Michael White - The Art of Murder

Pendragon recalled what he knew of Francis Arcade from the record. He had been reported for two relatively minor offences, disorderly conduct and petty theft. No charges had been brought on either count. He had studied at St Martin’s and had once been considered a promising young artist. There had even been an article about him in Paint , which had trumpeted that Arcade was the young artist to keep an eye on. Then it had all gone wrong. He had been kicked out of college, a remarkable feat in itself. Officially it had been because he had slandered the school in an interview in the Big Issue , but Arcade had claimed he had been victimised and that they had used the interview as an excuse to get rid of him. Whatever the truth, it marked the start of a rapid slide in his fortunes. He was soon ostracised by the painting fraternity, and his few friends deserted him. He had taken to attacking the London art world at every opportunity, but each attempt to deride or upset those who pulled the strings had backfired, and now he was perceived by most people in the scene as an object of ridicule.

‘I take it this is about the stiffs?’

‘If by that you mean the two men whose deaths we are investigating, then, yes.’

‘That’s cool. I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know about the fuckers. I hated the air they breathed. Very good riddance, as far as I’m concerned.’

‘That seems a strange thing to say at this juncture, Mr Arcade.’

The young man shrugged. ‘Innocent until proven guilty, I was always told. Has that changed suddenly?’

Pendragon stared at him. ‘Can you account for your movements early on Wednesday morning?’

‘Yes, I can actually. I was at the Lemon.’

‘The Lemon?’

‘A club, sir,’ Turner said.

Pendragon screwed up his mouth and nodded. ‘And what time did you leave … the Lemon?’

‘About four, I think. You could ask them at the door. They saw me arrive about midnight. There were quite a few people at the club who could vouch for me. I was on the floor the whole time. Didn’t stop … except to take a piss a couple of times.’

‘What about early yesterday morning?’

‘Was that when my dear departed friend Noel Thursk died? I thought he hung himself.’

‘Just answer the question, please.’

‘Am I a suspect suddenly?’

‘You’re helping with our enquiries, Mr Arcade. If you would prefer to come down to the station, we have nice warm interview rooms there.’

Arcade bit on a dirty fingernail. ‘I was at the Lemon then too.’

‘Two nights in a row?’

‘I’ve been in a dancey mood.’

Pendragon looked around the room before staring hard at Arcade. ‘You knew Kingsley Berrick and Noel Thursk well?’

‘Better than I would have liked. Berrick was a breadhead, nothing more. He had no real interest in art. When he looked at a painting or a sculpture, he saw pound signs. And Thursk? A seedy little charlatan. All he was interested in was digging the dirt on the people around him. He was a crap artist and a crap writer. No great loss, really,’ Arcade concluded, screwing up his face in a mock smile.

‘I assume you blame these two men for your recent problems,’ Pendragon replied.

Arcade’s smile dissolved, to be replaced by a stare as black as one of his new canvases. ‘And what would those “problems” be, Chief Inspector?’

Pendragon felt Turner staring sidelong at him from where he stood a few feet to his left. Arcade gave a short laugh. ‘You don’t really understand anything, do you?’ he said. ‘There are two types of people in the art world, Chief Inspector. There are the creators and the spongers. Berrick and Thursk are … sorry, were … spongers, parasites who fed off the spirit and the soul of artists. For me, there are no “problems”, as you call them. There are only opportunities … opportunities to create. I learn from everything that happens to me. Each new experience in my life feeds my work. Because of that, I don’t have problems . I’m immune.’

Pendragon glanced at Turner then back at Arcade. He wanted to argue, to point out that he was contradicting himself, for if there were no problems, then Berrick and Thursk had not been problems. If they were simply fuelling his creativity, they had been doing him a favour; no reason to hate them therefore. ‘Tell me about Tuesday evening,’ he said instead.

‘What? The sickening display of pomposity and backslapping at Kingsley’s gallery?’

‘An event to which you weren’t invited.’

‘Wouldn’t have gone if I had been.’

‘So gatecrashing was just a display of frustration? Or was it performance art?’

Francis Arcade spun round to face Turner. ‘Oh, man, your boss is a comedian.’

Turner stared at the young man, his face impassive, and Arcade looked back at Pendragon. ‘So, what? Is “performance art” a new phrase you’ve picked up, Mr Plod? It’s got fuck all to do with anything like that. I gate-crashed because it amused me.’

Pendragon gave Arcade a doubtful stare and then looked sidelong at Sergeant Turner. There was a sudden stillness in the room. Arcade walked past the two officers and stopped at his easel. He picked up a palette covered with black paint and began to dab at the canvas. To Pendragon it felt as though a switch had been thrown and Arcade was no longer with them.

‘Have to say, guv, these artistic types are a bloody odd bunch,’ Turner said as they walked across the street to the car.

Pendragon was deep in thought.

‘I mean, that bloke hated Berrick and Thursk and made no bones about it. Doesn’t he care what we think?’

‘Clearly not, Sergeant. Which may strengthen the view that he had nothing to do with the murders.’

‘Or it could be a double bluff.’

Pendragon exhaled through his nostrils and shook his head. ‘I think you’ve been watching too many American crime shows, Turner. Check out Arcade’s alibis for both nights as soon as you get back to the station. But, I can guarantee, they’ll stack up. And while you’re about it, see how Grant and Vickers are getting on with the CCTV footage. Give me a call if they’ve found anything.’

‘Where will you be?’

‘I’ve got to see a man about a book.’

Ten-thirty on Friday morning, and the only people milling around Soho Square were shoppers wrapped up against the biting wind and laden down with spoils from the January sales. Pendragon turned into a side street and headed towards a stucco-fronted building close to the end of the narrow road. Steps girded by black railings led to a large black-painted door. He pushed a button on the wall and a voice distorted by electronic noise came through the intercom speaker. ‘May I help?’

‘DCI Pendragon. Here to see Mr Lewis Fanshaw,’ he replied. There was a momentary pause and the door clicked open.

A narrow hall with a vaulted ceiling led through to a broad reception area. Pendragon introduced himself again and the receptionist gestured towards a line of leather-covered chairs around a low table piled with literary magazines and publisher’s catalogues. Pendragon was trying to find something interesting in an article about yet another great Indian saga due to be unleashed upon the world when a beefy man in his mid-forties appeared from the hall, one huge hand extended, a smile on his face. He was wearing a crumpled blue jacket and grey slacks, a white open-necked shirt and a very bright waistcoat.

‘DCI Pendragon,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Please, come in.’ He placed one hand on Pendragon’s shoulder and waved the other towards his room.

Lewis Fanshaw’s office was large and square. A pair of sash windows opened on to a narrow courtyard surrounded by dark brick walls. On the ledges stood two window boxes, the plants inside them dead, their crumpled leaves glazed with frost. Fanshaw sat down behind a handsome old mahogany desk. To each side of it stood piles of manuscripts, some contained by rubber bands, others spilling out haphazardly. Fanshaw sat in a modern cloth-covered swivel chair and leaned back, right leg over left knee, one Hush Puppy and one Donald Duck sock on display with a strip of pink flesh just visible above the sock. He placed his interlinked fingers on his crossed knee and said, ‘So, Chief Inspector, you must be here about poor old Noel. Did Margaret get you a coffee or a tea, by the way?’