Free The Invisible Code by Christopher Fowler

on the path. ‘She sees a man standing under the lamplight at night, watching her.’
    He bent and examined the flattened area. ‘It rained on Saturday night. Someone stood here on the wet grass.’ There were several cigarette butts tightly grouped in among the crushed blades. ‘I think he stood here and watched her. And she’s terrified of him.’

9

    PERMISSIBLE MATERIAL
     
    ALMA SORROWBRIDGE DRAGGED the last of the cardboard cartons inside the front door and kicked it shut with her slippered foot. When the removal men refused to pack up Bryant’s chemistry experiments and transport them, citing health-and-safety regulations, her church group had kindly undertaken the task.
    Now everything from his reeking Petri dishes to his mummified squirrels and the stuffed bear inside which Kensington Police had once discovered the body of a gassed dwarf had been shifted into the new flat’s spare room, in an almost perfect replica of Bryant’s old study.
    Alma picked up a book and checked its spine:
Intestinal Funguses Volume 3
. None of Mr Bryant’s books seemed to have been arranged alphabetically, but were grouped by themes and the vagaries of his mind. She set the tome between
A User’s Guide to Norwegian Sewing Machines
and
The Complete Compendium of Lice
and hoped it would eventually find its place. After setting his green leather armchair behind his stained old desk and arranging what he referred to as his ‘consulting chair’ beforeit, she satisfied herself that everything was in its rightful place, gave the shelves a final flick of her duster and sat down to await her lodger’s arrival. Bryant had been sleeping in his office, and had yet to see his new home.
    The move to number 17, Albion House, Harrison Street, Bloomsbury, had been delayed because the council painters had decorated the wrong flat, but as she checked each of the rooms she saw much that was to her liking. The windows were large and let in plenty of light. The oven had already been put to good use and the kitchen was filled with the smell of freshly baked bread. Best of all, her bedroom was at the far end of the corridor away from Mr Bryant, so she wouldn’t be disturbed by his appalling snoring.
    The impatient knock at the door suggested that he had already mislaid his keys. ‘You never told me we were on the third floor,’ he complained before she had even managed to open the door wide.
    ‘There’s a lift. Why didn’t you take it?’
    ‘It smells of wee.’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous, I just bleached it.’
    ‘Aha, then it
did
smell of wee.’
    ‘Of course not, I just knew you would make a fuss.’
    ‘I really didn’t realize we’d be all the way up here.’ Bryant sniffed and peered about himself in vague disapproval. ‘There are lots of bicycles chained to the railings downstairs, and there’s an Indian man in a string vest watering some kind of vegetable patch. He offered me a turnip.’ He unwound his moulting green scarf and took a tentative step inside. ‘Hm. Nice paintwork. Did you do that?’
    ‘No, the council sent someone round.’
    ‘What, they paid for it?’
    ‘Yes, they pay for maintenance and upkeep.’
    ‘That’s a good wheeze. I don’t know why we didn’t think of this years ago. And you say the rent’s very low?’
    ‘You’re classed as an essential worker, Mr Bryant, although I can’t imagine why.’
    ‘Where’s my study?’
    Alma pushed open the study door with a little pride, although pride was technically regarded as a sin by her church. ‘Here we are,’ she said, stepping out of his way.
    Bryant walked around his desk, shifting books and ornaments by an inch here, an inch there. ‘Where’s my Tibetan skull?’
    ‘Exactly where it always is,’ said Alma. ‘In your office at work.’
    ‘And my Mexican Day of the Dead puppets?’
    ‘You gave them to Mr May’s sister’s children the last time you went down to see them. She confiscated them from her boys after one of them cut himself on a