The Art of Murder (6 page)

I spent an inordinate amount of time alone. My parents did not like me mixing with the town children, and when I was not at my dame school I would sit in my room, staring out of the window, or walk through the fields and woods near the house. I was particularly fond of sitting by the river not far from the end of our huge, rambling garden. On my walks, I only rarely saw anyone else, and if I did encounter a group of children from school, they always ignored me.

I was eleven when I committed my first truly evil act. Up to that time I had been content messing around with small rodents and native reptiles. I liked to kill the creatures slowly, inventing new and evermore imaginative ways to do so. My favourite had been the time I crucified a rat which I caught under the bridge. I had devised a special trap which I laid with great care. The creature struggled to free itself from a net I had hooked up that was triggered to fall when the rat entered a small hole in the wall close to the waterline. Taking care to avoid the beast’s sharp teeth, I managed to slip a cord around its neck. Later I ripped out its teeth using a pair of pliers I had
stolen from my father’s kit. The cross I had already prepared. I had even written a tiny INRI on a piece of wood tacked to the top of it.

But I did not consider killing animals, in whatever fashion, as actually being evil. That description I reserve for what happened one stiflingly hot day in August 1878. I remember it very clearly. It was the eleventh day of the month, and a day after my eleventh birthday. I had been down by the river. I was allowed to walk around the fields and copses far more freely now. I still rarely met another soul and still never talked to anyone, but I did have the sense of being allowed a little more independence by my godly parents.

On this particular day, I had been playing with a toy yacht I had been given for my birthday. I was trailing it through the current, secured to a long length of string. The boat had a single white sail that caught the breeze and propelled it through the murky brown water.

I was startled by the boy’s sudden appearance at my shoulder. The first I heard of him was his voice.

‘Lovely boat,’ he said.

I whirled round, eyes wide with surprise, and he jumped back, equally startled by my reaction. I looked him up and down. He was tall – a head above me at least. I guessed he was about fourteen. He wore his sandy hair long, flopping into his eyes. He had a narrow face, almost ferret-like, and looked undernourished. He was one of the wretches from
the poor end of town, I surmised, no doubt a recipient of my darling mother’s charity.

I turned back to the water and concentrated on guiding the boat to the rushes at the bank side.

‘Can I’ave a go?’ the boy asked.

I ignored him.

‘Can I?’ he repeated, and stepped forward, tapping me on the shoulder.

I caught his ripe smell, a blend of sweat and soot, and felt a ripple of anger and disgust pass through me. I have always hated anyone touching me.

I turned to him and forced a weak smile. Then – I don’t know why I did this – I handed him the end of the string. He clasped it in filthy fingers and beamed at me. ‘Thanks.’

‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.

‘Fred.’

‘Well, Fred, you know what to do?’

‘’Course. Fink I’m stupid? Nuffin to it. Just ’old the string and let the current carry it.’ He took a couple of steps to the river’s edge and we watched as the little yacht glided through the water. There was a narrow track beside the river and we trotted along it as the boat sailed on.

After a few minutes Fred seemed to have had enough. He stopped and leaned forward, taking deep breaths. He ran his free hand over his forehead and I could see he was sweating profusely. ‘Blimey, it’s ’ot,’ he said, and lowered himself to the ground close to the track. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small glass bottle and took a long draught from it.

I sat down beside him and he handed me the bottle. ‘Blackberry juice. Made it meself earlier.’

I shook my head. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He took another mouthful and returned the bottle to his pocket. ‘So where you from then?’ he asked, turning back to me and squinting against the ferocious afternoon sunlight.

‘I live up there,’ I replied, and pointed back towards Fellwick Manor. We could just see the dark outline of the house.

‘What? That bloody big place?’

‘Yes.’

‘Blimey, your parents must be fucking rich.’

I had never heard that word before. Had no idea what ‘fucking’ meant. I nodded. ‘I suppose they are.’

‘I’m just up ’ere for the day. From ’ackney. You know it?’

I nodded.

‘Bloody ’orrible place. I love it ’ere, though.’

I looked away across the water. When I turned back, the boy had stood up and was running beside the river close to the bridge, clutching my boat to his chest.

‘Don’t launch it there!’ I called. ‘The current will take it under the bridge.’

‘Let’s go under with it,’ he shouted back, still running.

‘No, the rocks are too slippery. Keep the boat out this side. Take it over there.’ I pointed towards the riverbank further along to our right.

Fred ignored me. Suddenly putting on a spurt, he leaped off the track and on to the patch of shingle leading under the bridge. A second or two later he had launched the boat. The current snatched it quickly and it was soon halfway across the river.

‘Stop!’ I shouted. ‘It’s too dangerous …’ I saw the boy disappear into the darkness under the bridge and jumped down after him. I could feel fury at his selfishness mounting within me. I felt such intense hatred it drove me on. I thought nothing of the slippery stones underfoot.

My eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. Here every sound was amplified, echoing around under the stone arch of the bridge. The place was rank with rotting vegetation and mould. ‘Stop!’ I shouted again, and my voice came echoing back to me. ‘Come back.’

Then I heard a shrill cry, the sound of someone struggling to retain their balance … a loud splash.

I ran towards the sound and immediately saw the boy in the water. The river was deep here where the pillars had been excavated decades before. Fred’s face was caught in a strip of light shining through the gloom between two metal struts close to the far side of the bridge. His eyes were wide with panic and he was floundering around in the water. The toy yacht appeared close to his shoulder and the string he had been holding a few seconds earlier was floating in the water, close to the edge of the rocks. I inched my way forward, taking great care with my
footing, grasped the end of the string and pulled my yacht ashore.

‘Help!’ the boy screamed. I looked back and saw him struggling to keep his head above water. For a second he disappeared, then broke back through the surface and took a gulp of air. ‘I can’t … can’t swim.’

I placed the boat carefully on one of the rocks and took two paces towards the water. A line of three black boulders ran from the edge of the shingle into the water. They were set about two feet apart. I knew I could clamber across them, I had done it before.

Fred was screaming now, overwhelmed with panic. His yells echoed around the stonework. I glanced over and saw him bobbing about still; he was kicking and moving his arms, trying to tread water, but he was tiring fast.

I reached the third stone. It was just a few feet away from the boy. I lowered myself into a crouch and leaned forward. I could see Fred’s face more clearly now. His matted hair hung over his eyes. He was shaking his head and breathing fast. Then he saw me and held one hand above the water. I looked at his face and then at his hand. He seemed to realise my intent. For a second, there was answering viciousness in his eyes and his cheeks were sucked in, ready to denounce me. Then his expression changed. He fixed me with a look of despair … imploring, pleading.

I watched, not moving a muscle. I was transfixed, more excited than I had ever been in my life before.
I could have reached out my hand and grabbed him, but I chose not to. I watched as the last vestige of strength left him and he slipped under the surface of the water.

Stepney, Thursday 22 January, 7.38 a.m.

Pendragon and Turner drew to a halt on Stepney High Street. The DCI flicked on the hazards, jumped out and led the way along the path as the sun started to come up. It cast a fiery red glaze over the gravestones. Shards of light were reflected in the east-facing stained-glass windows of St Dunstan’s. As they rounded the side of the church they saw two men at the foot of an oak tree. Looking up, they could see the flat grey object draped over one of its lower branches.

‘Fuck me!’ Turner said under his breath as they approached. ‘It’s not until you actually see it, you can believe it.’

Pendragon averted his eyes from the monstrous thing in the tree and walked on, head down. Inspector Ken Towers was positioning a ladder under the tree, but it was proving difficult because the ground there was uneven. Beside him stood a man in a long black robe and clerical collar. He was in his early sixties, Pendragon guessed. He had a lined face and neatly cut white hair; bushy eyebrows, grey with a few flecks of black remaining. The DCI and Turner stopped beside the others, and for a few
moments Pendragon silently studied the flattened shape hanging above them.

‘Sir, this is the vicar … Reverend Partridge,’ Towers said, nodding towards the other man.

Pendragon broke away from the weirdly fascinating sight and shook the cleric’s hand.

‘I don’t understand this,’ Partridge said, his face scrunched up like a cabbage patch doll.

‘No,’ Pendragon said soothingly and looked away for a second. ‘Towers, who found the body?’

‘A woman out jogging.’ The inspector pointed to his left. An ambulance had pulled on to the path near the edge of the graveyard. Two women sat on its tailgate. One of them was a tall blonde, wearing knee-length Lycra pants and trainers, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was sipping from a white porcelain mug, a blanket wrapped about her shoulders, the corners hanging loosely over her front. Sergeant Roz Mackleby sat next to her, speaking softly.

Pendragon turned back to the scene under the tree. ‘What exactly are you doing, Towers?’

‘I brought out the ladder, Chief Inspector,’ Reverend Partridge interrupted. ‘I thought the poor soul should be brought down.’

Pendragon placed a hand on the cleric’s upper arm ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Reverend, but the Police Pathologist will be here soon. We should let him deal with it.’ And he encouraged Reverend Partridge to turn away.

‘Quite right. I understand,’ the vicar replied woodenly as Pendragon walked across the grass, still with his hand on the older man’s shoulder. The vicar was clearly in shock. ‘I’ll, em … I’ll be in the vestry. Don’t hesitate …’

‘Thank you,’ Pendragon said, and watched the man walk slowly towards the sanctuary of his church.

A small crowd had gathered at the other side of the railings to the churchyard, twenty yards away from the crime-scene. As Pendragon watched them, a patrol car pulled up next to the ambulance, and behind that came a grey four-wheel drive with Dr Jones at the wheel.

Pendragon called Turner over and they strode across the grass towards the new arrivals. The DCI waved to Jones as the pathologist clambered from his car and started to make his way between a couple of gravestones towards the tree. Pendragon and Turner waited for two uniformed officers to emerge from the back of the squad car and for Inspector Grant to come round from the driver’s side. ‘You two, get that crowd cleared,’ the DCI told the uniforms, and indicated the gathering with a brief inclination of the head. ‘Grant, I want this place sealed off. I want a screen around that tree. I don’t want anyone without a valid reason for being there within a hundred yards of it. Turner, you come with me.’

They headed towards the ambulance. Sergeant Mackleby looked up as they approached and hopped down from the tailgate, her back straight.

‘Relax, Sergeant,’ Pendragon told her, and looked down at the young woman nursing her drink. She was staring at the ground. He glanced at Roz Mackleby, who raised her eyebrows. ‘Sally Burnside,’ she said quietly. ‘Found the … er … body on her morning run.’

Pendragon sat down beside the young woman. ‘Ms Burnside,’ he said.

‘Sally,’ the woman replied, looking up suddenly. She
brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face and took a deep breath. ‘I’m okay now.’

‘Look, I think anyone would …’

‘No, really, I’m good.’

Pendragon paused for a beat and looked up at Turner who had his notebook out. ‘I’m DCI Jack Pendragon. I’m in charge of this case. This is Sergeant Turner.’

The woman glanced briefly at Jez and took another sip of her drink.

‘Do you feel up to re-telling us what happened?’

‘I told you, Chief Inspector, I’m fine.’ Then she burst into tears.

The police officers were silent, letting the young woman cry it out. After a few moments, Roz Mackleby leaned in with a tissue. Sally Burnside took it and blew her nose. ‘I’m sorry …’ she began.

‘There’s absolutely no need to apologise,’ Pendragon said, and waited for her to gather her thoughts.

‘I was on my usual morning run. I almost always take the path through the churchyard.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Just before seven. I was a bit late this morning. I came round from there.’ She pointed back along the path to where it curved close to one corner of the church. ‘I saw this odd thing hanging in the tree. I couldn’t make it out. As I came closer, I still had no idea what it was. It looked like a tarpaulin to me.’ She paused for a second and took another couple of deep breaths. ‘Then I realised what it was.’

‘And you called 999 straight away?’

‘Yes, I had my mobile.’

‘The call was logged at four minutes past seven, sir,’ Turner commented.