19
UNBURIED
I’m only coming along to make sure you don’t say anything inflammatory,’ warned John May as he and Arthur Bryant picked their way across the torn landscape of the building site. Around them, Caterpillar trucks burrowed and strained beneath a mean-spirited sky. ‘But it’s as far as I’m prepared to go on your stag-man. After this I’ll be helping the others, so you’ll be on your own. Okay, what are we looking at?’
‘This is the head office of the Albert Dock Architectural Partnership Trust,’ Bryant explained, checking the brochure April had given him. ‘ADAPT is in charge of planning the entire area. The contract was awarded to a single company so that the new town would “observe a single cohesive vision of design,” it says here. I imagine they want to avoid any more ghastly balls-ups like the Paddington Basin.’ Paddington, another derelict area bordered by canals and railways, had been filled with a mixture of offices, retail outlets and community housing, but the resulting confusion of styles had ended up satisfying no-one.
Bryant leaned back and looked up, holding onto his hat. ‘Nice building,’ he said. ‘It’s a pity they pulled down all the others like this.’
They had reached the doors of a huge two-floor warehouse restored in reclaimed yellow brick. The former jam factory was one of the few surviving industrial units left in an area that had once been filled with foundries, flour and timber mills, varnishers, laundries, hat manufacturers and beer-bottle washing plants. Cobbled courtyards had been sandblasted, interior walls removed, roofs renovated and steel walkways added to create a modern version of Victorian architecture, lighter and airier than anything imagined by their ancestral counterparts.
‘Who are we seeing?’ May asked.
‘A woman called Marianne Waters. She’s one of the senior partners, certainly the one with the highest visibility. She made a fortune in the city during the eighties, set up this company, the ADAPT Group, with her two former bosses, and became one of the biggest property developers in the city. She’s leading the way toward more ecologically responsible building, and has the ear of the environment minister. Their children go to the same school. She wrote a self-help book about running companies while being a single mother.’
‘Now give me the bad stuff.’
‘Well, ecologically sound architecture comes at a price, and Marianne Waters has a habit of running behind on her projects. This one is no different. They’ve been slipping back their deadlines; the new shopping mall in the centre of the development was supposed to be finished by now. Before she saw the green light Waters was a great pal of Maggie Thatcher’s, and unfortunately, London’s arch-villainess, Lady Porter. There are stories about her that she doesn’t enjoy seeing repeated in print. They mostly involve persistent rumours about her involvement in the “Building Stable Communities” scheme.’
Councillor Dame Shirley Porter’s infamous secret policy was the stuff of London legend. She sold off Westminster council properties and shifted homeless voters from marginal wards because they were less likely to vote Conservative. Despite being described as the most corrupt British political figure in living memory, the disgraced council leader still protested her innocence. ‘There’s also been talk about the strong-arm tactics being used by property developers like ADAPT to seize the leases of buildings that stand in their way. Critics say that Madame Waters’s concern for the environment is just PR spin. This is ADAPT’s biggest project, and any negative reaction to the company’s plans, mainly posted by community groups, is usually met with a barrage of lawsuits. So if you’re asking me whether she belongs to the forces of good or the powers of darkness, I’d have to say that the jury is still out.’
‘It’s not our job to make a judgement call,’ said May, ‘but a little background material is always helpful.’
The detectives were greeted by two security guards, a receptionist, a personal assistant, a group organiser and finally the lady herself. Marianne Waters was in her late forties, with the strong features of a county-bred woman and a cropped coiffure in a thoroughbred shade of chestnut. She looked as though she had what it took to survive in the modern business world. Encased in an open-collared black dress that reset her body to a younger age, she wore surprisingly tall heels for a woman who regularly crossed muddy cobblestones.
‘Mr May.’ She greeted him with a stern voice and a firm, dry handshake. She looked puzzled by Bryant’s presence, as if Harold Steptoe had brought his father along to the meeting.
‘Arthur Bryant, John’s partner,’ said Bryant, unhappy with having to explain who he was. She shook his hand with noted reluctance. It didn’t help that Bryant had massaged Vicks Vapo-Rub into his neck earlier and now smelled pungent.
‘You work together at the local crime unit?’
‘The PCU handles specialist cases,’ May pointed out. ‘We deal with particular issues not covered by the local police or the CID.’ He was determined not to go into the details of their situation.
‘We could do with more community officers,’ Marianne Waters said crisply. ‘We’ve had some security issues with undesirable types hanging around the compound at night.’
‘That’s a matter of local policing policy. Technically speaking, I’m a civil servant and therefore required to be non-partisan,’ Bryant assured her, pulling a face at May that said See? I can be diplomatic.
‘Fine. Shall we walk?’ Waters led the way between the renovated buildings. Trestles had been laid through the vast steel framework of the shopping mall. It felt like walking through a three-dimensional blueprint of the new town. Waters navigated the duckboards which lay across the final few metres of mud with an ease that suggested she spent much of her time on-site. ‘We’ve had over a dozen sightings, reliable accounts posted by two or more members of our workforce, but there are supposed to have been countless others. Unfounded rumours have a habit of running around building sites. The men gossip much more than the women. We do what we can to limit the rumours.’
‘When did the sightings start?’ asked May.
‘The first verified sighting we had was about a month ago.’
‘Always the same figure, doing the same thing?’
‘That’s right, just standing there watching. He only ever appears at dusk or shortly after. Many of the witnesses are young, but they’re as superstitious as their grandfathers. They’re in a strange land, struggling with the language and customs, susceptible to their own imaginations. In their culture, a man dressed as a stag is a malevolent spirit.’
‘Have you actually lost any staff over this?’ asked May.
‘The walkouts started right after the first sighting. They’re more serious now. After all, Constantin could have been killed.’ She remembers his first name, Bryant thought. A nice touch.
‘And you have no idea what this—creature—wants.’
‘I didn’t take it seriously at first. The nearby nightclub attracts all types. I assumed the man had mental-health issues, a tendency toward exhibitionism.’
‘But now?’
‘Now I think he’s clearly trying to attract attention to something, but I’ve no idea what that might be.’ She pointed beyond the framework of the mall. Against a green and orange sky, the industrial vista was a Dante’s Inferno of steel and concrete, the guts and skeleton of a great body being constructed across the razed land. ‘All the sightings have been up there, along that ridge. Somehow he gets inside the perimeter fence.’
‘How can he do that?’ Bryant asked.
‘He only needs a pair of bolt cutters to get in. The grounds are frequently patrolled, but we’ve had trouble with some of the night security. We think he must have friends on the inside.’
Bryant’s forehead wrinkled. It didn’t make sense. Why cultivate friendships within the very workforce you were hoping to disturb? ‘When building first started here, did any of your employees leave with unresolved grievances?’
‘I imagine there were quite a few,’ Ms Waters replied, ‘but I deal with government ministers and planning advisors, not staffing issues.’
‘Then why didn’t you send your personnel officer to see us?’
‘Because yesterday morning our electricians voted to go on strike. They stay later on the site than anyone else except management, and most of the reliable eyewitness reports have come from their sector. I need to get this matter sorted out quickly. If you want a job done properly—well, you know how that goes.’
‘You say he gets inside the perimeter fence. Has he been picked up on your CCTV monitors?’
‘It’s a huge site and we only keep recorded images for two weeks. Unfortunately, unless he passes right beneath the spotlights we can’t read the images clearly. We have an IT team looking at the problem.’ She had been joined by a small, balding young man with a stressed, purposeful air. ‘I’m sorry. This is Maddox Cavendish; he’s been here since the project began, one of the original architects.’ The two spoke quietly for a moment. Cavendish broke off to study the group of labourers who had clustered around a mechanical digger.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’ Waters left with her architect. As soon as they saw her coming, the workers quickly found their boss a hardhat and overshoes.
‘Well, what do you make of her?’ asked May as he watched Waters speaking with the foreman.
‘She’s getting the job done. It can’t be easy. But I wonder why she’s taking such a personal interest in such a relatively inconsequential problem.’
‘You heard what she said; she may have a strike on her hands.’
‘Very small beer on a project like this. They must have thousands of employees.’
‘Mr May, I wonder if you could help us?’ she called back suddenly.
‘See, she’s calling for you. Women always do that. Why not me?’ grumbled Bryant. ‘Why do they always ask you first? I look older. It’s ageism, pure and simple.’
May made his way across the mud with Bryant following warily at his heels. The knot of workmen untied itself and parted, revealing a mound of clay-streaked earth that the digger had pushed aside.
The pale, naked body reminded Bryant of wartime photographs he had seen, the disinterred victims of concentration camps, except that this one was missing its head.