Michael White - The Art of Murder

He turned away and saw movement through the doorway into the bedroom. Inspector Ken Towers emerged. ‘Sir,’ he said. He looked tired and unusually jumpy. ‘This fella Arcade … We have him in the bedroom. But he hasn’t said a word.’

‘Thanks.’ Pendragon clicked his fingers in front of Turner’s face and the sergeant snapped back to attention. ‘I want you to go straight to Arcade’s flat.’

‘But it was searched, sir.’

‘I know that, Turner. But I want it searched again . Take someone with you. Go over the place with a fine-toothed comb. Anything suspicious, anything at all, I want to know about it. Come straight to me after you get back to the station.’

Turner nodded and walked towards the front door.

The bedroom was large and brightly lit by a rash of powerful ceiling halogens. The blinds had been pulled down over a large window that took up most of one wall parallel to the bed. The decor was stark: white walls, white bedding, white rug over a polished concrete floor. On the wall opposite the bed hung an ornate French antique mirror, the only suggestion of anything other than straight lines and white in the room. Francis Arcade was sitting in a chair in the far corner. Uniformed policemen stood to either side of him. Pendragon flicked his head to indicate the constables should leave. They looked uncertainly at each other.

‘It’s all right, PC Flint,’ the DCI said firmly. ‘The Super’s returned to the station. I’m back in charge, so skedaddle.’ He closed the door behind them and walked back to face Arcade. The young artist simply stared into space, unblinking, hands held palms upwards and limp in his lap. He smelled unwashed. Pendragon lowered himself on to the corner of the bed a few feet from Arcade and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

‘Francis, do you want to tell me what happened?’

The expressionless mask of Arcade’s face did not change. Pendragon waited patiently for two silent minutes. ‘You might feel better if you talk to me.’ Still not a flicker.

The DCI studied the boy’s face. He looked even more Goth than normal. He had not shaved for days and had dark patches under his eyes. His hair hung shapeless and greasy. There was something not quite right about all this, Pendragon thought to himself. Arcade had definitely not killed Berrick or Thursk. He was seen by scores of people during the timeframe for each murder. And he certainly had not killed the priest, Michael O’Leary, because at the time of that murder he had been in police custody. So why would he have killed this woman? A copy-cat murder? Another of the kid’s cries for attention? That was hard to believe.

‘Why did you kill her?’ Pendragon said, completely without expression.

For the first time, Arcade stirred. He lifted his head and fixed the policeman with a look of complete clarity. ‘I did not kill Chrissy,’ he spat. ‘I loved her.’

Pendragon felt startled for a moment but covered it well. ‘Just because you loved her, that doesn’t mean you didn’t kill her.’

‘I did not kill her,’ Arcade yelled, and knocked his chair away as he sprang up.

The door burst open and one of the uniforms was there brandishing a truncheon. Pendragon glared at Arcade and the young man returned to his seat to stare down at the floor. The DCI raised a hand towards the police officer and flicked a look at the door. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, and watched the door close again. He rubbed a palm over his forehead, suddenly feeling incredibly tired.

‘Okay, Francis. Shall we start from the beginning?’

The boy looked up. A tear trickled down his left cheek. ‘He killed her.’

‘Who?’

‘That bastard Hickle.’

‘Hickle?’

‘Chrissy’s boyfriend Geoff Hickle. Dr Geoff Hickle. He killed her and disfigured her.’

‘Wait a minute, Francis. Just slow down. What makes you think this Dr Hickle killed Ms Chapman?’

‘Jealous. Jealous of me and her.’

‘What evidence …?’

‘I just know,’ Arcade hissed, staring straight into Pendragon’s eyes.

‘All right. Let’s go back a few stages. What were you doing here?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be here? I love … loved Chrissy. She loved me. The doctor was out at work at the Royal London, saving lives. I came round to see her.’

‘Had she called you?’

‘No, that was the point, Inspector. She was supposed to ring me last night, but didn’t. I was worried, but I didn’t want to seem uncool. And besides, I could only show when Dr Doolittle was away. It got to about four o’clock, though, and I couldn’t bear it any more. Chrissy wasn’t answering her mobile. The phone here just rang and rang. I did a quick check at the hospital and Hickle was there. He’d been in since eight this morning … apparently. So I came over.’

‘You have a key.’

‘Yeah. Don’t tell Dr House, though.’ And he pulled back his lips into a dark caricature of a smile.

‘And you found Ms Chapman?’

Arcade looked away, fixing his gaze on the far wall over the bed. ‘Yes.’

‘What did you do? Your prints have been found on the body.’

He turned away from the wall and stared into Pendragon’s eyes. ‘I could not …’ Another tear emerged from his eye. ‘I still can’t believe …’ He swallowed hard. ‘I sat beside her. I touched her face. It was cold. Then I sat on the sofa opposite and just stared at her. I must have called you lot. I don’t remember doing it.’

‘How long have you known Ms Chapman?’

Arcade seemed not to hear the DCI at first, or else he did not understand the question. Then he appeared to come round. ‘Er … about two years. She was always saying she would leave Hickle, but he seemed to have some sort of hold over her. Every time I thought I was getting close to prising her away from him, she would flip back.’

Pendragon nodded, staring at the young artist and wondering if the frustration the kid felt could have been strong enough to push him to murder. He had seen crimes of passion before, triggered by messy love triangles and thwarted obsession, crushes that had spiralled into violence and mayhem. Could this relationship have been a delusion on Arcade’s part? Perhaps the kid had slid into insanity, been tipped over the edge by rejection and a growing fury towards the world.

There was a crashing sound from outside and several raised voices. Arcade did not move, but Pendragon jumped up and dashed for the door. It swung open on to the living-room and Pendragon saw a tall woman in a faux-fur coat standing staring at the macabre murder scene. It was Gemma Locke, her face white as chalk. Her hands flew to her face and she seemed to stumble before regaining her balance. She lowered herself into a chair, a low moan emerging from between her gloved hands.

Pendragon crouched beside Gemma Locke and handed her a glass of water he had just fetched from Chrissy Chapman’s kitchen.

‘I guess it’s obvious you would have known each other,’ Pendragon said gently, watching Gemma Locke take several small sips. She handed back the glass and he passed it to a constable standing close by. Then he stood up and pulled over a chair. Glancing towards the bedroom, he saw Arcade being led away in cuffs. The young man ignored Pendragon completely, and he and the two escorting officers passed behind Gemma’s chair and out into the hall without her even noticing them.

‘Chrissy and I were best friends, Inspector. We go back a long way — since I first moved to London.’ Gemma shook her head and closed her eyes, a pained expression spreading across her face. ‘I … I just can’t take this in. It’s crazy. Who would … Why?’

‘What was Ms Chapman like?’