Read Online The Victoria Vanishes by Christopher Fowler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christopher Fowler
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so, he collided with Bryant, who was carrying a full bowl of porridge.
'God, I'm sorry, sir.' Banbury brushed milk and oat flakes from his paperwork. 'I thought you'd want to see this.'
'Come into my office.' Bryant set down the bowl, took the papers from him and dug out his reading glasses, waving Banbury to the cankerous crimson leather armchair he kept for visitors. 'Sit down before you do any more damage. What am I looking at? Don't answer, it's a rhetorical question. The Dead Diary for Monday the twenty-sixth, a forty-six-year-old deceased woman named Carol Wynley, found at the corner of Whidbourne Street, Bloomsbury, died some time before mid-night. And this is of interest because...?'
'It's just that John told me you cut across Bloomsbury on the way home, and I wondered if you'd—'
'—Added random acts of slaughter to my already controversial repertoire of activities?' Bryant completed. 'Sorry to disap-point you, Banbury, but no. Around thirteen thousand out-bursts of violence occur outside pubs and clubs in the UK every week.' He threw the papers back. 'Wait, show me that again.' He snatched the printed photograph and re-examined it. 'Talk to Renfield. He'll know where they've taken her. If she's gone to Bayham Street, Kershaw will be about to get his first case.'
'It probably won't come into our jurisdiction,' warned Banbury. 'Not unless there's something especially unusual about her death.'
'It rather depends on what you regard as unusual,' said Bryant. 'It's certainly a coincidence. I think I saw this woman just minutes before she was found dead. Sexual assault?'
'No mention of that in the report.'
'If it's the same person, she was drunk when I spotted her. Let me have a word with our leader.' He turned and swung into Raymond Land's office without knocking. Land was cleaning pencil shavings out of the back of his desk drawer when Bryant made him jump, causing him to empty the drawer's contents over his trousers.
'I do wish you'd learn to knock,' he muttered irritably, brushing down his seams.
'Look here, Raymondo, why on earth are we stranding Kershaw over at the morgue? There's no point in having him hovering about in Oswald's old room with no-one to talk to. He's far more useful to the unit here.'
'There's no room here,' Land snapped. 'Look how much space you take up, boxes of musty old books you never read—'
'They're for reference.'
'Smelly old suitcases ful l of outmoded laboratory instru ments, endless unlabelled bottles of chemicals and I only have your word that they're safe—'
'I think you'll find I never promised that.'
'Half the stuff in the evidence room isn't ours, and I've no idea where you got it from—'
'I can't remember why I borrowed safecracking equipment, if that's what you mean, or what I used it on, but I promise to return it when I do. There's plenty of room for us all here. So that's settled.' Bryant gave what he hoped was a pleasing grin, revealing his patently false teeth to an alarming degree, then exited.
Land dug in his drawer for the miniature bottles of Glenfiddich he kept there and was about to down one when the door flew open again. 'Forgot to mention we've a suspicious death coming in, woman in her forties found in Bloomsbury last night. I say it's our case; what I mean is I want us to handle it because I saw her alive. We've nothing urgent pending at the moment, have we?'
'You can't just decide to take the case anymore, Bryant, you need to talk to Renfield about it. What do you mean, you saw her alive?'
'Haven't bumped into Renfield yet, running late on his first day, not a very impressive start, is it, John, and I will get off to the morgue then, you can tell Renfield for us, can't you? And if you're going to start drinking that stuff first thing in the morn-ing, I reserve the right to start smoking my Old Sailor's Full-Strength Rough-Cut Navy Shag in the office, just so you know. Pip pip.'
The slam of the door was Land's cue to snap off the cap of his
'God, I'm sorry, sir.' Banbury brushed milk and oat flakes from his paperwork. 'I thought you'd want to see this.'
'Come into my office.' Bryant set down the bowl, took the papers from him and dug out his reading glasses, waving Banbury to the cankerous crimson leather armchair he kept for visitors. 'Sit down before you do any more damage. What am I looking at? Don't answer, it's a rhetorical question. The Dead Diary for Monday the twenty-sixth, a forty-six-year-old deceased woman named Carol Wynley, found at the corner of Whidbourne Street, Bloomsbury, died some time before mid-night. And this is of interest because...?'
'It's just that John told me you cut across Bloomsbury on the way home, and I wondered if you'd—'
'—Added random acts of slaughter to my already controversial repertoire of activities?' Bryant completed. 'Sorry to disap-point you, Banbury, but no. Around thirteen thousand out-bursts of violence occur outside pubs and clubs in the UK every week.' He threw the papers back. 'Wait, show me that again.' He snatched the printed photograph and re-examined it. 'Talk to Renfield. He'll know where they've taken her. If she's gone to Bayham Street, Kershaw will be about to get his first case.'
'It probably won't come into our jurisdiction,' warned Banbury. 'Not unless there's something especially unusual about her death.'
'It rather depends on what you regard as unusual,' said Bryant. 'It's certainly a coincidence. I think I saw this woman just minutes before she was found dead. Sexual assault?'
'No mention of that in the report.'
'If it's the same person, she was drunk when I spotted her. Let me have a word with our leader.' He turned and swung into Raymond Land's office without knocking. Land was cleaning pencil shavings out of the back of his desk drawer when Bryant made him jump, causing him to empty the drawer's contents over his trousers.
'I do wish you'd learn to knock,' he muttered irritably, brushing down his seams.
'Look here, Raymondo, why on earth are we stranding Kershaw over at the morgue? There's no point in having him hovering about in Oswald's old room with no-one to talk to. He's far more useful to the unit here.'
'There's no room here,' Land snapped. 'Look how much space you take up, boxes of musty old books you never read—'
'They're for reference.'
'Smelly old suitcases ful l of outmoded laboratory instru ments, endless unlabelled bottles of chemicals and I only have your word that they're safe—'
'I think you'll find I never promised that.'
'Half the stuff in the evidence room isn't ours, and I've no idea where you got it from—'
'I can't remember why I borrowed safecracking equipment, if that's what you mean, or what I used it on, but I promise to return it when I do. There's plenty of room for us all here. So that's settled.' Bryant gave what he hoped was a pleasing grin, revealing his patently false teeth to an alarming degree, then exited.
Land dug in his drawer for the miniature bottles of Glenfiddich he kept there and was about to down one when the door flew open again. 'Forgot to mention we've a suspicious death coming in, woman in her forties found in Bloomsbury last night. I say it's our case; what I mean is I want us to handle it because I saw her alive. We've nothing urgent pending at the moment, have we?'
'You can't just decide to take the case anymore, Bryant, you need to talk to Renfield about it. What do you mean, you saw her alive?'
'Haven't bumped into Renfield yet, running late on his first day, not a very impressive start, is it, John, and I will get off to the morgue then, you can tell Renfield for us, can't you? And if you're going to start drinking that stuff first thing in the morn-ing, I reserve the right to start smoking my Old Sailor's Full-Strength Rough-Cut Navy Shag in the office, just so you know. Pip pip.'
The slam of the door was Land's cue to snap off the cap of his
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