Bryant & May : wild chamber
Record details
- ISBN: 9781101887066
- ISBN: 1101887060
-
Physical Description:
print
427 pages ; 22 cm. - Publisher: New York : Bantam Books, [2017]
- Copyright: ©2017
Content descriptions
General Note: | Series numeration from NoveList. |
Search for related items by subject
Subject: | Bryant, Arthur (Fictitious character) Fiction May, John (Fictitious character) Fiction Police England London Fiction |
Genre: | Mystery fiction. Detective and mystery fiction. |
Search for related items by series
Available copies
- 16 of 16 copies available at Evergreen Indiana. (Show)
- 1 of 1 copy available at Greenwood Public Library.
Holds
- 0 current holds with 16 total copies.
Other Formats and Editions
Show Only Available Copies
Location | Call Number / Copy Notes | Barcode | Shelving Location | Status | Due Date |
---|---|---|---|---|---|
Greenwood PL - Greenwood | FICTION Fowler Bryant & May #14 (Text) | 36626103892907 | 2nd Floor Adult Fiction | Available | - |
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1.
âLike a kite stuck in telegraph wiresâ
On a desolate, rain-Âbattered London midnight, the members of the Peculiar Crimes Unit went looking for a killer.
DC Colin Bimsley charged up a narrow flight of service stairs leading to the raised railway line, and was near the top when sweat broke out across his back and forehead. He looked down at his boots as the station staircase truncated and rotated, churning his stomach. Stretching out his hands to the walls, he tried to steady himself.
His quarry was getting away. Even with a section of rusted iron drainpipe manacled to his right wrist, the killer was running nimbly over rails and sleepers, sure-Âfooted in the falling rain. It shouldnât have happened like this, but nothing in the case should have happened the way it did, and now the staff of the Peculiar Crimes Unit were dealing with the farcical consequences.
Colin fell back against the wall, watching in horror as the stairs dropped. He could not move. From the corner of his eye he saw his colleagues Detective Sergeant Jack Renfield and DC Fraternity DuCaine ascending toward him.
âHey, Colin, you okay?â Fraternity called.
âNoâÂitâs my head thing, itâs back.â Bimsley suffered from Irlen Syndrome, a perceptual problem that made him unable to judge widths and spaces, and it had kicked in just as he was coming within range of their suspect. All he could do was point upward. âHeâs getting away,â he called. âI canât go any furtherâÂâ
âStay here, mate.â Renfield slapped him on the shoulder as he and DuCaine powered past, up onto the rain-Âswept bridgework that ran beside the train lines. Ahead of them, the southern routes of London Bridge Station fanned out in a great brick swathe.
The yellow windows of a commuter carriage flickered past. The train was heading for Kent and the coast. It had just turned midnight. Below them the stalled traffic steamed and rocked, jouncing forward, only to halt and hoot, the drivers cursing as the traffic lights flicked red again.
The suspect was running hard along the narrow edge of the bridgework, but DuCaineâs long, muscular legs quickly closed the gap. Renfield had spotted the only possible escape route and was frantically calculating their chances of an arrest; at the end of the brick path was an open section of railing leading to one of the railway archâs buttresses. Even if their suspect was able to climb through, it was a long drop to the street below.
DuCaine had almost caught up with the running man. He made a sweeping grab at his jacket but the rain was in his eyes and he missed. He slipped onto his knees. The suspect vanished into the gap between the railings and headed out onto the brick promontory beyond it.
âLeave him, Frat,â Renfield called. âHe canât go anywhere.â
Fraternity answered by jabbing his finger down: Look.
Renfield peered over the side of the arch and saw a single freestanding iron pillar, the top of which was about ten feet below them. If their target took the wildest of risks and managed to land on its broad capital, he could leap once more to the pavement and run back into the tunnels beneath the lines. There was a good chance they would lose him forever.
âIf he jumps, donât attempt to follow him,â Renfield said into his headset. âI donât want to be the one peeling you off the pavement.â
âWhy is there even a bloody pillar there anyway?â DuCaine asked.
âLeft over from the old line,â Renfield replied. âDamn, heâs going for it.â
It was too late to stop him. Their suspect had spotted the rain-Âslick top of the pillar and made his move. He was light and easily managed the leap, landing perfectly in the centre of the capital. Now he just had to jump downward once more and he would be home free.
DuCaine had also calculated the probable outcome. He touched his microphone. âIs there a cordon around London Bridge Street?â
His headset crackled. âYeah, weâve shut off all traffic, and on St Thomasâs Street as well.â
Renfield hesitated, thinking that he should head back down the stairs, but he knew it would take him too long to reach the base of the pillar. DuCaine was already bracing himself for the jump.
âOkay, Iâm going for it.â
âFrat, donât try it, mate.â
Fraternity was there one second, gone the next. The suspect had made his second leap, and behind him DuCaine was about to land hard on the pillar he had just vacated.
Renfield looked over the edge of the railway parapet and saw their target falling from the pillar toward the ground. Right at that moment, something entirely unexpected happened. The suspect stopped in midair, hovering above the street with his arms over his head. It seemed insane, impossible, but there he was, suspended above the road.
âBloody hell,â said Renfield.
His headset burst into life. âWhatâs happening?â asked John May.
âFraternityâs doing a bit of parkour,â he replied. âSuspect made a jump for the pavement. Only he didnât make it.â
âWhat do you mean, he didnât make it?â
âNot exactly sure, guv,â Renfield admitted. âA bit of a Peter Pan job. Heâs sort of floating above the road.â
Their suspect had jumped between a pair of virtually invisible steel guy ropes, running between the railway arches, which had been used to suspend signs for the London Dungeonâs last exhibition. He had dropped between them but the length of drainpipe manacled to his wrist had caught itself over the knotted cables. Trapped, he tried to grip the ropes with his free hand to ease the weight on his right arm and now swung helplessly back and forth with his legs kicking, unable to move in any direction.
A few moments later he was surrounded by various surprised members of the Peculiar Crimes Unit.
âYouâre too late!â their suspect shouted down at them. âItâs over. I did what I set out to do. You know I did. Whatever happens now, remember this: I won.â
âHe can say what he likes,â Jack Renfield told his boss, John May. âHeâs hanging over the road like a kite stuck in telegraph wires. It looks to me like weâve caught the Mr Punch Killer.â
2.
âWhy are they allowed to be there?â
Over on St Thomasâs Street at exactly the same time, a Metropolitan Police traffic unit was redirecting cars around a makeshift cordon of railings, red plastic barriers and ribbons, but it was proving trickier than anyone expected. Articulated trucks were being forced to tackle the small side streets running under the railway arches, and were mounting the pavements as they turned.
Sergeant Samuel Kemp-ÂBird was nearing retirement. What he saw around him was utter chaos. He hadnât expected to end up on point duty tonight, but there was a lot of flu about and the traffic unit was short-Âstaffed. He had only just recovered from a bad cold himself and the damp night air was filled with diesel fumes, tightening his chest. His spectacles were covered in water droplets, and he had nothing to clean them with. The traffic was backed up in every direction and seething, the drivers on the lookout for someone to blame. The sergeant wished he was in America, where failure to comply brought the threat of arrest. Here, drivers just laughed at you and swore.
âOi, mate, this is a joke, innit? Whatâs going on?â a driver shouted down from the cab of his truck.
âPolice are arresting someone. The arterial roads around the station are closed. Keep it moving,â Kemp-ÂBird called back, waving him on.
The driver kept his air brakes on. âHow am I supposed to get into the West End?â
âYouâll have to go round and back up to Tooley Street, then down Borough High Street,â Kemp-ÂBird replied. âBarnham Streetâs shut but I think Shand Streetâs still open.â He called to his gormless young colleague, âOi, Blakey, is Shand Street still open?â
âYeah, it must be,â Blakey shouted back. âNo oneâs mentioned it.â
âAre you having a laugh?â The driver slapped the side of his truck with impatience. âThis is an artic, not a concertina. And thatâs not a road, itâs a bloody tunnel. Itâs got a tight bend at either end and a low-Âclearance ceiling. I canât get through that.â
Sergeant Kemp-ÂBird stepped back and eyed the truckâs roof. He removed his glasses and wiped them. The trucker was holding up traffic. âYouâve got a good foot and a half all round, mate. Youâre clear to go.â He waved the vehicle on.
The driver didnât think so, not for a minute, but he was already two hours late getting his glassware into the old Covent Garden market because of delays to the ferry services, so he decided to take the traffic cop at his word. Releasing his brakes, he hit his turn signal and accelerated.
The vehicle behind him, a gleaming red Chevrolet Cruze, pulled up near the traffic cop and its window rolled halfway down. âWhatâs going on?â called the pretty blond girl inside. Sergeant Kemp-ÂBird coughed. He thought he could smell dope over the blue exhaust fumes in the tunnel.
âDetour,â he said. âWhere are you heading?â
âTrying to get to Vauxhall. Why is it so difficult to get anywhere in this city?â She sounded as if she might also have been drinking, but there was no room and no time to pull her overâÂhe needed to get the traffic flowing again.
âLook, just follow the truck in front to Borough High Street.â Stepping back, he waved her on.
|||
Further along the tunnel, Sharyn Buckland pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and checked her watch again. The show had finished late, the service in the restaurant had been abysmal and the night tube wasnât in operation tonight, not that she ever caught it this lateâÂit was too full of drunk people eating the most disgusting burger things out of paper bags. âStay close to me, darling,â she told the boy, adjusting the heavy box under her arm. âWeâll find a taxi in a minute.â
âLike a kite stuck in telegraph wiresâ
On a desolate, rain-Âbattered London midnight, the members of the Peculiar Crimes Unit went looking for a killer.
DC Colin Bimsley charged up a narrow flight of service stairs leading to the raised railway line, and was near the top when sweat broke out across his back and forehead. He looked down at his boots as the station staircase truncated and rotated, churning his stomach. Stretching out his hands to the walls, he tried to steady himself.
His quarry was getting away. Even with a section of rusted iron drainpipe manacled to his right wrist, the killer was running nimbly over rails and sleepers, sure-Âfooted in the falling rain. It shouldnât have happened like this, but nothing in the case should have happened the way it did, and now the staff of the Peculiar Crimes Unit were dealing with the farcical consequences.
Colin fell back against the wall, watching in horror as the stairs dropped. He could not move. From the corner of his eye he saw his colleagues Detective Sergeant Jack Renfield and DC Fraternity DuCaine ascending toward him.
âHey, Colin, you okay?â Fraternity called.
âNoâÂitâs my head thing, itâs back.â Bimsley suffered from Irlen Syndrome, a perceptual problem that made him unable to judge widths and spaces, and it had kicked in just as he was coming within range of their suspect. All he could do was point upward. âHeâs getting away,â he called. âI canât go any furtherâÂâ
âStay here, mate.â Renfield slapped him on the shoulder as he and DuCaine powered past, up onto the rain-Âswept bridgework that ran beside the train lines. Ahead of them, the southern routes of London Bridge Station fanned out in a great brick swathe.
The yellow windows of a commuter carriage flickered past. The train was heading for Kent and the coast. It had just turned midnight. Below them the stalled traffic steamed and rocked, jouncing forward, only to halt and hoot, the drivers cursing as the traffic lights flicked red again.
The suspect was running hard along the narrow edge of the bridgework, but DuCaineâs long, muscular legs quickly closed the gap. Renfield had spotted the only possible escape route and was frantically calculating their chances of an arrest; at the end of the brick path was an open section of railing leading to one of the railway archâs buttresses. Even if their suspect was able to climb through, it was a long drop to the street below.
DuCaine had almost caught up with the running man. He made a sweeping grab at his jacket but the rain was in his eyes and he missed. He slipped onto his knees. The suspect vanished into the gap between the railings and headed out onto the brick promontory beyond it.
âLeave him, Frat,â Renfield called. âHe canât go anywhere.â
Fraternity answered by jabbing his finger down: Look.
Renfield peered over the side of the arch and saw a single freestanding iron pillar, the top of which was about ten feet below them. If their target took the wildest of risks and managed to land on its broad capital, he could leap once more to the pavement and run back into the tunnels beneath the lines. There was a good chance they would lose him forever.
âIf he jumps, donât attempt to follow him,â Renfield said into his headset. âI donât want to be the one peeling you off the pavement.â
âWhy is there even a bloody pillar there anyway?â DuCaine asked.
âLeft over from the old line,â Renfield replied. âDamn, heâs going for it.â
It was too late to stop him. Their suspect had spotted the rain-Âslick top of the pillar and made his move. He was light and easily managed the leap, landing perfectly in the centre of the capital. Now he just had to jump downward once more and he would be home free.
DuCaine had also calculated the probable outcome. He touched his microphone. âIs there a cordon around London Bridge Street?â
His headset crackled. âYeah, weâve shut off all traffic, and on St Thomasâs Street as well.â
Renfield hesitated, thinking that he should head back down the stairs, but he knew it would take him too long to reach the base of the pillar. DuCaine was already bracing himself for the jump.
âOkay, Iâm going for it.â
âFrat, donât try it, mate.â
Fraternity was there one second, gone the next. The suspect had made his second leap, and behind him DuCaine was about to land hard on the pillar he had just vacated.
Renfield looked over the edge of the railway parapet and saw their target falling from the pillar toward the ground. Right at that moment, something entirely unexpected happened. The suspect stopped in midair, hovering above the street with his arms over his head. It seemed insane, impossible, but there he was, suspended above the road.
âBloody hell,â said Renfield.
His headset burst into life. âWhatâs happening?â asked John May.
âFraternityâs doing a bit of parkour,â he replied. âSuspect made a jump for the pavement. Only he didnât make it.â
âWhat do you mean, he didnât make it?â
âNot exactly sure, guv,â Renfield admitted. âA bit of a Peter Pan job. Heâs sort of floating above the road.â
Their suspect had jumped between a pair of virtually invisible steel guy ropes, running between the railway arches, which had been used to suspend signs for the London Dungeonâs last exhibition. He had dropped between them but the length of drainpipe manacled to his wrist had caught itself over the knotted cables. Trapped, he tried to grip the ropes with his free hand to ease the weight on his right arm and now swung helplessly back and forth with his legs kicking, unable to move in any direction.
A few moments later he was surrounded by various surprised members of the Peculiar Crimes Unit.
âYouâre too late!â their suspect shouted down at them. âItâs over. I did what I set out to do. You know I did. Whatever happens now, remember this: I won.â
âHe can say what he likes,â Jack Renfield told his boss, John May. âHeâs hanging over the road like a kite stuck in telegraph wires. It looks to me like weâve caught the Mr Punch Killer.â
2.
âWhy are they allowed to be there?â
Over on St Thomasâs Street at exactly the same time, a Metropolitan Police traffic unit was redirecting cars around a makeshift cordon of railings, red plastic barriers and ribbons, but it was proving trickier than anyone expected. Articulated trucks were being forced to tackle the small side streets running under the railway arches, and were mounting the pavements as they turned.
Sergeant Samuel Kemp-ÂBird was nearing retirement. What he saw around him was utter chaos. He hadnât expected to end up on point duty tonight, but there was a lot of flu about and the traffic unit was short-Âstaffed. He had only just recovered from a bad cold himself and the damp night air was filled with diesel fumes, tightening his chest. His spectacles were covered in water droplets, and he had nothing to clean them with. The traffic was backed up in every direction and seething, the drivers on the lookout for someone to blame. The sergeant wished he was in America, where failure to comply brought the threat of arrest. Here, drivers just laughed at you and swore.
âOi, mate, this is a joke, innit? Whatâs going on?â a driver shouted down from the cab of his truck.
âPolice are arresting someone. The arterial roads around the station are closed. Keep it moving,â Kemp-ÂBird called back, waving him on.
The driver kept his air brakes on. âHow am I supposed to get into the West End?â
âYouâll have to go round and back up to Tooley Street, then down Borough High Street,â Kemp-ÂBird replied. âBarnham Streetâs shut but I think Shand Streetâs still open.â He called to his gormless young colleague, âOi, Blakey, is Shand Street still open?â
âYeah, it must be,â Blakey shouted back. âNo oneâs mentioned it.â
âAre you having a laugh?â The driver slapped the side of his truck with impatience. âThis is an artic, not a concertina. And thatâs not a road, itâs a bloody tunnel. Itâs got a tight bend at either end and a low-Âclearance ceiling. I canât get through that.â
Sergeant Kemp-ÂBird stepped back and eyed the truckâs roof. He removed his glasses and wiped them. The trucker was holding up traffic. âYouâve got a good foot and a half all round, mate. Youâre clear to go.â He waved the vehicle on.
The driver didnât think so, not for a minute, but he was already two hours late getting his glassware into the old Covent Garden market because of delays to the ferry services, so he decided to take the traffic cop at his word. Releasing his brakes, he hit his turn signal and accelerated.
The vehicle behind him, a gleaming red Chevrolet Cruze, pulled up near the traffic cop and its window rolled halfway down. âWhatâs going on?â called the pretty blond girl inside. Sergeant Kemp-ÂBird coughed. He thought he could smell dope over the blue exhaust fumes in the tunnel.
âDetour,â he said. âWhere are you heading?â
âTrying to get to Vauxhall. Why is it so difficult to get anywhere in this city?â She sounded as if she might also have been drinking, but there was no room and no time to pull her overâÂhe needed to get the traffic flowing again.
âLook, just follow the truck in front to Borough High Street.â Stepping back, he waved her on.
|||
Further along the tunnel, Sharyn Buckland pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and checked her watch again. The show had finished late, the service in the restaurant had been abysmal and the night tube wasnât in operation tonight, not that she ever caught it this lateâÂit was too full of drunk people eating the most disgusting burger things out of paper bags. âStay close to me, darling,â she told the boy, adjusting the heavy box under her arm. âWeâll find a taxi in a minute.â