Michael White - The Art of Murder

‘Chrissy was a sweetheart. Everyone loved her, Jack. That’s why this is so … ridiculous!’

‘No enemies that you know of?’

Gemma Locke exhaled and shook her head again. ‘No. Chrissy was destined for greatness. She was the best of us, the most talented of our generation.’

‘What can you tell me about her private life? She was serious about a doctor — Geoff Hickle, a surgeon at the Royal London, yes?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, they had been together about … oh, a year, I think. But the relationship was turning sour.’

Pendragon raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’

‘Well, you’ll find out before long, I suppose. Francis Arcade was pestering her.’

‘Pestering her? I had the impression it was serious between them.’

Gemma Locke gave Pendragon a sceptical look. ‘Hardly, Jack. Chrissy was ten years older than him for a start, and Francis is, well … not all there, to put it mildly. I’m sure he thought there was a serious relationship between them, but I can assure you there wasn’t.’

‘So, what was the problem with Dr Hickle?’

‘Oh, classic really. He’s a powerful figure in his world: a burns specialist at a top London hospital. Fancied himself as a real charmer and a bit of a medical hero. Big, big ego … huge. He was uncomfortable with the attention Chrissy was getting from the media. Felt he was living in her shadow. Didn’t really fit with his self-image.’

‘No. I can see there would be some conflict there.’

‘But then, having said that. I can’t see him as a killer.’

‘No one’s suggesting that,’ the DCI retorted. ‘Okay, look, I’m afraid you can’t stay here. Forensics are going to be taking the place apart.’ He helped Gemma to her feet and led her around the back of the sofa. She studiously kept her line of sight away from the dead woman.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked as they reached the hall.

Gemma took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

A few moments later, they were downstairs in the car park. The temperature had dropped dramatically as night had drawn in. Pendragon glanced at his watch. It had turned seven o’clock. He followed Gemma to her car. ‘I’d like to have another chat with you,’ he said as she reached into her bag for her keys. ‘The questions just keep coming. But not the answers, unfortunately.’

‘Sure. Give me a ring.’

He pulled his collar up and turned to go.

‘Where are you headed?’

‘Back to the station.’

‘Jump in. I’ll drop you there.’

The traffic was heavy with late-night shoppers and people on their way west. A fog had begun to descend on Stepney’s frosty, neon-splashed grey. Music by Monteverdi that Pendragon half-recognised was playing softly. For a few minutes they said nothing, each lost in horrible thoughts. Then Pendragon looked away from the brickwork and the graffiti-stained walls. ‘How well did you know Juliette Kinnear?’ he asked.

Gemma Locke tilted her head slightly, but kept staring at the road ahead. A red light brought them to a halt. She turned towards Pendragon. ‘Not at all. She was on the scene before my time.’ Gemma looked back at the road for a second. ‘But I do remember that she assaulted someone and wound up in a psychiatric hospital.’

‘She committed suicide.’

‘That’s right.’ Gemma flicked Pendragon a glance and accelerated along Mile End Road. ‘I remember now. I was in Athens. Doing the cliched Inter-Rail thing. Must have been … what … 1996?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I remember I didn’t hear about it until over a week after she’d died. I was staying in a youth hostel. The only things to read were a dog-eared Jackie Collins someone had left and a week-old copy of the Daily Mail . I chose the paper!’

Pendragon saw Brick Lane ahead on the right. The car slowed for another set of lights. ‘Do you know anyone who knew Juliette Kinnear?’

Gemma pulled a face as she thought about it. ‘Don’t think I do, Jack. As I said before, it was before my time. I didn’t make it to London until ’ninety-eight. Actually, no, come to think of it, Jackson Price would have known her. He and Kingsley were already making names for themselves then. But Juliette Kinnear was never very successful, was she? A poor little rich girl, I thought.’

Pendragon shrugged. ‘Conflicting accounts, of course. Some have said she was a great talent, her life cut tragically short. Others have suggested she was never as good an artist as she thought she was and that she committed suicide because she was sick of going unnoticed.’

‘Guess we’ll never know.’ Gemma shrugged, turning the car into Brick Lane and slowing as they approached the gates to the police station car park. She drew to a halt at the foot of the steps in front of the station. When she turned to Pendragon, he saw her eyes were bright with tears. ‘Please make sure you catch whoever did this terrible thing, won’t you, Jack?’

Pendragon ran the fingertips of his left hand across his forehead. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said, and jumped out of the car. ‘I’ll call you.’

He was halfway up the steps when his mobile rang. The screen said ‘blocked number’.

‘Hello.’

‘DCI Pendragon, please.’

‘Sammy! I’d almost given up on you.’

‘You should never do that, dear boy. I’m a man of my word.’

‘So?’

‘Rembrandt Industries. I could not write an article for the Encyclopaedia Britannica on them, to be honest, but I’ve got something that may help.’

‘Fire away.’

‘I asked around a couple of business associates. One of them said he’d heard of Rembrandt, but wasn’t happy about it. He owns units all over the East End. He’d agreed to lease them a warehouse in Leytonstone. Rembrandt had booked it for three months, put down a small deposit and then done a runner after a week without paying any rent. He said things had picked up, though, because he’d since rented out two other places that had been empty for ages to a Titus Inc. They had paid up front for both places, one in Whitechapel and one in Bermondsey. I was about to call you about the first place in Leytonstone … hadn’t thought much about the other two places my friend mentioned.’

Pendragon had reached his office. He pulled a pad of paper and a pen towards him across the desk. ‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Well, it was only this evening, about an hour ago. I got waylaid.’

‘Oh?’

‘In the Duke of Norfolk. But … ssh, Pendragon! It was fortunate that I did.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, Jack. And actually, when you hear how clever I’ve been, I think you’ll agree I should be on double time.’

‘Do you now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Get to the point, Sammy.’

‘All in good time, Inspector. I had a couple of drinks and was sitting there when it came to me. Rembrandt had a son. He painted the young man as a monk. Quite a famous portrait, actually. His name was Titus.’

‘How on earth did you know that?’

‘I was educated at Eton, Inspector.’ Sammy sounded miffed.

‘Okay, Sammy. A scholar and a gentleman.’

There was a short silence.

‘So?’ the snout said after a moment.

‘Well, thanks,’ Pendragon said. ‘Can I have the addresses of all three places?’

‘Can I have double time?’

Pendragon sighed and looked around the room. ‘Yes. I suppose you deserve it.’

‘I knew you’d see it my way,’ Sammy Samson said.

Turner eased open the front door to Francis Arcade’s bedsit on Glynnis Road. Sergeant Roz Mackleby was a step behind him. When he flicked on the light, the main room was illuminated by a powerful yellow glow. Mackleby paced across the room to check that the bathroom and kitchen were empty. They did not want any unpleasant surprises. It took only a few seconds to confirm they were alone.