Michael White - The Art of Murder

‘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.

‘Rene 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 Rene 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?’