Bryant & May on the Loose: A Peculiar Crimes Unit Mystery
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The Peculiar Crimes Unit is no more—disbanded, finished, kaput. After years of defying the odds and infuriating their superiors, detectives Arthur Bryant and John May have finally crossed the line. While Bryant takes to his bed, his bathrobe, and his esoteric books, the rest of the team takes to the streets looking for new careers—until one of them stumbles upon a gruesome murder.
Now the Unit is back for an encore performance—in a rented office with no computer network, no legal authority, and a broken toilet. They’ve got until the end of the week to solve a mystery with links to gangland crime, the 2012 London Olympics, and a half-man, half-stag creature that’s carrying off young women. It’s the kind of case that Bryant and May live to solve . . . and it could be the one that finally kills them.
died, and it’s in the interest of someone to keep his identity a secret, at least for a few days. I’d have thought he died here. You don’t drag a body to a place like this in a busy high street when there’s a huge deserted industrial site just up the road.’ ‘The Met won’t give us this, will they?’ asked Colin. ‘No, why should they? We’re nobody anymore. You’d better take your friend outside, he doesn’t look very well.’ May was itching to disturb the site and make a careful examination of the
rudely refused the offer that she had upset both of them. If things got bad she would have to sell her Kawasaki, but for now she was determined to hold onto the motorbike until something decent came along. ‘It’s only half past one,’ said Sashi. ‘They don’t shut until six a.m. Everyone else is still inside. Look, there’s no-one around now.’ She was right; the streets outside the club were suddenly deserted. ‘You could have stayed. You didn’t have to come with me.’ Meera sulkily stomped around a
Here, I was greatly inspired by ideas in Chesca Potter’s Mysterious King’s Cross and Harold Bailey’s The Lost Language of London. My greatest pleasure is knowing that there are others who share the same passions, especially my endlessly enthusiastic editor, Kate Miciak, and the rest of the Bantam team. A vote of thanks goes to my U.S. agent, Howard Morhaim, and to the book groups of America, for whom I have the greatest respect. Big love, of course, to Peter Chapman, to Sally, Martin, Ren and
He made the amputation but dropped the head near the body. Perhaps he was disturbed by one of the workmen.’ ‘Got anything to connect this to the first victim?’ ‘You mean beyond the location?’ ADAPT’s construction site was only two streets away from where the other body had been found. ‘As far as I can see, the MO looks similar: neat single striations from more than one knife, professional stuff, a definite scalpel-blade mark, no other signs of violence on the torso. I’d say without doubt that
the estate of a Member of Parliament called Henry Penton,’ said Bryant. ‘It’s as simple as that.’ ‘Not so simple, I think. His name has a meaning, no? Mr Potterton tells me that the Penton was at the—how you say—peak?—of Pentonville Road, but nobody knows exactly what it was.’ ‘Actually, I can help you there.’ Bryant was pleased to be able to put his arcane knowledge to use. ‘A penton was a head. I mean, a kind of round hill in the shape of a human head, probably designed to point to the