Read Online Bryant & May - London's Glory: (Short Stories) (Bryant & May Collection) by Christopher Fowler - Free Book Online Page A

staff were smartly uniformed and the interior was clean enough. May selected a salad while Bryant followed the time-honoured British tradition of ordering twice as much Indian food as he could possibly eat, topped off with a Peshwari naan and a pint of Kingfisher. As the waiters got busy he attempted to question them, but they proved reluctant to be drawn on the subject of their customers and anxiously fetched the manager, Mr Bhatnagar, who tentatively tiptoed out towards them.
    ‘Mr Eddie is our very great friend,’ the manager explained, beaming eagerly. ‘Everyone calls him Mr Eddie. He is coming here regularly for dinner and staying a very long time.’
    ‘When was the last time you saw him?’ asked May.
    ‘Last night, same as always. He arrived soon after eight and stayed until we closed.’
    ‘What time was that?’
    Mr Bhatnagar silently calculated the validity of his drinks licence. ‘Midnight,’ he assured them.
    ‘You remember who he was with?’
    ‘His colleagues from the office, all very nice but very fond of a tipple, I think. Very – energetic.’
    Bryant assumed he meant loud and ill-mannered. ‘Does he bring anyone else here apart from his colleagues?’
    ‘Sometimes he comes here with his lovely wife.’
    ‘Does she eat here with her own friends?’
    ‘No, just with Mr Eddie.’
    ‘And who else does Mr Eddie bring to dinner?’
    ‘Many people. Mr Eddie has many, many friends. He is very well known in this neighbourhood.’
    ‘And your staff’ – Bryant waved his hands at the young waiters illuminated by the pale light of their mobiles behind the counter – ‘they were all working here last night?’
    ‘All except these two, Raj and Said.’
    ‘You manage several restaurants along this road, I suppose.’
    ‘Yes, half a dozen or so.’
    ‘And Mr Eddie owns them. Do your staff take shifts in the others?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Do the waiters move around?’
    ‘Indeed so.’
    ‘I don’t suppose you overheard any conversation last night?’ asked Bryant, already sure of the answer.
    ‘Oh no, sir,’ came the hasty reply. ‘We would never eavesdrop on our esteemed customers, certainly not.’ Mr Bhatnagar gave them both a friendly, reassuring smile.
     
    ‘What was all that about?’ asked May as they stepped back into the street.
    ‘I like to get a thorough picture,’ replied Bryant evasively. He was carrying a foil package shaped like a swan containing two-thirds of the meal he’d ordered.
    ‘Yes, and I also know when there’s something funny going on in your head. One more stop and we’ll go back to the PCU. The Islington Better Business Bureau. It’s the council’s outsource in charge of the licences for properties along Upper Street and the Caledonian Road. Let’s see what they make of Mr Kastopolis.’
    ‘Do we have any friends there?’ asked Bryant.
    ‘We’re not their favourite people. You gave them grief over a corpse found in one of their properties, remember? A headless body stuffed into a chip-shop freezer? Ring any bells?’
    ‘Oh,
that
. Not someone called Anderson, by any chance?’
    ‘The very one. He’s Kastopolis’s liaison officer. I’m sure he remembers you. You made him go to the old Bayham Street mortuary to identify the victim.’
    ‘Why did I do that?’
    ‘You didn’t like him.’
    ‘Ah. I wonder if he remembers.’
    ‘I imagine it might have stayed in his memory, yes,’ said May. ‘Better let me do the talking.’
     
    May held a twanging glass door open for his partner. They entered a lobby that resembled a spaceship’s flight deck from a low budget film in the late 1980s. David Anderson came down to meet them, waving them anxiously towards a minuscule pink and blue glass meeting room beside the reception area, a holding pen for those not worthy of being granted full access to the executive suites upstairs. He was slightly plump, slightly balding, slightly ginger, slightly invisible, the kind of man who makes you feel old