The Art of Murder (7 page)

‘Did you see anyone else in the vicinity?’

‘No, no one at all.’

‘Was that from the moment you ran into the churchyard? Think about it carefully, Sally.’

She shook her head. ‘No one. There were people out on the street, around Stepney Way.’ And she inclined her head in the direction of the main road. ‘A couple of cars, but I can’t remember anything about them.’

‘No, that’s okay.’

‘But inside the churchyard, no. After I called the police, I went and sat on the bench over there. I couldn’t see the … er … tree from there. I must have been in a state of shock because the next thing I knew two policemen were standing beside the bench.’

‘All right, thanks, Ms Burnside,’ Pendragon said, getting up and flicking a glance at Sergeant Mackleby, who resumed her place on the tailgate.

Pendragon and Turner walked back towards the tree. A screen was being erected and they could see Inspector Grant and two constables moving in on the rubbernecks.

Beneath the tree, Jones was staring up at the hideous corpse and shaking his head. ‘Now I’ve seen it all, Pendragon,’ he said, without taking his eyes from the object above his head. ‘God only knows what you expect me to do with this.’ Then he glanced round. ‘You know that song, “Strange Fruit?”’

The chief inspector gazed into the branches. ‘Yes, of course I do, Jones. Billie Holiday, based on a poem
by Abel Meeropol, about the lynching of two black men by the Klu Klux Klan.’

Jones was nodding sagely. ‘Looks like someone’s taken the idea a few steps further,’ he said, his tone unusually serious.

The digital clock on the wall flicked forward from 15.59 to 16.00 as Jack Pendragon walked into the Briefing Room of Brick Lane Police Station. The whole team had gathered there. Superintendent Jill Hughes sat in a chair at the front. Roz Mackleby and Rob Grant were at desks to either side of the room. Inspector Ken Towers sat a little behind Hughes, perched on the corner of Mackleby’s desk. The three male sergeants, Turner, Jimmy Thatcher and Terry Vickers, stood in a ragged line, leaning against the back wall. Pendragon walked along the narrow space between the desks, edging past Towers and Hughes, and stopped in front of a smart board. A row of photographs had been stuck on to it. The first showed the body of Kingsley Berrick against the backdrop of a brightly coloured canvas. Beside this were a series of photographs of the body found that morning, hanging in the tree in the grounds of St Dunstan’s Church. Under the picture of Berrick’s corpse was a colour 10″ × 8″ portrait of the victim provided by the local newspaper, which had run a profile of the gallery owner two years before.

‘You’re all aware of the basic facts of the case,’ Pendragon began without preamble. ‘Two bodies in two days. The first found at Berrick and Price Gallery in
Durrell Place. The vic was Kingsley Berrick, one of the owners of the gallery and a well-known figure in the London art world. He was killed by means of a needle plunged into his brain.’ Pendragon picked up a remote from a tray at the front of the smart board and clicked it. A picture from the Milward Street Path Lab appeared, a close-up of the back of Berrick’s neck, the red puncture wound clearly visible. ‘However, the killer did not stop there.’ Pendragon clicked again, and a six-foot-square picture of Berrick propped up in the gallery appeared. There was a moment’s preternatural quiet in the room. They had all seen this image before, but it still produced a potent effect.

‘Second murder was discovered this morning.’ Pendragon clicked the remote again and the image of the completely flattened body draped over the branch of a tree lit up the screen. A few clicks of the remote showed the hideous thing from half a dozen different angles. ‘Absolutely no idea of the cause of death, of course, nor the identity of the victim. Forensics will be working around the clock.’

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Terry Vickers broke the silence. He had his arms folded across his chest and was staring fixedly at the smart board with his head tilted slightly to one side. ‘I just don’t get how these murders could ’ave been done, guv. I ain’t seen nothing like it.’

‘I agree, Sergeant. It beggars belief.’

‘Yes, but these murders
have
been committed, haven’t they?’ Superintendent Hughes said matter-of-factly. ‘So what has Jones found? And Forensics?’

Pendragon turned back to the board. ‘Let’s consider the Berrick murder first.’ A morgue picture of the gallery owner’s body appeared. ‘The opening in his face was definitely made post-mortem. Jones believes it was done with some sort of mechanical punch or press.’

‘Nice,’ Towers muttered.

‘Dr Newman has confirmed that the man was murdered at least an hour before he was placed in the tableau. She’s found no useful prints and suspects the murderer wore protective clothing.’

‘A thorough job,’ Hughes commented, sitting up in her chair and leaning forward. ‘Do Forensics have any idea if we’re dealing with a single murderer?’

‘Can’t say for sure,’ Pendragon replied. ‘But Dr Newman found these.’ An image of the tyre track on the gallery floor replaced the morgue shot on the smart board. ‘I’d been wondering if there was more than one killer involved, but this suggests otherwise. Black tyre rubber from a wheelchair.’

‘So you’re suggesting that our killer dispatches Berrick with a needle in the neck. Smashes a six-inch-wide hole through his face and head, dresses him up and then transports the body to the gallery and across the room in a wheelchair before setting him up,’ Jimmy Thatcher declared. ‘A bit much, ain’t it, sir?’

‘Well, yes, it is, Sergeant,’ Pendragon retorted. ‘But you have before you the end result. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I would have thought it pretty far-fetched too.’

Hughes was staring at the smart board, rubbing her chin with the fingers of her right hand. ‘Okay, it’s a working theory, Pendragon,’ she said. ‘Until we have a better
suggestion, we’ll assume that’s what happened.’ She half turned in her chair. ‘What would you like to do next?’

‘First, check out CCTV footage from the neighbourhood. See if we can get a car reg, or anything else to give us a lead. It’s obvious the killer is using some specialist equipment. They must have a work space and access to equipment. It’ll be a slog but we have to follow any leads we can in that direction. Turner, what have you got so far from Jackson Price?’

Jez pushed himself off the wall and drew his notebook from the pocket of his jacket. ‘The guest list reads like a
Who’s Who
of the London Cool Brigade,’ he began. ‘Super models, rock stars. It was obviously a big do and our vic was extremely well connected. I spoke to Mr Price. He was helpful, but I can’t say I gleaned much from him. He gives the impression it was all happy chappies at the gallery. He and Berrick were apparently best buddies.’

‘Yeah … bet they were!’ Towers declared.

Thatcher and Vickers sniggered. Pendragon glared at them and they looked at the floor. ‘Go on, Turner.’

‘The evening went smoothly, apparently. Which I think is pretty bloody surprising considering all the towering egos gathered under one roof.’

‘What about the cab company?’ Pendragon turned to the others then to explain that Norman Hedridge claimed he had dropped Berrick at his flat and hadn’t gone in with him.

‘The company traced the driver for me. I spoke to him on the phone and he checks out Hedridge’s story. According to the log in his car, he dropped Berrick at his flat in Bexley Road, Bethnal Green, at one-seventeen a.m.
He then took Hedridge to an address in the Barbican. Hedridge paid the fare for both him and Berrick using a credit card. That’s logged at one-twenty-nine.

‘All right, I want you to keep working the angle. We know Berrick and our charming MEP Mr Hedridge were … intimate at one time. Pay Price another visit, probe a bit deeper.’

‘You think this has something to do with the gay scene, Pendragon?’ Hughes asked.

‘I think it’s a possibility.’

She nodded. ‘And what about the second murder? Anything yet?’

The image of the second victim returned to the screen. ‘The victim’s body has been completely flattened. Dr Jones has emailed over some preliminary data.’ Pendragon picked up a folder from the desk nearest the smart board and glanced at the first page. ‘Body is an oblong, 3.5 metres long by just under 2.25 metres at the widest point. It has been flattened to a surprisingly consistent thickness of between 2.3 and 2.4 centimetres. There are a few recognisable anatomical structures.’ He pointed to the image on the board. ‘A row of ribs here, a section of intestine there. And an eye … here. This murder would seem even harder to enact than the first. I’ve spent half the day trying to work out an MO. Then, just before coming in here I received two calls that helped answer a few questions.’ There was an expectant hush.

‘Dr Newman called first. Her team found some tracks near the tree and a mud trail that leads away around the graveyard and out across Stepney Green Park to a footpath. Unfortunately, the tracks have been chewed up,
so they don’t offer any detail. But then the second call came in. It was from the duty officer at Leytonstone Police Station. A member of the public phoned in to say they had some information about the incident at St Dunstan’s this morning.’

‘Information?’ Grant said.

‘The witness is a shift-worker. He claims he was walking by the graveyard at about five this morning when he saw someone using a cherry-picker. There was a tarpaulin screen obscuring half the tree. The witness assumed it was the council chopping down a dangerous branch … which I suppose is understandable after the weather we’ve been having. He thought no more about it until his wife told him something had happened in the church grounds. Reckoned someone had hanged himself.’

‘A cherry-picker?’ Sergeant Mackleby said. ‘So that’s where the tracks in the mud came from?’

Pendragon nodded and turned to Towers. ‘Inspector, I want you and Vickers to check out any CCTV footage you can find. There must be cameras on Stepney Way. Any images of that cherry-picker could be worth their weight in gold.’

Towers nodded.

‘Anything else from Forensics?’ Hughes asked.

‘Dr Newman has promised to rush through a DNA analysis. I’m hoping to hear from her within the hour,’ Pendragon replied. He flicked off the smart board and perched himself on a table to one side of the screen. Folding his arms, he said, ‘There’s obviously a very clear connection between the two murders.’

‘There is?’ said Sergeant Vickers from the back of the room.

‘Famous paintings,’ Superintendent Hughes said quietly.

Vickers turned to Thatcher next to him and shrugged.

‘The murder scenes are tableaux.’ Pendragon stared at the blank faces of the Vickers and Thatcher.

‘René Magritte?’ Turner said, whirling on his fellow sergeants. ‘Duh!’

Hughes caught Pendragon’s eye and he allowed himself the faintest of smiles.

‘The first murder scene was contrived to copy a famous painting,
The Son of Man
by the Belgium Surrealist René Magritte,’ Pendragon said. ‘It depicts a man in a black suit and bowler hat with an apple in place of his face. The second murder is another staged affair:
The Persistence of Memory
by Salvador Dali.’

‘Is that the one with the floppy clocks?’ Inspector Towers asked. ‘My sister had a poster of that on her bedroom wall years ago. I always hated it.’

‘It’s all pretty bloody weird, if you ask me,’ commented Sergeant Vickers, who had moved forward to sit on the edge of a desk across from Towers.

‘It is,’ Pendragon replied, looking around the room. ‘It’s bloody weird, but it’s real and the connection is irrefutable.’

‘So the murderer’s a nut?’ Rob Grant said.

‘Depends how you define “nut”, Inspector,’ Pendragon retorted, growing a little irritable. ‘The point is, the killer has a personal agenda. There’s absolutely no chance of a coincidence here. Killings like these are carefully planned
and meticulously staged. But, most importantly, they are statements. Our killer is not just disposing of people. He’s making a point, a very serious point, and if we’re to have any hope of catching him, we need to understand that point, PDQ.’

‘Before he strikes again,’ Hughes added, and an icy silence fell across the room once more.

Pendragon’s phone started ringing as he reached the door to his office.

He put the receiver to his ear and heard Dr Newman’s voice.

‘Chief Inspector, I have some news for you.’

‘Good news, I hope.’

‘I’ve got a DNA match for our second victim.’

Pendragon pulled over a pad from the top of a pile of paper at one side of his desk. ‘Fire away.’

‘A man named Noel Thursk. Had a record. Suspected of fraud five years ago. The case went to court. He was acquitted. Address recorded as number seventeen Trummety Street, Whitechapel.’

‘I’m most grateful,’ Pendragon replied. ‘Good work, Doctor.’

‘Glad to help.’

Pendragon was staring at the wall as Jez Turner tapped on the office door and popped his head into the room. The sergeant had to clear his throat before the DCI broke out of his reverie. Turner stepped in and threw himself into a chair facing the desk.

‘Forensics have a match on the DNA from the body in the churchyard,’ Pendragon told him.

‘Wow! That was quick.’

‘A man named Noel Thursk. Ring any bells?’

Turner was silent for a moment, looking vacantly at the mess on Pendragon’s desk. ‘It does actually,’ he said. ‘Can’t think, though … hang on.’ He came round the desk and started tapping at the computer keyboard. He soon had a list of names on the screen. ‘I emailed this to you earlier. It’s the guest list from the private view at Berrick’s gallery.’ Turner ran the cursor down the screen and stopped about three-quarters of the way through, over the name Noel Thursk.

‘Well, I never,’ Pendragon said. ‘Time we had Mr Jackson Price pay us a visit, don’t you think, Turner?’

Jackson Price sat stiff-backed in the chair in Interview Room 1, hands in his lap. ‘Look, Chief Inspector,’ he said earnestly, ‘I want to help you, I really do. I just don’t know how.’

‘Well, look at the facts, Mr Price. During the past thirty-six hours there have been two murders. Both victims were linked to you and the gallery. Both were at the event two nights ago. We need to establish any further links that we can. Did you know Noel Thursk well?’