Michael White - The Art of Murder

‘Guilt? Sudden realisation of what he’s done?’ Hughes suggested.

‘Possibly, ma’am. But I don’t believe Francis Arcade is a killer. And …’ he raised his voice a few decibels as the superintendent made to interrupt ‘… even if he is, and even if he did kill Chrissy Chapman, who killed Kingsley Berrick, Noel Thursk and Michael O’Leary?’

There was a heavy silence in the room.

‘We have more than enough to charge Arcade,’ the superintendent persisted

‘I know, ma’am, but I would advise against it.’

Hughes glared at the DCI then turned away.

‘I’ve got a psych coming in at ten o’clock. We need to get Arcade talking. I don’t believe he’s a killer, but I do believe he knows a hell of a lot more about what’s going on than he’s admitting.’ Pendragon took a gulp of coffee, straightened up and started pacing in front of the smart board and the usual wall of crime-scene photographs. ‘Right, well … here we are again, and no nearer cracking this case.’ Exasperated, he stopped for a second to look at his team. ‘Let’s run through the latest facts. Towers, have you and Sergeant Mackleby found out anything about Berrick’s nefarious activities? If, indeed, there were any.’

‘Well, guv,’ Mackleby began, ‘Kingsley Berrick was a promiscuous gay man, there’s no doubt about that. I can list over a dozen regular partners, many of whom were at the private view at the gallery. Every one of them has an alibi for the time he is believed to have died.’

‘And our friendly MEP, Hedridge?’

‘They definitely had a relationship, whatever Mr Hedridge says, but he’s in the clear. He spoke to his wife immediately after getting back to his flat. The call was logged at four minutes thirteen seconds, starting at three minutes past two in the morning. She was in New York for a few days. There is also CCTV in the reception of the apartment block where he lives during the week. It shows him arriving at one-forty. No one left the building until later that morning, at six-forty-three — a woman who lives along the hall from Hedridge’s apartment.’

‘Berrick did have connections with some of the local villains,’ Towers commented. ‘But nothing relevant that I can find. He had a liking for the old Bolivian marching powder apparently, and this led him to hook up with some unsavouries. He also did a bit of laundering, skimming off some of his profits to avoid tax.’

‘You don’t think he could have been bumped off because he got on someone’s wrong side?’ Inspector Grant asked.

‘Nah. Don’t make sense anyway. What about the others?’

Grant nodded and took a gulp of his coffee.

‘All right, what about the cherry-picker?’ Pendragon asked.

‘Absolutely no other footage from CCTV.’

‘And the machine itself?’

‘Almost every cherry-picker in Greater London is owned by local councils or by private gardening firms, ones that specialise in the heavy-duty stuff — lopping trees, that sort of thing. None of the councils or the private firms has lost a cherry-picker.’

‘What about hire companies?’

‘There are hundreds scattered around the country, but only three in London. I had Vickers talk to them and go through their records. Between the three hire firms, eleven cherry-pickers have been rented out in the past three weeks …’

‘I’ve accounted for all of them,’ Vickers interrupted, wearily. ‘So, then I checked sales of cherry-pickers around the country going back six bloody months.’ He let out a sigh. ‘I narrowed it down to green or white machines because of the paint flecks found by Forensics,’ he added, and glanced at his notebook. ‘Every machine was bought by a company — as you’d expect. I phoned all of them and they checked out, although …’ he turned two pages and scanned his writing ‘… one’s a bit iffy.’

‘Oh?’ said Pendragon.

‘Yeah, green cherry-picker, model called a Finch, sold in October last year to a Dada Ltd, based in Maidstone. I tried to reach them by phone, but the number was nonexistent. I emailed and it came back “undeliverable”.’

‘That’ll be the one,’ Pendragon said. ‘Dada Ltd. God! How tedious.’ He looked over at Hughes who was staring at him, puzzled. ‘The killer has set up at least half a dozen phoney companies, each with a name in some way linked to art: Rembrandt, Gouache … Dada. It’s becoming a little tiresome.’ Then he turned to Sergeant Thatcher who was in his habitual pose, leaning against the back wall. Thatcher straightened up. ‘I have some other companies I want you to chase up, and three addresses for warehouses that may have some bearing. I’ll give you the list after the meeting.’

The sergeant nodded.

‘So, victim number three Michael O’Leary,’ Pendragon went on. ‘Grant? What have you found out?’

Inspector Grant was at one of the desks close to the back of the room. He straightened and put down his coffee cup. ‘Sergeant Vickers and I have interviewed everyone we know of linked with the priest,’ he began. ‘The Churchwarden, Malcolm Connolly, and the Church Council all said pretty much the same thing. Father O’Leary was a kind, gentle bloke, much loved by his flock.’

‘Have you found anything to link O’Leary with Berrick or Thursk?’ Hughes asked.

‘Nothing at all. I’m pretty certain he never even knew they existed.’

‘And what about the elderly priest who found the body? Father Ahern?’

‘Yeah, the old boy’s out of hospital and convalescing at his house close to the church. He’s eighty-odd, and obviously finds the whole thing deeply disturbing, but he was quite coherent. He ran through the events of Saturday morning. All fits perfectly with what Connolly and the others said.’

‘What about background?’ Hughes asked.

‘Ah, well, that’s where it gets interesting,’ Grant replied, and paused for a moment to glance around the room. Most of the team had turned to face him. ‘I dunno, I got a bit sick of all the Church people saying what a wonderful geezer Father O’Leary had been. ’Course you’d expect them to, I s’pose. But anyway, I did a bit more digging. Before moving to St Aloysius, O’Leary had been the priest of St Luke’s in Croydon. On a whim, I went there to interview the current priest, Father James Flannigan. He was a friendly guy, knew Father O’Leary vaguely. He was as keen as mustard to help us catch whoever had done this terrible thing to a fellow priest. Actually, he was a bit gabby, to be honest.’ Grant smiled and shook his head. ‘Or maybe it’s just my natural easy-going manner …’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Inspector Towers, and glanced at the others, shaking his head.

‘Well, long and short, Father Flannigan let slip that there’d been a couple of complaints made against O’Leary and this had prompted his move to Stepney. He wouldn’t elaborate, but I dug a little deeper and found there had actually been a complaint to the local police too, suggestions of “sexual impropriety” as the report put it.’

‘Really?’ Hughes said, sitting forward.

Pendragon stopped pacing for a moment. ‘Was there an official investigation?’

‘Looks like it came to nothing. The Church did their usual job of keeping things quiet. Surrey police found no evidence and dropped it.’

‘But then he moves to the East End,’ Pendragon said half to himself. ‘How long was O’Leary in Croydon?’

Grant flicked through his notes. ‘Got there in ’ninety-eight,’ he said, and turned another page. ‘Before Croydon he’d been the priest of a small church in rural Essex, between Billericay and Braintree.’

‘Braintree?’ Pendragon and Turner said in unison.

Grant looked a little startled.

‘Was he there for long?’