Bryant & May and the Secret Santa Read Free Page B

in her grey eyes. ‘He was a sweet little boy. I remember fearing for him.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Bryant asked.
    ‘He didn’t want to board,’ she said. ‘He was a very gentle, rather fragile-looking child. You worry about the ones who can’t stand up for themselves.’ Her steeliness returned. ‘But it’s important that they learn to do so. It’s a training course for later life. The world is a cruel place, Mr Bryant, as I’m sure you know all too well.’
    —
    Mr Gormley lived in Redington Road, one of those twisting Hampstead backstreets that had once been filled with gruff artists and lady novelists but was now entirely the province of international bankers. Bryant preferred to catch those he interviewed by surprise, but as Gormley was liable to be out he phoned first to arrange a meeting. That evening the detectives walked down the road from the tube, and found themselves inside a Christmas card. The thick snow had rendered the winding hillside road more picturesque than ever. The laden trees and holly bushes, the terra-cotta chimney pots beneath lowering yellow skies, the odd red robin on a gatepost…there were only a few tyre tracks to mar the perfect scene.
    ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, I’ve only just got back. I may have to take some calls,’ said Edward Gormley, shaking their hands. ‘We’ve got a wildly fluctuating exchange rate on our hands tonight. It’s all about finding the most favourable rate for our clients. Can I get you anything?’
    ‘We just have a few simple questions, then we’ll get out of your hair,’ said May. Gormley was completely and prematurely grey. He looked as if he hadn’t taken a day off work since his son died. The detectives were shown into a sterile, elegant front room with charcoal walls, filled with scenic sketches and watercolours. There were odd spaces, Bryant noted, as if someone had removed a number of items. He could smell an acrimonious divorce a mile away.
    ‘It’s about your son,’ said May. ‘We understand there was an investigation into his school’s culture of bullying.’
    ‘Yes, but as it was conducted by the school’s own board of governors nothing happened as a result of it,’ said the financier. ‘They were scared of putting parents off. Why, has there been a development?’
    ‘It’s an ongoing investigation,’ May explained. ‘I know it’s a matter of record now, but we’d like to hear what happened to your son, if you wouldn’t mind.’
    ‘Andrew hated it at St Crispin’s and wanted to come home,’ Gormley explained. ‘I was persuaded that this was the initial reaction of many children away from home for the first time, and told him he had to stay. I later found out that he tried to run away on several occasions.’
    ‘Did you ever find out who was bullying him, or why?’
    ‘Not really. There had been some cruel things posted online, but Andrew never named anyone in particular.’
    ‘So the name Sebastian Carroll-Williams doesn’t ring any bells?’
    ‘I think he might have been in Andrew’s class. Why?’
    ‘He’s dead,’ said Bryant.
    ‘How? What happened?’
    ‘He ran out into the road after being frightened by someone.’
    The financier remained motionless, simply staring back at them. All that could be heard was the mantelpiece clock ticking loudly. The phone rang suddenly. ‘Excuse me,’ he apologized, ‘I have to take this.’ He left the room.
    ‘What just happened?’ asked May.
    ‘Something interesting.’ Bryant rose and walked to the window overlooking the back garden. At the other end of the lawn was a bird table. A single set of tracks led out to it and back, through the otherwise pristine snow. Bryant frowned.
    May knew that look all too well. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
    ‘Hang on a minute.’ Bryant left the room, heading towards the rear of the house. He was gone for less than a minute, scooting back just in time to reseat himself before the financier returned.
    ‘I’m