The Memory of Blood Read Online Free PDF Page A

physical, is the sign of a healthy curiosity.’
    As Bimsley began rolling the automaton toward the door under Bryant’s guidance, Raymond Land looked back at his own bare office space and tried to figure out whether he had just been insulted again.

‘M adame Blavatsky?’ said May as they headed downstairs to the new tea shop that had just opened beneath the Unit. ‘You’re the last of your species, you know that, don’t you? One day you’ll be in your own glass case in a museum. Label: the London Eccentric, Londinium Insolitum , shy, hardy, solitary worker, difficult to breed, uncomfortable out of its native habitat—an area extending no more than five miles either side of the Thames—liable to bite when provoked.’
    ‘You missed out my key attribute,’ said Bryant. ‘My eidetic memory. It’s unconventionally arranged, but more useful than any of your fancy computers. The world seems so intent on erasing its past that someone has to keep notes. That’s why I’m good at my job. I make connections with my surroundings. It’s like throwing jumper cables into a junkyard and sparking off the things you find there. No-one else can do that. It’s why we’re still in business.’
    Bryant was being a little disingenuous, and knew it. In truth,his mental connections were extremely haphazard and just as likely to short out. Moreover, he was unable to function without his partner. John May was indeed the acceptable face of the PCU, friendly with officials, kind to staff, linked to the zeitgeist . May had never allowed himself to become an institutional officer, the kind who blankly processed criminals through the system. He believed in the innate decency of humankind, and Bryant’s innocence kept his belief alive. Such an old-fashioned approach to teamwork was not encouraged in the league-table mentality of the new century.
    ‘I want you to meet someone,’ said Bryant, pushing open the door of The Ladykillers Café. The new tea shop had been named after the famous 1955 Ealing film that had been shot in the neighbourhood. It had begun life a few weeks earlier as a pop-up store, but the owners, two sisters who dressed in identical postwar fashions, had taken up the lease and now served teas in a setting that perfectly replicated a period neither of them was old enough to remember. The girls were in their early twenties, and had adopted the café’s styling as an ironic pose. Instead, they had attracted the wrong clientele: older locals who took the environment entirely at face value.
    Bryant made his way to the blue Formica counter and studied the merchandise: Battenburg cake, quiche Lorraine, Bath and Banbury buns under glass.
    ‘Hello,’ said one of the girls, ‘can we help you? I’m Brenda and this is Yvonne.’
    ‘That seems highly unlikely,’ said Bryant rudely. ‘Those are working-class names and judging by your accents your families are from the stockbroker belt, Thames Valley, probably. Any blue-collar customer would find your prices outrageous.’
    Yvonne looked at Brenda nervously.
    ‘It’s all right,’ May explained to them, ‘that means he likes you. We’re from the police unit upstairs. I’m Mr May and this is MrBryant. A pot of English Breakfast tea and a couple of those buns, thanks.’
    Now the girls studied the men; appearances had proven deceptive in both directions. ‘There’s a lady over there waiting for you,’ said Yvonne. The pair set about serving.
    ‘Anna Marquand is my biographer,’ replied Bryant, waving an ebony walking stick in the direction of a thin, oval-faced woman of around thirty-five, seated alone at the furthest table.
    ‘I thought your biographer was male,’ said May as they made their way over.
    ‘I had to fire that one. He accused me of being inconsistent. I told him it wasn’t true, because he had annoyed me from the outset, so we parted company. Anna was recommended by my old friend Dr Harold Masters, at the British Museum. She called to tell me she’s