Bryant & May - London's Glory: (Short Stories) (Bryant & May Collection) Read Online Free PDF Page B

selfie, gave him a gift and sent him on his way. At no point was there any physical contact between them.
    ‘It’s obvious that whatever happened to the child occurred in the tunnel,’ said Bryant. ‘But I’ll need you to find the contact for your other Santa, just to corroborate the sequence of events.’
    ‘Has it occurred to you that the kid might just have had anger-management issues?’ May asked as they trudged back through the sludge to the tube station. ‘He could have been upset about the box being empty or just annoyed with his mother. He might have discovered that he was claustrophobic and freaked out in the tunnel or the crowds. Any number of things could have happened.’
    ‘No,’ said Bryant. ‘He’d walked in through the crowded store and was fine. You heard what his mother said. It was only after he saw Father Christmas that he panicked. We have to track down the missing Santa. And get Dan Banbury to go over every inch of the tunnel. If that’s where he opened the box, he might have discarded evidence.’
    That night, as the detectives sat working late in their offices and the crusted snow on their window ledges started to roast black from car exhaust fumes, Dan Banbury turned up, ridiculously underdressed. ‘I’m glad you’re still here,’ he told them, pulling off his scarf to reveal a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt. ‘I was supposed to be at a party tonight. The trains are up the spout. Why does London have to grind to a stop when it snows? They manage all right everywhere else. Look at Russia. They can’t even produce an edible salad but their trains run on time. We’ve just finished at Selfridges. I think we’ve got something.’
    ‘I hope you have,’ retorted Bryant. ‘We’ve got nothing. It’s starting to look like our Santa’s done a bunk.’
    ‘Well, don’t get too excited. There was nothing on or in the box, but we lifted this from the tunnel.’ Banbury unclipped his forensics box and took out a small clear bag, emptying its contents on to the desk.
    Bryant donned his trifocals and squinted at the object. It appeared to be a tiny, ragged scrap of dark-blue cloth. ‘What’s that?’ he asked. ‘It looks like there’s something written on it.’
    ‘It’s hard to read but definitely a signature. “Branways”,’ said Banbury. ‘Picked out in gold and silver thread. I thought you might have an idea what it means.’
    ‘Not a clue. Did you run a search?’
    ‘I just got back,’ said Banbury. ‘I thought you’d like to do that.’
    ‘Found it,’ said May, checking online. ‘It’s an old-fashioned school-uniform shop, supplies exclusively to St Crispin’s School for Boys. It says here the school was founded in 1623 by the Right Honourable Sir Thomas Lindsay. “For almost four hundred years the institution has prospered, with many of its Old Boys going on to great achievements in the world of politics, sport and the liberal arts.” Did Sebastian go there? The mother said something …’
    ‘I made a note somewhere,’ said Bryant, scrubbing about among the rubbishy scraps of paper on his desk. ‘Ah, it would seem he did. We’ve missed the shop tonight. You might as well go to your party, Dan.’
    ‘I’m supposed to take a pineapple,’ said Banbury.
    ‘The Asian place over the road will be open,’ said May. ‘Take a tin.’
     
    The next morning, the detectives headed for the Covent Garden shop. It had snowed again overnight and then frozen hard, which made the pavements as treacherous as mountain paths. ‘I’m not breaking a hip over this,’ Bryant complained, picking his way through stalagmites of ice and frozen bags of restaurant garbage.
    ‘Don’t worry, I’ll catch you if you go over,’ said May. The idea of requiring a helping hand did not, of course, appeal to Bryant, who would rather have plunged to his death than shown the need to accept assistance. The young man who had once cycled to work every morning and knew every pothole in the