Michael White - The Art of Murder

‘Have you … go … gone … ma … mad?’ he managed to splutter.

‘Most probably, Father,’ I retorted. I pulled off my cravat and wrapped it around his head, pulling it tight between his lips so that he could no longer move his jaws. The best he could manage was a low grunt, which I found quite hilarious. I stood back to survey my efforts, then took a step forward to tear away the back of his shirt. I then undid his trousers and yanked them down to his ankles, exposing his scrawny backside. Spinning round, I reached into the cupboard for the cane. It was there, just as it always was.

I walked around the other side of the desk and crouched down to twist my father’s head round so as to face me. His eyes were wild with fear and fury. Saliva ran down his chin because in this position he could not swallow.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘this is what the novelists call a reversal of fortune, Father. For many years I’ve fantasised about doing this. I’ve had very pleasant dreams about it. The only pity is that your bitch of a wife is not here to see it too. That would have been a truly delicious experience.’

He grunted and struggled to slide off the chair, but he was not the man he once was, and I was no longer a little boy he could overpower.

I returned to the other side of Father’s desk, raised my hand and brought the cane down with that old familiar ‘whoosh’.

I cannot tell you for how long I beat my father, each stroke more frenzied than the last. I lost all track of time. My arm began to ache from the exertion, but I did not let that deter me. I was panting; sweat ran off me. At length I felt a terrible pain in my chest and almost passed out. That was when I stopped.

Slowly, I lowered my arm to my side and dropped the bloodied cane to the floor. It fell silently on the rug. My father had stopped making any sound some indefinable time earlier. There was little left of his skin. The flesh was flayed, blood-smeared, grey; a few vertebrae lay exposed.

I seemed to snap back to myself then. I untied the ropes, letting Father’s body tumble to the floor. Then I slipped the ropes back into my pocket, crouched down and removed my cravat from his distorted mouth. His face was blackened and bruised from where it had slammed against the desk. His horrible moustache was bloodied. His eyes were closed. Turning, I picked up the cane and broke it in two, tossing the pieces to opposite sides of the room.

In the outhouse, I found a can of paraffin. I opened the top and sniffed, coughing as the fumes hit me. Then I paced around the ground floor of the Manor with the can tilted, the liquid sliding out and over the floors. I started the fire in the study by tossing the oil lamp on to the floor beside my father’s body. Staying inside the house just long enough to get the stink into my clothes, I blackened my face and shirt with soot. As I ran out on to the road beyond the Manor’s grounds, the flames really started to catch hold. I heard the voices of neighbours running towards me. Putting on a performance that would have made Sarah Bernhardt proud, I staggered along the path, weeping and screaming for assistance. Deep inside me, I felt the old William Sandler, son of Gordon and Mary Sandler, vaporise like my father’s blood spilled on the study carpet.

Brick Lane, Saturday 24 January, 6.30 a.m.

The station was quiet. It usually was at this time of the weekend, a relatively mellow stretch between the chaos of late-Friday night and early-Saturday morning, when the holding cells were emptied and the drunks booted out. Jack Pendragon nodded to the duty sergeant at the front desk and paced down the corridor towards his office. Glancing into the Ops Room, he saw Turner sitting at a terminal. The sergeant looked up, bleary-eyed.

‘You look awful,’ Pendragon said, stepping into the room.

Jez yawned loudly, placing a hand over his mouth. ‘Thanks, guv. But at least I don’t look as bad as some of this lot.’ And he pointed to the screen.

‘What is it?’ Pendragon came round the desk and leaned on Turner’s chair.

‘It’s Jackson Price’s film of the knees-up on Tuesday night. Some right old characters.’

‘Have you seen anything interesting?’

‘No. I’ve been through the whole thing. Just about the most boring two hours I’ve spent in my life. On my second run-through now.’

Pendragon pulled up a chair and studied the images on the screen. The film was shot in fashionable Gonzo-style. The cameraman, Michael Spillman, passed through the room casually interviewing people. Sometimes he would merely ask how they were; at others he was more mannered, offering faux-philosophical questions. ‘Do you think the creator of a work has a controlling stake in the outcome?’ he asked one guest. The reply was inaudible and he moved on to a tall woman in dungarees. ‘If there’s an afterlife,’ he posited, ‘what would be God’s commission?’

‘I’ve done some Google searches on a few of the characters on the guest list and matched them up with the video,’ Turner said. Then he pointed to the screen. ‘There’s Berrick.’

A solidly built man came into view holding a champagne flute. In his mid-fifties, he was jowly, hair dyed black, with a confident, proprietorial air about him. ‘The woman he’s talking to is Meg Lancaster the actress.’ Pendragon nodded. ‘And there’s Noel Thursk,’ Turner added, tapping the screen. A slightly built, white-haired man appeared from the right-hand edge of the monitor. He was wearing a black suit, a collarless white shirt and grey waistcoat.

‘Who’s the woman there?’ Pendragon asked, pointing to a tall brunette in a stylish black evening dress. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, with a stunning figure that could only have come from a combination of great genes and hours spent in the gym. The strapless dress clung to her like a second skin. Her hair was styled in a dramatic bob with a straight, high fringe. She was smiling sexily over her glass at two men who appeared to be fawning over her.

Turner consulted his notes. ‘That’s Gemma Locke. She’s an artist, apparently. Never heard of her, but she ain’t bad-looking, is she, guv?’

Pendragon stared at the screen. ‘That’s Gemma Locke?’ the DCI said, fascinated. ‘I’ve seen her work. Who’re the two men she’s talking to?’

‘No idea,’ Turner replied. ‘Couldn’t find anything on ’em.’

‘So how far through the tape is this?’

The sergeant consulted the timer. ‘About twenty minutes in.’

‘Rewind it. I want to watch the whole thing.’

Turner’s face dropped.

‘It’s all right, Sergeant. I’m not that cruel. Get hold of Inspector Grant. He was following up on any CCTV from around St Dunstan’s on the morning of Thursk’s murder. See what he’s turned up … if anything. And when you’ve done that, go through the files and try to find a picture of Juliette Kinnear.’

‘Who?’

‘Remember? I told you — the girl who was the subject of Noel Thursk’s book … the young artist.’

‘Ah, yeah.’

Pendragon took off his coat, folded it over the back of a chair and dropped into Turner’s seat. He faced the screen and pushed the Play button. Turner was right, it was incredibly boring. It reminded him of his student days watching one of Andy Warhol’s movies, Empire or perhaps Sleep . Either way it had been interminable, and he had only managed to sit through it because he was interested in the girl who had dragged him to the cinema. In a similar way to the Warhol movie, this film had a soporific effect and he had to force himself to stay alert. But after two hours spent watching people chatting and wandering around the gallery with only the brief distraction of Francis Arcade’s rather lame attempt to crash the party after one hour and seventeen minutes, he felt utterly bored and disappointed. Pushing the Stop button, Pendragon stood up, stretched and leaned forward, his palms on the desktop.