The Art of Murder (18 page)

Just at that moment, Turner and Inspector Towers came through the double doors. They took one look at Taylor and his friend and stepped over to back up the DCI.

‘Excellent timing,’ Pendragon said. ‘These two gentlemen wanted to go barging into the church. I don’t think the Council members would like that, do you?’

‘Definitely not, sir,’ Towers responded immediately.

‘So I think we ought to ask them to lock the doors, don’t you?’

Turner immediately spun on his heel.

‘Wrong decision, Pendragon,’ Fred Taylor hissed. ‘Thought you would have learned from bitter experience not to get in the way of legitimate journalism.’

Pendragon gave him a sweet smile and walked away.

‘DCI Pendragon, please.’ The caller’s plummy tones were immediately identifiable.

‘Sammy,’ Jack responded.

‘Dear boy. I hope I find you in good health.’

Pendragon smiled to himself. ‘Perishing cold, but that aside …’

‘I have some information for you. Oh, blast it …’

Pendragon heard fumbling and the clink of coins.

‘You’re in a call box?’

‘There … Yes. Don’t believe in mobiles. What was I saying?’

‘You had some information.’ Pendragon glanced to left and right as he crossed Buckhurst Street and headed towards Mile End Road.

‘May have found what you’re after. Got the address here.’

A rustling of paper.

‘What’s suspect about it?’ Pendragon asked after Sammy had read out the address.

‘My source tells me it’s been unused for years, but was rented out last week … for one week only.’

‘One week?’

‘Correct.’

‘Names?’

‘A paper chase with no satisfactory conclusion so far. The owner is Westbrick and Co. They have a representative in Docklands … Sunrise … listed in the book. The unit was rented in the name of Rembrandt Industries. That’s all I have.’

‘Okay. Thanks, Sammy. It’s a warehouse, I take it?’

‘Believe so. Down on West India Quay.’

‘Right,’ Pendragon responded. ‘I know it.’

Sergeant Turner was waiting for Pendragon at the reception desk of Sunrise Properties, the London representatives of Westbrick and Co. ‘Hi, guv. Only got here a couple of minutes ago. The manager’s in.’ He glanced at his notebook. ‘A Mr Derrickson.’

‘Have you found anything on Rembrandt Industries?’

‘A phone number, disconnected. An email address, also disconnected.’

‘Banks? How were funds transferred?’

‘Through third and fourth parties, an entity called Gouache and another called Cubist and Co.’

‘Very amusing,’ Pendragon retorted. ‘I think our murderer’s messing with us. Anything on these damn intermediaries?’ he asked bitterly.

‘’Fraid not, sir. Their numbers and email addresses have also been disconnected. The financial transactions went through a branch of Lloyds in Reading. Accounts have been closed … of course.’

‘And, naturally, no trace of the person who set up the accounts and closed them down?’

At that moment, a tall, bald man in his mid-thirties
appeared from the corridor ahead of them. The receptionist nodded to the two policemen and the man walked over, right hand extended, a serious but not unfriendly expression on his face.

Derrickson’s office was an ultra-modern, minimalist affair with a Mac, a phone and a notepad on an otherwise empty metal and glass desk.

‘So, gentlemen. How may I help?’

‘We would like access to one of your properties.’

‘I see.’

‘17A, Knox Lane, West India Quay. Apparently, it was let for one week only and we believe it may be useful to us in furthering a criminal investigation.’

‘Okay,’ said Derrickson, concerned. He tapped on his keyboard and looked up. ‘Yes. Rembrandt Industries.’

‘Is it unusual for companies to rent warehouse space for so short a time?’

‘Yes, it is, Inspector. But the client offered to pay for three months. I’m amazed you know about it.’ Derrickson looked straight into Pendragon’s eyes.

Jack ignored him and glanced at Turner before returning Derrickson’s gaze. ‘All traces of the company who leased the warehouse have been erased,’ he said. ‘You were paid and then the account was closed.’

Derrickson looked surprised. ‘Odd.’

‘So, you see, we have grounds for suspicion.’

‘What exactly are you investigating, Inspector?’

‘I’m afraid the details are confidential, but it is a homicide matter.’

Derrickson nodded. ‘Right. So what would you like from us?’

‘We want to see inside the property.’

‘Ah, that’s delicate as the client has paid upfront.’

‘But relinquished the lease.’

‘Even so ….’

‘All right, Mr Derrickson. We can proceed in one of two ways. You can grant us unrestricted access and we go about our business quietly. Or I return in sixty minutes with a search warrant, lights flashing and sirens blaring, for all your neighbours to see. It’s entirely up to you.’

Derrickson looked down at the shiny surface of his desk, his fingers interlaced on the glass. Then he spread his hands. ‘Okay,’ he said, and picked up the phone.

The Victorian warehouse faced the water on West India Quay. It stood in the middle of a row of similar buildings. Each unit was used as a medium-term storage facility for importers. The blank façade was a windowless expanse of carefully restored brickwork. To one side was a wide roller door big enough to drive a bus through. On the other stood a smaller door with a security lock activated by a keypad.

Inside, Pendragon flicked a switch and a bright yellow light snapped on and off twice before staying on to illuminate a single, square high-roofed space. The floor was of bare concrete, the walls entirely unadorned. It was really just a gigantic storage box, with one incongruous feature: a cluster of heavy machinery in the centre of the room. Pendragon and Turner headed straight for this, their shoes echoing on the concrete.

‘Fascinating,’ Pendragon commented as they stopped two feet before a metal press. Beside it stood an electric
roller. On the floor, in the harsh fluorescence, they could make out spots of blood and gobbets of grey matter.

They took separate tours around the machines. The metal press was about seven feet tall and three wide. It comprised a steel framework supported on three sturdy metal feet. In the centre of the framework was a two-foot-square opening. Poised above this was a punch about six inches in diameter. It was suspended about a foot from the base of the opening. Pendragon tilted his head to look at the underside of the cylindrical metal punch and noticed a streak of dried blood.

The roller was a very modern, high-tech version of a steamroller. It had three forward gears and a reverse, and consisted of a heavy steel drum and a sprung seat for the driver. On the floor nearby, between the metal press and the roller, stood a box of miscellaneous tools: a power drill, a hedge trimmer, an assortment of blades, lengths and coils of wire, clips and a roll of gaffer tape.

The two policemen met up on the far side of the roller and stood silently staring at the floor. A strip of red flecked with grey stretched ten feet from the roller towards the back wall of the warehouse. The strip was about two metres wide. Pendragon squatted down at one edge and looked closely at the stain. Up close, he could see small lumps of fleshy material. ‘A veritable Chamber of Horrors,’ he remarked, pulling himself upright. ‘Dr Newman is going to have a field day, but I bet she won’t find a fingerprint or a single trace of suspect DNA.’

Stepney, Monday 26 January, 9.05 a.m.

‘What can you tell me about the murder of Father Michael O’Leary?’ Pendragon asked, staring down at the disfigured face of the dead priest lying on Neil Jones’s slab.

‘A carbon copy of the first two,’ the pathologist replied. ‘At least, the cause of death is. A needle straight into the centre of the brain and a hefty dose of heroin. Of course, after that the killer got his jollies in a different way. Eyelids taped back, mouth stuffed with this plastic ball.’ He held up a tennis-ball-sized clear plastic sphere: ‘All very theatrical if you ask me, Pendragon.’

‘Any other marks on the body?’

‘No, the assailant appears first to have stunned O’Leary with Mace. There are traces of Trimyristin, its main component, around the eyes.’

‘What about the man’s physical condition?’ Turner asked.

‘What? Other than the fact that he’s dead, Sergeant?

Pendragon sighed and Jones turned to him. ‘Jack,’ he said with surprising familiarity, ‘the humour comes free. Relax.’

Pendragon looked down at his shoes and then at Turner. ‘What shape was O’Leary in
before
he was killed?’

‘A typical sixty-year-old male. Liver a bit over-used. He obviously liked a drink. Not particularly overweight. No signs of serious injury either old or recent. A bit of rheumatism. Why?’

‘We’re just trying to establish who O’Leary is … was. He doesn’t seem to match up with the first two vics at all, but there must be a link because of what you refer to as the theatre of it all.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t shed much light on that, Pendragon. But I’ll send my report over to Lambeth, and I trust Dr Newman will reciprocate. I find working with her rather rewarding.’

Pendragon raised his eyebrows. Turner was just closing his notebook when Jones stepped around the mortuary table. ‘Hey, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I have a joke for you.’

Turner stared at the pathologist, tilting his head slightly to one side.

‘How many Surrealists does it take to change a light bulb?’

Turner shrugged.

‘Fish.’

‘What?’ Turner said, completely bemused. He glanced at Pendragon, who couldn’t stop a smile spreading across his face as he headed for the door.

Stepney, Monday 26 January, 12.10 p.m.

Pendragon had heard of the grand old tradition of East End funerals, but had never before experienced one. When he was a child growing up in Stepney he had been too young to attend such events. His uncle Stanley had died when Jack was seven, but he had been kept at home, watched over by a distant cousin from the other side of the family. He could still remember the sense of pantomime surrounding the occasion, the buzz of something grandiose happening which he did not quite understand and from which he was shielded by the mourning grown-ups.

Uncle Stanley had been a pillar of the community and much loved locally. Pearly King of 1953, no less. It all seemed to have happened a long time ago and in a very different East End, Pendragon thought as he arrived at the service for Kingsley Berrick. Today’s big show for the art dealer seemed completely incongruous. Berrick had certainly been a flamboyant character: a man who loved to party, loved to make money; a man who, according to some, loved art. But, most of all, he seemed to have loved his own image, and this was never clearer than in the way he had planned his own farewell to the world.

But Berrick, the record made clear, had been born in Surrey and had only arrived in the East End after setting up his gallery in the late-1980s, first in Shoreditch and then in Whitechapel. He was no more cockney than Liberace, but now here he was, lying in a ridiculously ornate coffin surrounded by flowers spelling out his name. Outside the church, a carriage drawn by two black mares in black feather headdresses stood waiting with an escort of no fewer than six professional pallbearers in black top hats and tails.

The service was long and drawn-out with speeches from a host of luminaries of the British art scene. It was finished by a eulogy from Jackson Price, in which he claimed his friend had been one of the most influential people in his field.

Pendragon mingled with the mourners as they slowly emerged from the church on to Clyde Street close to Whitechapel Road. Much of the snow of the previous week had turned to slush. But now, early on Monday afternoon, it had begun to snow again, huge, fluffy flakes tumbling gracefully from a leaden sky, settling on the tops of cars and the roofs of the surrounding buildings.

Pendragon was about to take the steps down to the street when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he was confronted by a tall woman wearing an ankle-length fake-fur coat and Russian-style fur hat. She had fine cheekbones and large brown eyes. Her lips were full and coloured crimson, slightly parted in a faint smile. Her gloved hand was extended towards him. He looked at the woman’s face then down at the hand and took it before he finally recognised her from the film of the private view at Berrick & Price, just before the first murder.

‘DCI Pendragon,’ she said.

‘Ms Locke.’

The woman’s smile broadened. ‘How polite. It’s Gemma. I saw you in the paper,’ she added as Pendragon gave her a puzzled look. ‘Quite a spectacular affair, isn’t it?’ She gazed around. ‘Typical Kingsley. Always the showman. Had to be the centre of attention … even in death.’

‘You knew him well?’

‘Oh, I had known him for a long time. But I wouldn’t say we were close buddies.’ She paused for a moment and looked around again. A middle-aged couple squeezed past and joined the other mourners on the pavement. ‘Inspector, I read the piece in the local rag. I took a lot of it as standard hyperbole, but it struck me you do have a nasty mystery on your hands, and clearly three murders linked by some bizarre artistic connection.’

Pendragon looked at her and it suddenly struck him that Gemma Locke was not simply striking in the way many women are at first sight. She was a rare beauty, almost too perfect for words, a face not merely crafted from a fortunate combination of genes but one that was animated and alive, expressing an inner radiance and energy. He had only seen a woman like her a handful of times before this, and in nearly every case it had been in a movie. The thought suddenly occurred to him that Gemma Locke bore a striking resemblance to Greta Garbo in her prime. He realised then he hadn’t said anything for a long time and that Gemma Locke was staring at him, a faint smile playing across her lips as though she found him inexplicably amusing.

‘Sorry,’ Pendragon said. ‘Yes, um, we do have a mystery. I haven’t read the piece, but I think hyperbole is pretty standard for that paper. We made an official statement yesterday providing as much detail as we care to divulge at this time. The
Gazette
obviously used that, especially the information about the most recent death – the murder of the priest.’