The Borgia Ring (22 page)

‘Thank you,’ Pendragon said, and frowned at the phone for a moment, puzzled, before hanging up.

The team sat in a rough semi-circle, with Pendragon in a chair in front of the smart board at its focal point. ‘Would you like to go first, Rob?’ he said, turning to Inspector Grant who had Roz Mackleby sitting beside him.

Grant cleared his throat. ‘Can’t pretend we learned much, sir. We spent over an hour with Pam Ketteridge, and I can honestly say I left knowing nothing more than I did when we got there. I hate to agree with Sergeant Turner on anything,’ he added, glancing at Jez, ‘but he’s right. The bloody woman’s as nutty as squirrel shit.’

‘Sergeant, do you agree?’ Pendragon glanced at Roz Mackleby.

‘Well, the facts are these, sir. She was upstairs in bed when her husband was murdered. Her dabs are all over the kitchen, as you would expect. There’s no DNA evidence she killed Tony. No prints of hers on him. And, most importantly, no murder weapon. That said, she is the only suspect we have, and with a good motive – plainly an unhappy marriage.’

‘Yeah, but there’s also the religion crap,’ Vickers said.

‘We’ve already gone over this, Terry,’ Mackleby sighed. ‘It’s not against the law to fill your house with crucifixes.’

Vickers shook his head but said nothing in reply.

‘There is also the business with the skeleton,’ Ken Towers suggested.

‘What about it?’ growled Grant.

‘Maybe she got so upset by what Tony had done with the remains …’

‘Oh, rubbish,’ snapped Grant. ‘No, the only likely motive would have been if she had found out about her husband’s fancy woman. The slapper … what’s her name?’

‘Hannah James,’ Pendragon said quietly, staring into space. He turned to Mackleby. ‘Did you raise the subject of the girlfriend?’

‘I didn’t want to add to the poor woman’s misery. But Inspector Grant asked a few leading questions.’

Pendragon glanced at Grant.

‘I asked her if she suspected her husband of having an affair at any time.’

‘And how did she react?’

‘She laughed.’

‘Confident woman.’

‘Crazy, more like.’

‘Okay,’ Pendragon said. ‘We may have to call her in and probe a bit deeper. Maybe we’ll have to tell her about Hannah. See how she reacts. Ken, what’s the story with Bridgeport Construction?’

‘Not much, I’m afraid, sir. I interviewed Ketteridge’s boss and
his
boss. Both of them have alibis which I’ve checked out. They’re clear. The company has over three hundred employees, and of those twenty-eight are involved with the Frimley Way project in some capacity – building, management, admin. The company has its own surveyors, structural engineers, and guys who liaise with the council over building regs and approvals. Looks like the only outside firms they employ are architects.’

‘Which brings us to Rainer and Partner. But they had nothing directly to do with Karim or Ketteridge except that their company was designing the building due to go up at Frimley Way,’ Pendragon said. He turned to Vickers and Thatcher, sitting together at one of the tables in the middle of
the semi-circle. ‘Please tell me you have something positive to report?’

‘’Fraid not, guv,’ Sergeant Thatcher replied. ‘Absolutely no trace of the ring.’

Pendragon folded his arms across his chest and looked down at the floor. ‘Okay, get home,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Maybe we should all sleep on it.’

Leaving the briefing room last, Pendragon turned into the corridor leading to reception and the main doors. He saw Superintendent Hughes shaking hands with a tall man in top brass uniform. Pendragon immediately recognised him as the divisional head, Commander Francis Ferguson. The Super turned, head down, and walked towards Pendragon, only glancing up at him when she was a few paces away. ‘Ah, just the person I wanted to see,’ she said, and indicated her office.

She sashayed around her pristine desk and lowered herself into her chair. Without being asked, Pendragon took the chair on the other side of the desk. He suddenly felt dog-tired.

‘That was the Commander,’ she said unnecessarily.

‘I noticed.’

‘I’m in line for promotion. He just came by to give me some advance warning.’

‘Congratulations,’ Pendragon replied with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

‘Thank you. Just one problem, Jack. The Commander’s getting a bit antsy about what the media have dubbed “The Mile End Murders”. If you don’t get this case solved pronto, I can say
au revoir
to that Chief Super’s job. And I
really
don’t want to do that … Jack.’

‘I’m doing my best. We all are.’

‘So, what’s happening?’

He sighed and ran his fingers over his forehead. ‘It seems clear the three murders are connected. The skeleton is the common link between them, but we don’t have any idea exactly how it’s involved. Middleton and Ketteridge were definitely murdered by the same person, but they have been extremely professional. Forensics have almost nothing to go on. There’s no murder weapon, no prints, no DNA.’

Hughes sat with her fingers pressed against her chin. ‘No one in the frame?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘What about Pam Ketteridge?’

‘You seem to be fixated on the woman,’ Pendragon replied coldly. ‘She’s a slightly demented housewife. I don’t really think she could have battered Amal Karim to death.’

‘But she could have poisoned the latest victims. She was right there at the scene for the murder of Tony Ketteridge. No alibi. And if she knew about her husband’s affair with the prostitute, she would have a motive.’

‘Yes, ma’am, but there’s absolutely no evidence. And what about Karim? There has to be a link between the three murders …’

There was a knock at the door then and a young constable appeared in the doorway. ‘Sorry, ma’am. I saw DCI Pendragon come in just now. There’s a fax for him, marked urgent.’ He took a few paces into the room and handed two sheets of fax paper to the DCI.

‘What is it?’ Hughes asked Pendragon as the constable closed the door.

‘The tox report for Ketteridge. An almost exact copy of the one for Middleton.’ He handed it to her.

‘Same four components: arsenic, cantharidin, abric acid, and oleander,’ she said. ‘Have you found out anything more about them?’

‘That’s one area that has opened up. At least a little. Dr Jones tells me cantharidin can be found easily on the internet even though it is legislated against. This afternoon I had a breakthrough with the arsenic. A one-hundred-gram bottle of arsenic trioxide was taken from a boutique glass-maker less than a mile from here. Enough poison to kill hundreds.’

‘It was never reported?’

‘Yes, to the local station, Limehouse.’

‘Could the thief be an employee? The owner?’

‘It’s possible, although the owner himself was out of the country when the theft happened. Turner’s checking it out. There was a bit of a cover-up at the glass foundry. The owner’s pretty obnoxious and not very popular with the staff. They closed ranks, said nothing about the break-in to protect the son of the receptionist, a young lad who works in the storeroom.’

‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’

‘Not really. If you’d met the characters involved, you’d see it makes perfect sense. The owner, Gregson, thinks he’s really something. The kid who would have been blamed, and no doubt sacked, is … vulnerable.’

‘Vulnerable?’

‘Mildly autistic, I think. Has an extremely bad stutter.’ As the words left Pendragon’s lips, he thought of his own son, Simon. How his incredible mathematical talents were counterbalanced by an inability to communicate easily with people.

‘All right. It may be worth Turner looking a little deeper into this glass company. Then we’re down to the other two chemicals in the poison, oleander and abric acid. You said in your report that these both came from exotic plants. You’ve obviously checked Kew?’

‘After we learned what killed Middleton. Turner’s been on
to the people there – nothing. He’s also called Chelsea Physic Garden, and our local botanic garden, Queen’s Park. They all say nothing like that has gone missing. Although, to be honest, ma’am, it doesn’t help us much. It wouldn’t be too hard for someone to slip in and steal a few leaves or seeds. Jones tells me the poison needs only tiny amounts of those substances.’

‘And you’ve been to the Plant Biology Department at Queen Mary, of course?’

Pendragon gave her a puzzled look.

‘You haven’t?’

‘I wasn’t aware …’

‘Well, now you are, Inspector,’ Hughes retorted coolly. Pendragon got up to go. As he reached the door, the Super announced: ‘You have forty-eight hours to get a result, DCI Pendragon. Then I’m taking you off the case.’

Jack Pendragon felt numb as he left the station and began the short drive to his flat off Stepney Way. What bad luck, he mused, to be in a new job less than a week and be slapped with such a complex and intractable case. It started to rain as he parked. In the time it took for him to run from the car to the front door of the house, it had really begun to pelt down. He was about to take the stairs when he thought better of it.

‘Well, hello, stranger,’ Sue Latimer said, opening her door wide and beckoning him in.

‘I’m sorry I’ve been so elusive,’ he replied. ‘It’s been … well …’

She waved her hand. ‘Don’t worry. You’re here now. Fancy a glass of wine?’

‘I’d love one.’

He walked inside her flat, peeling off his wet jacket and sat down on the sofa. Sue came over and handed him a glass of red.

‘Cheers,’ he said.

‘So, how’s it going?’

Pendragon sighed. ‘Not great, actually. Sue, the other evening, you were telling me about something you called transference. The idea that the murderer needs the ring. But then I had to dash off.’

‘Another murder?’

‘Yes. The MO was identical. But forensics can find nothing.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘You’re asking that as if you already know the answer.’

‘Trust me … I’m a psychologist.’

Pendragon laughed and took a sip of wine. Then he said, ‘Sue, I have two requests.’

‘Oh?’

‘Would you be willing to spare half an hour to come into the station to talk to the team – tell us your ideas about transference? That way, I can get the all-clear to let you have access to information about the investigation that lies outside the public domain – you’ll have an official role.’

She looked surprised. ‘Well, okay. It’s not really my area of expertise, but …’

‘You sound to me like you know what you’re talking about. Besides, I thought I had to trust you.’

‘
Touché
. Okay, I’ll do whatever I can to help. And the second thing?’

‘Will you have dinner with me on Saturday night?’

Stepney, Thursday 9 June, 9.05 p.m.

Max Rainer closed the document he had been working on and logged out of the network. Standing up from his desk, he paced to the other side of the office where a tan leather four-seater sofa stood against the wall. Picking up his laptop from the sofa, he slipped it into a sleek, neoprene pouch and zipped it up. Taking one final glance around the office, he flicked off the lights then closed and locked the door.

It was silent in the reception area. Along the corridor, three other smaller offices stood in darkness. The reception desk was empty. In the pale light, the words ‘Rainer and Partner’ could be seen on the wall behind the counter. Each letter was a foot tall and made from artfully distressed metal streaked randomly in fifty shades of iron oxide.

The terrazzo floor echoed to the click of his heels as Rainer crossed reception and passed through a pair of large smoked-glass doors. Opposite the dimly lit lobby, a single flight of stairs led to the ground floor. He turned to lock the doors and felt a sharp pain at the base of his skull. The pain seemed to shimmer over the top of his head and down his spine. He was vaguely aware of a shape behind him, reflected in the glass door. He stumbled forward. Smashed his head hard against the doors and collapsed to the floor.

Stepney, Friday 10 June, 8.45 a.m.

‘Oh, Christ,’ Hannah James exclaimed. ‘What the fuck do you want?’

Jez Turner lowered his police ID. ‘Just a quick chat, Hannah.’

‘You do ’ave a warrant, I take it?’

‘What for? I said a chat. Of course, if you’d prefer to come down to the station …’

‘Okay, okay. Fuck! We are a little early bird, ain’t we? Bet you’re all nicely tucked up in bed by nine with a glass of milk.’

‘Yeah, something like that.’ Turner grinned. ‘So, you going to let me in or do you want to chat here on the doorstep?’

Number sixteen Mitchell Lane was a crumbling, detached Victorian building that had been converted into half a dozen tatty flats. Hannah James’s was at the back of the house, on the ground floor. It was just a clutch of rooms off a dark hallway. She led Sergeant Turner through to the lounge. He caught a glimpse of a tiny kitchen, sink filled with dirty plates and saucepans, bin overflowing with McDonald’s cartons and Coke bottles. Next to that, the door to the bedroom stood open. A mirror hung over one end of the bed; a bedside table had a lamp with a red shade. One wall was plastered with pictures from hard-core porn mags, and on a
rail hung a collection of frilly translucent garments in red and black. The air was heavy with the stink of cigarettes and bodily fluids. Hannah kicked shut the door as she passed.

The lounge had an old TV in one corner. On the far wall there was a fireplace boarded up with slats of pine. A two-bar electric heater had been built into the panels, slightly off-centre, the thin plywood cut ineptly around it. On the mantelpiece stood a collection of cheap plaster animals: unicorns, puppies, an Ewok from
Star Wars
, and a set of Russian dolls descending in size from left to right. Above the mantelpiece hung a painting of a brown-skinned woman, naked but for skimpy leopardskin bikini bottoms. She lay along a branch, exotic ferns brushing her skin. She had huge brown eyes and ridiculously long lashes. It was the sort of painting you could pick up for two quid at the weekend market on Mile End Road, Jez thought, and about on a par with the photo of the tennis player scratching her arse. Surveying the room, he wondered what Hannah would have thought of Sophie Templer’s place, only a couple of miles away but light years distant in every other respect.

Hannah threw herself into an old armchair with stuffing spilling from a gash along the top of one of the armrests. ‘You’re here because of Tony, of course.’ Hannah lit a cigarette and blew a plume of smoke into the stuffy room.

‘Yes.’

‘Why do you think I can help?’

‘Because you knew him well. You had been “seeing each other” for a something like a year, he told us.’

‘Why do you say it like that?’ Hannah asked, fixing Jez with pale blue eyes.

‘Like what?’ he said.

‘With such contempt. I really liked Tony. He was a fuckin’ idiot, of course. Christ knows what he was doing here twice
a week. But then I’ve known a few like him, but not so long-lasting … if you see what I mean.’

For the first time, the sergeant studied her properly. She was twenty-three, maybe twenty-four, he thought, and pale to the point of looking ill. Her black hair had little sheen to it, and in the harsh morning light, with no make-up on, she looked really rough. Her skin was greasy from the fast food, Coke and fags, not to mention other stuff she was probably smoking or injecting. She was wearing a hideous beige needlecord dressing gown, frayed at the sleeves and stained. Not at all her usual attire when men came a-calling, he speculated.

‘Do you know if Tony was into anything he shouldn’t have been into?’

‘What? Apart from me, you mean …
Sergeant
?’

Turner could tell there was pain behind her bravura. Hannah was genuinely cut up by what had happened to Tony, but she couldn’t admit it. ‘He was poisoned with arsenic,’ the sergeant said. ‘Did you know that?’

She said nothing, but held his gaze.

‘A very painful death, apparently.’

‘You fucker!’ Hannah exclaimed, lighting another cigarette from the dying embers of the last one. ‘As I said, I
really
liked Tony. Yes, he was a fat, middle-aged dreamer, but he loved me. At least, he told me he did. He certainly didn’t love that fuckin’ lump of lard!’

‘Pam Ketteridge?’

‘Who else? The lovely Pam. No clit apparently. At least that’s what Tony told me.’

Turner was shaking his head and grinning. ‘So,’ he said after a moment, ‘did he promise to take you away from all this?’

‘Of course,’ Hannah said, her voice rising angrily. ‘At least twice a night. As I said, a fuckin’ idiot.’

‘Hannah,’ Jez said, and waited for her to stop staring at the ceiling and meet his eye, ‘you could help us find Tony’s killer, you know?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. We think he was involved in the other murders.’

‘Tony was a teddy bear, Sergeant Turner. He couldn’t have killed anyone.’

‘I’m not saying he did. I said, involved. That CCTV footage of him close to the time Amal Karim was killed … it seems a bit of a coincidence he was coming to see you then.’

‘Why? Do you think he could just pop out for a quickie straight after his fish and chips?’

‘Two in the morning, though. It’s an odd time, Hannah.’

‘Look, I don’t know what you’re driving at. Whatever happened last Friday, it won’t tell you who killed Tony, will it?’

‘It might.’

She stared at him for several seconds then started to consider the ceiling again. A tear ran down her cheek and dripped on to the floor. She wiped it away and looked at him. ‘He wasn’t here. I made it up. Tony begged me to. Said it was life or death.’ She laughed bitterly then and drew deeply on her cigarette.

‘Did he say what “life and death” meant?’

‘No.’

‘Did he say where he really was?’

‘NO!’ Hannah snubbed out her cigarette and stood up. The dressing gown fell open to reveal a long cotton night-dress covered with kittens and baby rabbits. She quickly pulled the robe back into place and tied the belt. ‘I want you to go now,’ she said, her voice suddenly brittle. At the door, she added, ‘I s’pose you’ll be doing me for falsifying my
statement, wasting police time, the whole fuckin’ works, right?’

Jez gave her a compassionate look. ‘Right now, we have bigger fish to fry, Hannah. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.’