Michael White - The Art of Murder

The Victorian warehouse faced the water on West India Quay. It stood in the middle of a row of similar buildings. Each unit was used as a medium-term storage facility for importers. The blank facade was a windowless expanse of carefully restored brickwork. To one side was a wide roller door big enough to drive a bus through. On the other stood a smaller door with a security lock activated by a keypad.

Inside, Pendragon flicked a switch and a bright yellow light snapped on and off twice before staying on to illuminate a single, square high-roofed space. The floor was of bare concrete, the walls entirely unadorned. It was really just a gigantic storage box, with one incongruous feature: a cluster of heavy machinery in the centre of the room. Pendragon and Turner headed straight for this, their shoes echoing on the concrete.

‘Fascinating,’ Pendragon commented as they stopped two feet before a metal press. Beside it stood an electric roller. On the floor, in the harsh fluorescence, they could make out spots of blood and gobbets of grey matter.

They took separate tours around the machines. The metal press was about seven feet tall and three wide. It comprised a steel framework supported on three sturdy metal feet. In the centre of the framework was a two-foot-square opening. Poised above this was a punch about six inches in diameter. It was suspended about a foot from the base of the opening. Pendragon tilted his head to look at the underside of the cylindrical metal punch and noticed a streak of dried blood.

The roller was a very modern, high-tech version of a steamroller. It had three forward gears and a reverse, and consisted of a heavy steel drum and a sprung seat for the driver. On the floor nearby, between the metal press and the roller, stood a box of miscellaneous tools: a power drill, a hedge trimmer, an assortment of blades, lengths and coils of wire, clips and a roll of gaffer tape.

The two policemen met up on the far side of the roller and stood silently staring at the floor. A strip of red flecked with grey stretched ten feet from the roller towards the back wall of the warehouse. The strip was about two metres wide. Pendragon squatted down at one edge and looked closely at the stain. Up close, he could see small lumps of fleshy material. ‘A veritable Chamber of Horrors,’ he remarked, pulling himself upright. ‘Dr Newman is going to have a field day, but I bet she won’t find a fingerprint or a single trace of suspect DNA.’

Stepney, Monday 26 January, 9.05 a.m.

‘What can you tell me about the murder of Father Michael O’Leary?’ Pendragon asked, staring down at the disfigured face of the dead priest lying on Neil Jones’s slab.

‘A carbon copy of the first two,’ the pathologist replied. ‘At least, the cause of death is. A needle straight into the centre of the brain and a hefty dose of heroin. Of course, after that the killer got his jollies in a different way. Eyelids taped back, mouth stuffed with this plastic ball.’ He held up a tennis-ball-sized clear plastic sphere: ‘All very theatrical if you ask me, Pendragon.’

‘Any other marks on the body?’

‘No, the assailant appears first to have stunned O’Leary with Mace. There are traces of Trimyristin, its main component, around the eyes.’

‘What about the man’s physical condition?’ Turner asked.

‘What? Other than the fact that he’s dead, Sergeant?

Pendragon sighed and Jones turned to him. ‘Jack,’ he said with surprising familiarity, ‘the humour comes free. Relax.’

Pendragon looked down at his shoes and then at Turner. ‘What shape was O’Leary in before he was killed?’

‘A typical sixty-year-old male. Liver a bit over-used. He obviously liked a drink. Not particularly overweight. No signs of serious injury either old or recent. A bit of rheumatism. Why?’

‘We’re just trying to establish who O’Leary is … was. He doesn’t seem to match up with the first two vics at all, but there must be a link because of what you refer to as the theatre of it all.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t shed much light on that, Pendragon. But I’ll send my report over to Lambeth, and I trust Dr Newman will reciprocate. I find working with her rather rewarding.’

Pendragon raised his eyebrows. Turner was just closing his notebook when Jones stepped around the mortuary table. ‘Hey, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I have a joke for you.’

Turner stared at the pathologist, tilting his head slightly to one side.

‘How many Surrealists does it take to change a light bulb?’

Turner shrugged.

‘Fish.’

‘What?’ Turner said, completely bemused. He glanced at Pendragon, who couldn’t stop a smile spreading across his face as he headed for the door.

Stepney, Monday 26 January, 12.10 p.m.

Pendragon had heard of the grand old tradition of East End funerals, but had never before experienced one. When he was a child growing up in Stepney he had been too young to attend such events. His uncle Stanley had died when Jack was seven, but he had been kept at home, watched over by a distant cousin from the other side of the family. He could still remember the sense of pantomime surrounding the occasion, the buzz of something grandiose happening which he did not quite understand and from which he was shielded by the mourning grown-ups.

Uncle Stanley had been a pillar of the community and much loved locally. Pearly King of 1953, no less. It all seemed to have happened a long time ago and in a very different East End, Pendragon thought as he arrived at the service for Kingsley Berrick. Today’s big show for the art dealer seemed completely incongruous. Berrick had certainly been a flamboyant character: a man who loved to party, loved to make money; a man who, according to some, loved art. But, most of all, he seemed to have loved his own image, and this was never clearer than in the way he had planned his own farewell to the world.

But Berrick, the record made clear, had been born in Surrey and had only arrived in the East End after setting up his gallery in the late-1980s, first in Shoreditch and then in Whitechapel. He was no more cockney than Liberace, but now here he was, lying in a ridiculously ornate coffin surrounded by flowers spelling out his name. Outside the church, a carriage drawn by two black mares in black feather headdresses stood waiting with an escort of no fewer than six professional pallbearers in black top hats and tails.

The service was long and drawn-out with speeches from a host of luminaries of the British art scene. It was finished by a eulogy from Jackson Price, in which he claimed his friend had been one of the most influential people in his field.

Pendragon mingled with the mourners as they slowly emerged from the church on to Clyde Street close to Whitechapel Road. Much of the snow of the previous week had turned to slush. But now, early on Monday afternoon, it had begun to snow again, huge, fluffy flakes tumbling gracefully from a leaden sky, settling on the tops of cars and the roofs of the surrounding buildings.

Pendragon was about to take the steps down to the street when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he was confronted by a tall woman wearing an ankle-length fake-fur coat and Russian-style fur hat. She had fine cheekbones and large brown eyes. Her lips were full and coloured crimson, slightly parted in a faint smile. Her gloved hand was extended towards him. He looked at the woman’s face then down at the hand and took it before he finally recognised her from the film of the private view at Berrick amp; Price, just before the first murder.

‘DCI Pendragon,’ she said.

‘Ms Locke.’

The woman’s smile broadened. ‘How polite. It’s Gemma. I saw you in the paper,’ she added as Pendragon gave her a puzzled look. ‘Quite a spectacular affair, isn’t it?’ She gazed around. ‘Typical Kingsley. Always the showman. Had to be the centre of attention … even in death.’