The Memory of Blood Read Free

a jar of gherkins. My grandmother thought it was a pity to waste good fabric.’
    A distorted tape loop of chanting monks began to play once more from hidden speakers, adding to the chamber’s pervasive gloom.
    May sighed. ‘Of all the things you’ve put our Unit through over the years, this has to be the strangest. Hosting a cocktail party in a house of horrors in order to catch a murderer. If you ever say a word about it in your memoirs, I’ll kill you.’
    ‘I didn’t hear any better ideas from you,’ Bryant reminded him cheerfully. ‘This is absolutely our last chance to break the case. At midnight we’ll be forced to unlock the doors and we’ll lose everything, unless we can flush him out in the next hour. Keep your eyes peeled for anything unusual.’
    May looked around at the kidnapped party guests, most of whom were glumly wedged between rotting corpses. ‘Unusual,’ he repeated, trying not to lose his temper.
    Bryant sucked the celery stick from his Bloody Mary thoughtfully. Somewhere above the stalactite-spiked arches of London Bridge station a train rumbled. The bricks trembled and soot sifted down. The shunting mingled with the thunder outside. Rain was pouring under the front door and pooling around the sodden shoes of the guests, all of whom were underdressed for the occasion. In the silences between rain, thunder and trains, May saw the group’s breath condensing and imagined he could hear their teeth chattering. A waitress passed them, bearing a trayof bloody eyeballs on sticks. On closer inspection, these turned out to be dyed pickled onions.
    ‘Masks,’ said Bryant, apropos of nothing.
    May turned to him. ‘Explain?’
    ‘They’re all wearing masks. Look at them all nodding and drinking.’ He waved his sausage at the partygoers. ‘You wouldn’t think we had to bring them here under sufferance and lock them in. They were as jumpy as cats when they arrived, but they’re attempting to pretend that everything’s normal. Middle-class people with upper-middle incomes. They come alive at parties, no matter how strange the circumstances. They discuss house prices and holidays and restaurants, and give opinions on the plays they’ve seen. But after all that’s happened in the last seven days, they know they’ve been brought here for another reason. What do you think is happening behind those forced smiles?’
    ‘I imagine they’re morbidly curious, the way people are about watching traffic accidents.’
    ‘But they’re careful to keep up the illusion of appearing unconcerned. An interesting phenomenon, isn’t it?’
    ‘That’s the English for you,’ said May, studying the gathered guests. ‘We’re great pretenders.’
    ‘Yes, an odd mixture of exaggerated politeness and thoughtless cruelty. The true mark of English conversation is not being able to tell when you’ve been insulted. I think the more sophisticated society becomes, the more it hides behind the masks it manufactures.’
    ‘Do we have to discuss this now, Arthur? We’re on a bit of a deadline here.’
    Bryant ignored his partner. ‘It’s just that we seem to be so good at hypocrisy. I always think when an Englishman says “We really must get together soon,” he’s telling you to piss off. We bury ourselves so deeply inside complex personas that it’s amazing we remember who we really are. Which makes this room,for example, very hard to read. You know me, I don’t play those games. I prefer honesty.’
    ‘Yes, but you’re downright rude to people,’ retorted May. ‘And I do know you. It’s a class thing. This lot make you feel uncomfortable. You’re from a working-class background. Your mother cleaned cinemas for a living. You hate the idea that one of the guests might get the better of you tonight.’
    ‘No,’ said Bryant firmly. ‘I hate the idea that one of them thinks they can get away with murder.’
    ‘Well, our legal priority over the investigation ends in exactly’—here May checked his