Michael White - The Art of Murder

‘That’s fine,’ Pendragon responded. ‘Yes, that’s why I’m here. We’re treating Mr Thursk’s death as murder.’

Fanshaw blanched. ‘Murder? But I was told …’

‘Suicide? That appears not to have been the case.’

‘I see. Well, of course, Chief Inspector, anything I can do to help …’

‘We’re beginning to suspect that Noel Thursk’s murder may be closely linked with that of Kingsley Berrick. The two men knew each other, and, well, there are connections between the murders which I cannot go into at this time.’

Fanshaw was nodding. ‘No, of course not. So how may I be of assistance?’

‘I understand that you were going to publish the book Noel Thursk was writing.’

Fanshaw raised his eyebrows and sighed. ‘Yes, well, that was the theory.’ Pendragon gave him a puzzled look. ‘We signed the book over four years ago. Delivery dates came and went several times. I’d begun to lose heart. Now, of course … I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound callous. I liked Noel. He was a strange, very reserved man these past few years. Never used to be. We were at college together, you know. He was a lot of fun in those days. I think he had the stuffing knocked out of him. The winds of fate, and all that?’

‘What do you mean, precisely, Mr Fanshaw?’

‘Sadly, Noel was one of those people whose ambition outstretched his talent by some considerable degree. He was a good artist, don’t get me wrong, but not exceptional. And his style was deeply, deeply unfashionable. He could not adapt. People stopped taking him seriously a long time ago. Eventually he accepted it and crossed the tracks, as it were, to write about painting rather than actually being a painter himself. But it damaged him. He made the transition, but he relinquished a major part of himself along the way.’

‘What was his book to be about?’

Fanshaw uncrossed his legs and shifted in his chair. ‘It was provisionally entitled The Lost Girl . It was about Juliette Kinnear.’

Pendragon gave him a blank look. ‘I’m sorry …’

The publisher smiled and sat forward, elbows on the desk in front of him. ‘It’s okay, Chief Inspector. I’m not surprised you don’t recognise the name. I think this book would have brought the subject to a much wider audience. Juliette Kinnear was an artist. She was one of the Biscuit Kinnears, you know who I mean?’

Pendragon nodded. ‘I’ve heard of them. A very wealthy family.’

‘She was enormously talented. Indeed, I would say she was the most talented female artist of her generation. If she had lived, she would have been world renowned by now, I’m sure of it.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘Oh, she suffered from some mysterious mental disorder and committed suicide in the mid-nineties. A terrible waste.’

‘And Thursk’s book was a biography of her?’

‘No, it was actually a lot more than that. It was really an expose, with Juliette’s story as its cornerstone. Noel was digging deep, very deep, into the London art world. He was extremely well connected, you see. Basically, he knew everyone. And everyone’s guilty secrets.’

‘Ah,’ Pendragon intoned.

‘So there you have your motive, I imagine, Chief Inspector.’

Pendragon nodded. ‘Although it doesn’t quite explain the connection with Kingsley Berrick.’

‘Maybe the connection is spurious.’

‘I don’t think so, Mr Fanshaw. But I’m most grateful for the information. Now, would it be possible for me to have a copy of Thursk’s manuscript, as far as he wrote it?’

Fanshaw drew a deep breath and screwed up his face. ‘I’m afraid, that’s just it, Chief Inspector. Noel hadn’t delivered a single word.’

Brick Lane, Stepney, Friday, 1 p.m.

Pendragon was in a foul mood as he came through the doors of the station, head down, barely looking where he was going. The duty officer turned to a young constable beside him and raised his eyebrows as the DCI stormed past them. Just beyond the main desk, Pendragon almost knocked Jimmy Thatcher off his feet. The young sergeant was holding armfuls of papers, half of which flew across the corridor.

‘Damn it!’ Pendragon exclaimed, and crouched down to help. Straightening, he passed a large sheaf of paper to Thatcher and apologised. ‘Sergeant?’ he added. ‘You tied up with paperwork?’

‘Yes,’ Thatcher said mournfully.

‘Well, take a break. Get over to Noel Thursk’s flat. Forensics have been through the place. I want you to bring in the man’s computer and any disks or … what are those things? … USB drives you can find. Pass them all on to Turner. Then you can get back to the paperwork.’ And he nodded at the untidy pile in the sergeant’s arms.

‘Anything from Grant and Vickers on the cameras?’ Pendragon asked as he strode into the Ops Room, pulling off his overcoat as he went.

Turner was seated at one of four desks arranged in a vague semi-circle. ‘Nothing, sir. But I’ve stumbled on something you might find very interesting.’

‘Arcade’s alibi?’ Pendragon asked as he approached the desk. Turner was staring intently at a flat screen and tapping at a keyboard. ‘Nah. A podcast.’ Turner looked up at his superior’s blank expression. ‘You have no idea what I’m talking about, have you?’ the sergeant added.

‘None at all.’

‘A podcast is a broadcast over the internet. You can stream it on an MP3 player or any computer if it’s online. Audio, visual … It’s a bit like TV or radio, but you pick it up with a computer.’

‘So what sort of podcast have you found?’ Pendragon asked. The way he said it sounded as though he couldn’t quite grasp the concept or why the world needed such a thing.

‘I was doing a search on Francis Arcade. Got the standard Wikipedia stuff and a few art sites he’s mentioned on, then this popped up.’ Turner clicked the mouse and the screen changed. Photographs of two faces appeared, those of the murder victims, Kingsley Berrick and Noel Thursk. Written across the faces were the words TWO DEAD MEN: A Post-mortem Podcast . The sergeant clicked again and a two-and-a-half-minute video played. It was shot using a single camera. The jerkiness showed it was almost certainly hand-held. The setting was the Berrick amp; Price gallery the previous Tuesday. It featured the two dead men of the title in conversation with others at the event. The camera moved around the room. Snatches of conversation could be heard — Berrick deliberating on some aspect of commercial art, Thursk nodding as he listened to a woman telling him an anecdote. He smiled and replied with something inaudible.

The podcast ended as abruptly as it had started and the screen turned black.

‘Before you ask, guv, this was only put online a couple of hours ago.’

‘Shame,’ Pendragon said.

‘So what do you make of it?’

The DCI shook his head and lowered himself into a chair. ‘I’m at a loss. It’s almost as though the man wants us to pin the murders on him.’

‘You want to go back for a second visit?’

‘No, Sergeant. I think this time we get Mr Arcade in here.’

As Pendragon spoke into the digital recorder, Arcade sat perfectly still on a metal chair pulled up close to the table in Interview Room 1. The Chief Inspector concluded by saying that the suspect, Mr Francis Arcade, had declined the services of a lawyer.

Pendragon stared at the young man and remained equally still, equally silent, for more than two minutes. The only sound in the room came from the electronic ticking of the wall clock. Finally he pulled a plastic folder towards him across the shiny metal surface of the table. ‘I watched your wonderful piece of work,’ he began. Arcade did not stir. ‘Who filmed it?’