Michael White - The Art of Murder

Ken Towers gave him a smirk.

‘I want a full report on my desk by four o’clock,’ the DCI added, and the inspector’s face fell.

Pendragon walked slowly towards the main doors. The voices of those standing at the altar reverberated around the room, amplified by the acoustics of the place, but they were nothing but a jumble of disconnected words. He tuned out and tried to focus on the new facts that had presented themselves. He was so lost in thought that as he emerged from the doors of the church into the car park he almost walked straight into a man wearing a greatcoat and a Chelsea FC bobble hat.

‘DCI Pendragon, no less,’ the man said.

Pendragon looked up, startled for a second, and sighed when he saw the face of the journalist Fred Taylor, his would-be nemesis from a local rag, the Gazette . He was a short, tubby man with a naturally ruddy face coloured further by the cold. He had a large nose that today was also tinged red and he wore round tortoiseshell-framed spectacles. Six months earlier, when Pendragon was dealing with his first case, a serial killer at large in Stepney, Taylor had taken an instant dislike to him and had done everything he could to discredit and embarrass the new DCI, including running a near-libellous piece about how Pendragon’s wife had walked out on him. It had also delved pruriently into the fact that the DCI’s own daughter, Amanda, had disappeared five years before. Beside Fred Taylor was a taller man in an expensive-looking leather coat buttoned up against the cold. He had a Nikon digital camera on a strap about his neck.

‘God help us if good old Jack here’s been put in charge of catching the Modern Art Murderer,’ Taylor exclaimed, turning to his colleague.

‘Hah!’ the younger man snorted.

‘What did you say?’ Pendragon snarled.

‘God help us …’

‘No, Taylor, after that.’

The journalist grinned. ‘What? The Modern Art …’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t be much of a journalist if I didn’t know what was going on in my manor, now would I, DCI Pendragon?’

‘And how did you know …?’

‘About the latest horror, here at St Aloysius?’ Taylor tapped his nose. ‘A little birdie.’

Pendragon took a deep breath. ‘I see.’

‘So, if you don’t mind, DCI Pendragon, Mickey and I would like to get the latest info and a few snaps for tomorrow’s edition. My boss has been holding us back like we were a couple of mares on heat, to be honest. But with the third one … Well, I think even she will agree it’s high time we got the story out there.’

Just at that moment, Turner and Inspector Towers came through the double doors. They took one look at Taylor and his friend and stepped over to back up the DCI.

‘Excellent timing,’ Pendragon said. ‘These two gentlemen wanted to go barging into the church. I don’t think the Council members would like that, do you?’

‘Definitely not, sir,’ Towers responded immediately.

‘So I think we ought to ask them to lock the doors, don’t you?’

Turner immediately spun on his heel.

‘Wrong decision, Pendragon,’ Fred Taylor hissed. ‘Thought you would have learned from bitter experience not to get in the way of legitimate journalism.’

Pendragon gave him a sweet smile and walked away.

‘DCI Pendragon, please.’ The caller’s plummy tones were immediately identifiable.

‘Sammy,’ Jack responded.

‘Dear boy. I hope I find you in good health.’

Pendragon smiled to himself. ‘Perishing cold, but that aside …’

‘I have some information for you. Oh, blast it …’

Pendragon heard fumbling and the clink of coins.

‘You’re in a call box?’

‘There … Yes. Don’t believe in mobiles. What was I saying?’

‘You had some information.’ Pendragon glanced to left and right as he crossed Buckhurst Street and headed towards Mile End Road.

‘May have found what you’re after. Got the address here.’

A rustling of paper.

‘What’s suspect about it?’ Pendragon asked after Sammy had read out the address.

‘My source tells me it’s been unused for years, but was rented out last week … for one week only.’

‘One week?’

‘Correct.’

‘Names?’

‘A paper chase with no satisfactory conclusion so far. The owner is Westbrick and Co. They have a representative in Docklands … Sunrise … listed in the book. The unit was rented in the name of Rembrandt Industries. That’s all I have.’

‘Okay. Thanks, Sammy. It’s a warehouse, I take it?’

‘Believe so. Down on West India Quay.’

‘Right,’ Pendragon responded. ‘I know it.’

Sergeant Turner was waiting for Pendragon at the reception desk of Sunrise Properties, the London representatives of Westbrick and Co. ‘Hi, guv. Only got here a couple of minutes ago. The manager’s in.’ He glanced at his notebook. ‘A Mr Derrickson.’

‘Have you found anything on Rembrandt Industries?’

‘A phone number, disconnected. An email address, also disconnected.’

‘Banks? How were funds transferred?’

‘Through third and fourth parties, an entity called Gouache and another called Cubist and Co.’

‘Very amusing,’ Pendragon retorted. ‘I think our murderer’s messing with us. Anything on these damn intermediaries?’ he asked bitterly.

‘’Fraid not, sir. Their numbers and email addresses have also been disconnected. The financial transactions went through a branch of Lloyds in Reading. Accounts have been closed … of course.’

‘And, naturally, no trace of the person who set up the accounts and closed them down?’

At that moment, a tall, bald man in his mid-thirties appeared from the corridor ahead of them. The receptionist nodded to the two policemen and the man walked over, right hand extended, a serious but not unfriendly expression on his face.

Derrickson’s office was an ultra-modern, minimalist affair with a Mac, a phone and a notepad on an otherwise empty metal and glass desk.

‘So, gentlemen. How may I help?’

‘We would like access to one of your properties.’

‘I see.’

‘17A, Knox Lane, West India Quay. Apparently, it was let for one week only and we believe it may be useful to us in furthering a criminal investigation.’

‘Okay,’ said Derrickson, concerned. He tapped on his keyboard and looked up. ‘Yes. Rembrandt Industries.’

‘Is it unusual for companies to rent warehouse space for so short a time?’

‘Yes, it is, Inspector. But the client offered to pay for three months. I’m amazed you know about it.’ Derrickson looked straight into Pendragon’s eyes.

Jack ignored him and glanced at Turner before returning Derrickson’s gaze. ‘All traces of the company who leased the warehouse have been erased,’ he said. ‘You were paid and then the account was closed.’

Derrickson looked surprised. ‘Odd.’

‘So, you see, we have grounds for suspicion.’

‘What exactly are you investigating, Inspector?’

‘I’m afraid the details are confidential, but it is a homicide matter.’

Derrickson nodded. ‘Right. So what would you like from us?’

‘We want to see inside the property.’

‘Ah, that’s delicate as the client has paid upfront.’

‘But relinquished the lease.’

‘Even so ….’

‘All right, Mr Derrickson. We can proceed in one of two ways. You can grant us unrestricted access and we go about our business quietly. Or I return in sixty minutes with a search warrant, lights flashing and sirens blaring, for all your neighbours to see. It’s entirely up to you.’

Derrickson looked down at the shiny surface of his desk, his fingers interlaced on the glass. Then he spread his hands. ‘Okay,’ he said, and picked up the phone.