cold to wear. It was nearly one a.m., and the hours they spent here would be added to the next shift’s time-sheet, protecting them further from requisition.

‘Pass me your torch-mine’s fading.’ Bimsley held up an empty jar and sniffed it. ‘Foie gras-goose, not duck. There was a magnum of Veuve Cliquot earlier. He’s been living well.’

Meera narrowed her eyes at him. ‘You know Arthur Bryant only made you finish the doorstepping in Balaklava Street because the victim’s brother is a mate of his. He’s granting preferential treatment to his pals.’

‘Let it go, Meera. I don’t know what you’re so angry about. There was no one else around to do them, and besides, I don’t mind if it reduces duty like this. I got interviews with all three remaining residents, and one of them told me Ruth Singh had received a visitor that night. So it was worth going back. Information that could lead to an arrest, as they say.’

‘Yeah, right, that’ll happen.’

‘Well done, Meera, a triple positive to make an emphatic negative-nice use of English.’

‘What are you, my grammar coach? Nobody likes a smart-arse.’ Meera sat back on her haunches and raised the white polystyrene mask from her mouth. She made a sour moue as she tipped the last of the bag’s reeking contents on to the grass. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if I made the wrong decision in transferring.’

‘Bryant thinks this sort of work is character-building,’ Bimsley assured her. ‘When he gets his teeth into something, he won’t let go. Even when the cases are cold and closed, he’ll go back in and find something new. They say he and May never officially accepted senior titles because they didn’t want to become separated from groundwork.’

‘Well I’m used to a proper hierarchy, teams and briefings, method stuff without too many nasty surprises. Instead, I’m on my knees searching through garbage. I’m not even sure what we’re meant to be looking for.’

‘You heard Mr May. One of his academic colleagues from the Museum of London has come into dodgy money. He must have reasons for thinking there’s something illegal going on. Academics are usually broke, so how come he’s dining on foie gras?’