The Art of Murder (31 page)

It took three rings before Pendragon surfaced from a deep sleep, and even then a couple of moments passed before he realised what the sound was. He reached for his mobile lying on the bedside cabinet and squinted at the number, noted the time – 2.02 a.m. – and opened the cover.

‘Grant,’ he said wearily. ‘What’s happened?’

‘The nutter’s struck again. We’re on our way to the scene, a warehouse off Commercial Road.’ Pendragon could hear the sound of rain and the beating of the squad-car wipers, then the tick of an indicator.

‘Whereabouts exactly?’

‘Thyme Street. There’s a small industrial estate there. It’s a warehouse Number 415b.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Pendragon was out in under three minutes and pulling away from the kerb. The snow had vanished to be replaced by sleety rain. The pavements were clear, but soaked. It was a moonless night lit only by neon, and as he pulled away towards the end of his street he had a sudden stab of déjà vu. It was a similar call that had initiated him into the Brick Lane team just over six months earlier. He had just arrived from Oxford and was staying in a hotel for a couple of nights. The morning he was due to start work he had received a call from Inspector Grant at 3.05 a.m. telling him he was on his way to a crime scene on Mile End Road. It had been a rude awakening: a murdered labourer had been pushed through an air vent and crashed through the ceiling of an underground illegal dance club. That had been the start of a particularly intense investigation involving a cross-dressing psycho-killer and the discovery of a mysterious and ancient ring that had once belonged to Lucrezia Borgia.

Pendragon turned left and put his foot down hard on the accelerator. Just after two on a Wednesday morning, the streets were just about as quiet as they would ever be. He jumped the lights and turned left into New Road, pushing the accelerator to the floor. He slowed to turn into Commercial Road and then sped up again. Six minutes after leaving his flat, Pendragon was pulling into the industrial estate. He raced through a pair of opened gates, slowed, then pulled over to check the list of addresses on
a huge metal sign. Turning back to the road, he saw an ambulance career around the next bend towards him. Its lights were flashing and the driver was just starting up the siren. Pendragon paused to let the ambulance pass. It churned up a deep puddle of murky water that splashed as high as the nearside windows of the squad car. Pendragon shot away again. A uniformed officer flagged him down as he approached the flashing blue lights of two police cars and a motorcycle parked outside a warehouse on the left.

The uniform held the car door open as Pendragon got out. A shutter door was positioned in the centre of the front wall of the warehouse, and displayed beside this, in artful chrome, was the number of the building. Inside, the large open space was lit by bright fluorescent strips hanging from a high ceiling. It took the DCI a second for his eyes to adjust, and then he saw Turner pacing towards him.

‘That was quick, guv.’

‘What’s the situation? I just saw an ambulance.’

‘Yeah, I think we might have saved this one.’

‘What?’ Pendragon stared past his sergeant at the scene in the warehouse. The front half was empty, nothing more visible than a painted concrete floor with a few pieces of newspaper blowing around it. Filling the back half were dozens of columns of wooden crates. They were stacked five high and in two groups, to right and left of the warehouse. A passage about three metres wide ran between them. Pendragon could hear voices coming from behind the crates and someone had set up a powerful floodlight creating shadows that played across the ceiling.

Turner led the way. ‘We got a call about one-forty. A woman on her mobile. She’s over there. Name’s Vanessa French. She was hysterical, saying that her boyfriend, Gary Townsend, was being tortured. I got here first with Thatcher and Mackleby and saw Ms French outside the building. She was a complete mess … trying to keep quiet, but falling apart. Mackleby stayed with her and Jim and I went in. We could hear this horrible whimpering. We got to about here,’ … and Turner pointed to the floor. ‘… I heard this scrambling sound.’ We rushed forward. I caught a glimpse of someone in a protective plastic suit. You know, like the ones they use in bio-labs. We saw the vic on the floor. He was spread-eagled, tied down with ropes. I ran after the geezer in the suit.’

‘I assume you didn’t get a better look at him?’

‘No, guv. They obviously knew their way around the place, had an escape route planned. A door at the back was open when I reached it, but no sign of anyone.’

They had reached the other side of the crates. It was a space about three metres square. In the middle of the floor there were four metal rings in the concrete. Lengths of cut rope were tied around these. There was a puddle of liquid at one end of the arrangement. Around the edge of the liquid, the concrete had started to dissolve. The puddle had been cordoned off with police tape. To one side stood two plastic barrels. Pendragon noted the stickers reading ‘Corrosive’ on one of them. Two uniforms stood to the right of the scene with Jimmy Thatcher and Inspector Rob Grant. To the left stood two spindly wooden chairs. Sergeant Roz Mackleby was in one, a young woman wrapped in an ambulance blanket was seated in the other.

Pendragon’s mind automatically flashed back to the scene on Stepney Green six days earlier: Sergeant Mackleby comforting another woman in the back of an ambulance while close by a hideously mutilated body hung in a tree.

Jack walked over to the two women. ‘Ms French, I’m DCI Pendragon.’

Vanessa French looked up, meeting his gaze. She was in her mid-twenties. Clearly undernourished, but pretty. Her shoulder-length hair hung loose. Her make-up was smudged and tear-streaked. She had a strong, intelligent face.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘DCI Pendragon, I really want to be with Gary right now.’

‘I understand. But the medics will do everything they can for him and we can take you straight to the hospital from here.’

She looked at the concrete and then back at Pendragon. ‘Okay. I’ve tried to describe what happened already. I imagine you would like to ask me to again.’

Pendragon found a faint comforting smile from somewhere. ‘If you’ll indulge me.’

‘Where do I start? At the point where I crumpled into hysterical tears or before that?’

Pendragon said nothing, just waved a hand in front of her as if to say, You decide.

‘God! I feel so utterly bloody useless … I should have stopped them.’

‘No. You did the right thing.’

She took a deep breath. ‘I thought Gary – that’s my boyfriend, Gary Townsend – was having an affair. He’s
been going out late at night recently. He’s Arts Editor for the
Daily Telegraph
– and, yes, I know getting out and about is par for the course in his job, but I was growing suspicious. So I followed him here.’ She looked slightly embarrassed for a moment. ‘Anyway, I got here about one-thirty, I suppose. The shutters were closed, but the side door was unlocked. I crept in. I could hear some weird sounds coming from around here at the back of the warehouse.

‘I made my way between the boxes and hid just over there.’ She pointed to the spot. ‘And then I saw it.’ She gasped suddenly and put a hand to her mouth. Mackleby leaned forward, but Vanessa French pushed her hand away gently.

‘I’m okay,’ she said and took a deep breath. ‘Gary was bound, tied down. It was shadowy. I couldn’t see properly. There was a figure in some sort of plastic suit and visor. He leaned forward with a plastic container, opened the top and peered down at Gary. Gary started to struggle. He was gagged, but I could hear him trying to shout, trying to scream. It was horrible.’ She paused again then shook herself, trying physically to dispel the terror. ‘The figure in the suit started talking, but his voice was distorted – like those voices you get on songs sometimes – do you know what I mean?’

Pendragon glanced at Mackleby, but she was concentrating her gaze on Vanessa French and did not see him.

‘He said something like, “Now, my Edvard Munch …”’ Then he just poured the contents of the plastic container all over Gary’s face.’

Vanessa stopped and looked appealingly at Pendragon, then she pressed her hands to her face and dragged them slowly down her cheeks. Pendragon felt a cold chill run along his spine.

‘Gary … Gary screamed. He screamed and he screamed.’ Vanessa took a couple of very deep breaths. ‘I was frozen to the spot … literally. I know it sounds like something out of a bad detective novel, but I did. I felt the world fall apart around me. I felt sick. Then … I ran.’

She stopped again and Pendragon searched her face. She was trying valiantly to keep control of her emotions.

‘I got outside. I threw up. I was crying. My eyes were streaming – it must have been the fumes … Oh God!’ She gasped and brought both hands to her mouth. ‘Imagine … just imagine what Gary must have … .’

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of a camera shutter. Pendragon glanced round and saw that the police photographer had arrived.

‘That’s when I called you …’

‘Thank you, Vanessa,’ Pendragon said, and leaned forward to take her hand. She jerked a little as he touched her, then looked up from the concrete to stare into his eyes again.

‘Please get the fucking bastard, Inspector,’ she hissed, and withdrew her hand.

‘So you saw nothing on your shift outside Hickle’s flat?’ Pendragon said as he and Turner jumped into the car.

‘No, nothing. Vickers rocked up about midnight. About an hour later we got the call to come here. I phoned
Vickers on my way to the warehouse. He reckoned no one had left Hickle’s building.’

Pendragon negotiated the narrow road past the industrial units and out onto the main street. ‘Hickle could have slipped out,’ he said.

‘It’s possible I suppose, but not likely.’

‘Well, then, if Hickle is involved he must have an accomplice.’

‘Unless the guy is completely innocent, guv,’ Turner said.

To Mrs Sonia Thomson
17 October 1888

‘So it was you!’ Archibald exclaimed, his face pale as winter snow.

‘It very much looks like it, old fellow,’ I replied, throwing the bag containing my materials on to the bed.

‘You killed those women.’ He stared at me like a wax figure, so shocked, his eyes expressed no emotion. Just the corner of his mouth twitched. A nervous tic, I assumed. I had never seen Archibald nervous or even worried, not even during those dramatic times in the opium dens. He was always level-headed, self-confident.

‘So now you know, Archibald,’ I said quietly; and suddenly, he was rushing towards me, his fists balled.

As you know, he was a chunky fellow and strong. But he was at least fifteen years my senior and all that good living was hardly to his advantage. He threw a punch that went wildly awry. I extended my foot and he tripped, landing heavily on the floor close to the dining table where I had recently written
my letters and planned my masterpiece. In an instant, I was on him. One hard punch to the back of his neck and Archibald was out cold.

I laid him on the bed flat on his back and looked down at his prone form. As I turned away the latest painting caught my eye. It sat there on the easel, untouched by our brief struggle. I approached and studied it carefully. It was a fine piece, and if I had decided to complete it, it would have merited every ounce of praise it would doubtless have received. But it was not to be. Looking down, I found my painting materials: a collection of jars with brushes poised at different angles, a tray of paints and a large bottle of thinner. Picking up the bottle, I opened the top, breathed in the rich odour and then poured the flammable liquid liberally around the room. From my coat pocket I extracted a box of matches and struck one, watching the flame grow and shimmer before my eyes.

The match landed on the carpet a few feet across the room and the thinning fluid caught immediately. Striding towards the bed, I pulled Archibald up and propped him over my left shoulder. On the way towards the door, I grabbed my bag of knives and implements and dashed for the stairs just as the fire started to take hold.

I had organised several escape routes and hideouts. After all, one of the most important aspects of any great creation is planning, and this could never be more true than of the form of art I have mastered.

It was an easy matter to get Archibald out of the building and along the street. In my adopted neighbourhood, semi-conscious drunks were more the norm than sober gentlemen. A quick turn into a nearby alley when no one was looking and Archibald and I were soon in the shadows at the rear of one of the tall buildings that fronted Whitechapel Road. I heard a couple of rats dash away from a pile of rubbish. Resting Archibald in a sitting position with his back to the brick wall of the building, I kicked away the nearby detritus until I could see the filthy stones beneath. I felt around in the dark. My fingers alighted on the metal ring in a drain cover. Pulling on it, I lifted the cover and the stench of the sewer below burst out into the narrow alley. I resisted the urge to vomit and turned away for a moment. I had a small lantern hidden beneath a pair of empty and rusted metal barrels close to the wall. I pulled it out, opened the window and lit the wick with a match. Returning to the drain, I yanked Archibald over to me by the feet.

Lowering myself into the hole via a short metal ladder, I plucked up my bag and dropped it inside before clambering after it with the lantern held aloft. I managed to reach the floor of the sewer only a few feet below the surface. I could not stand up straight, but I just managed to lever Archibald’s legs into the hole and let him slither into the sewer on top of me, breaking his fall as best I could with my arms and shoulders. He fell face first into the mess at the bottom of the tunnel and began to come round.

Before he could wake up properly, I grabbed his arms, yanked his wrists behind him and bound them with a length of rope I had taken the precaution of keeping in my bag. Then I slapped him to wake him up a little.