In preparation for my Guardian interview with Christopher Fowler of 10 July regarding the winding-up of his long-running Bryant and May mystery series, I headed back to 2003 for their very first case.
In Full Dark House (the press release was still tucked within its covers), the pair are simultaneously at the beginning and the end of their careers, as the split narrative covers their meeting during the 1940 London Blitz, and the demise of the Peculiar Crimes Unit after a fatal explosion around 60 years later. Doing for the Palace Theatre, Shaftesbury Avenue what Phantom did for the Paris Opera, this hugely enjoyable thriller features a murderer who can seemingly disappear through walls, as the terrified cast of a sexed-up Orpheus in the Underworld wonder who is going to be spectacularly dispatched next. A working knowledge of Greek mythology proves useful to unravel the mystery, while Fowler’s own in-depth research into the fabric of the building helps pile on the creepy atmosphere. (The beautiful cover art is by Jake Rickwood.)
It seemed audacious to introduce characters who would spend most of the following books far advanced in age and, in Arthur Bryant’s case, decrepitude. John May is kinder , livelier and more approachable than his cranky colleague, but Arthur does the heavy liftiing when it comes to obscure nuggets of myth, the occult and anthropology, and most of all London lore. They aren’t called the Peculiar Crimes Unit for nothing.
I then moved on to the follow up, The Water Room, which came out just over a year later and was inspired by the underground river flowing beneath Fowler’s former home. This second ingenious thriller begins when a woman drowns in an empty and completely dry room. It’s hard to think of another writer who could meld the plight of the homeless, a (fictional) contemporary of the artist Stanley Spencer, ancient Egyptian cults and officials from Thames Water to quite such brilliant effect.
One extraordinary scene set during a torrential downpour has the occupants of Balaklava Street cowering in their homes in the gathering gloom, horribly isolated despite being just yards from one another, while an unknown killer lurks nearby. The members of the unit are stationed in gardens and moving from door to door, but the atmosphere of peril and loneliness is stark.
One thing that struck me second time around is the powerful sense of melancholy that pervades this novel. The characters are adrift, thwarted; their houses are crumbling, just like their relationships. A resentful developer has lost money on Balaklava Street, as has happened before. It seems to be one of those haunted London locations where the past is doomed to repeat itself. The Unit too is in peril, on the verge of being disbanded, which becomes a regular motif as its unorthodox methods scandalise the higher-ups.
‘Do you remember before you had to be grown up every second of the day, John? How it always felt like morning?’ says a minor character who has taken a shine to May. ‘Now it always feels late in the day. Shadows are gathering, and the best pleasures feel far behind me.’ Perhaps it’s the watery element that gives this particular mystery is mournful feel; I think the series got jollier as it proceeded. But as we prepare to bid farewell to the detecting duo, the sad note feels appropriate; for after all, in their end was their beginning.
‘London Bridge is Falling Down’ by Christopher Fowler is published by Doubleday, £18.99