Michael White - The Art of Murder

‘So he knew more than he put in the fifteen thousand words in the file?’

‘Tons more, Inspector. But he kept it all up here.’ And Arcade tapped the side of his head.

‘So what you’re saying is, you knew there was someone out there who was intent on shutting up your uncle?’

‘Yes, but it was still a big surprise when Berrick copped it.’

‘Because you thought Noel Thursk would be the first, perhaps the only, victim?’

Arcade nodded and looked away. Pendragon could hear the young man take several slow, deep breaths. ‘It took me a while to see how the pieces fitted together. And it wasn’t until the priest was murdered that I managed it. That’s when I got really scared.’

‘Why?’

‘Why do you think, Inspector? I sussed out who had killed all three men, and why.’

Pendragon stared at him in silence. ‘Okay,’ he said after a moment. ‘The stage is yours, Francis.’

‘My uncle had only written about the early part of Juliette Kinnear’s life, and her background, so I started to think that he was not taken care of for what he knew about her or any of the Kinnears. There was nothing salacious there. He hadn’t even reached the part about Juliette stabbing the gardener. But you would have read the first bit by now, yeah?’

Pendragon nodded.

‘Old Uncle Noel didn’t pull any punches about the London art scene in the late eighties and into the nineties, did he?’

‘No,’ Pendragon responded. ‘But no one is mentioned specifically by name.’

Arcade snorted. ‘He didn’t need to do that, Inspector. Everyone who was there at the time would know who was who. And …’ Arcade put up a hand ‘… I know what you’re going to say. So what? If they’re all implicated and they all know who’s who, but no one else does, what’s the problem?’

Pendragon tilted his head as though to say: Very well, carry on.

‘Perhaps you’re at a disadvantage, Inspector. Because I had my uncle’s confidence and I knew that he was working himself up to naming names later on in the book. Obviously, someone suspected this and decided to silence Noel.’

‘So, you believe the killer is someone who was mentioned vaguely in the first part of the book?’

‘I know it. And it was confirmed by murder number three.’

‘Oh?’

‘I just wish I had been quicker to realise that the murderer had also gone completely mad … that my darling Chrissy was in danger too. But I was so fixated with the sequence of murders, I thought I’d figured out who would be next, and it wasn’t Chrissy.’ He suddenly brought his hands to his face and wept. His shoulders shook. Pendragon waited for him to pull himself together.

‘But you said you knew she was in danger?’

Arcade let his hands fall from his face. His eyes were red. ‘Only after it was too late.’

Pendragon shuffled his chair forward and leaned his elbows on the metal table. ‘So. Your big moment, Francis. Who is the killer?’

Arcade sat back and folded his arms. ‘It was obviously someone mentioned in the first part of Noel’s draft. Someone with a big secret to hide. Someone with a lot to lose. Someone with the skill to carry out such a series of murders and clever enough to make it seem like a serial killer hung up on some artistic theme. He was known as Jerome Travis in the early nineties. He was a young kid then, about the age I am now, a medical student who found a way to make a tidy little packet on the side to subsidise his grant.’

Pendragon shook his head.

‘You know, don’t you, Inspector?’

‘Francis, don’t you think you’ve become obsessed?’

‘Obsessed?’ Francis Arcade suddenly erupted. ‘I’m not obsessed. I know the truth. And I will hate myself for the rest of my life for realising it too late to save the only woman I’ve ever loved. The only woman I will ever love.’

‘But, Francis,’ Pendragon spoke softly, trying to calm the boy down, ‘where’s your evidence?’

The young artist was gripping the table and taking more deep breaths. Pendragon could tell how important this story was to him, how he wanted to keep it rational, how he did not want to come across as crazy himself.

‘Okay,’ Arcade said, keeping his voice remarkably measured. ‘These are the reasons I think Jerome Travis, aka Dr Geoff Hickle, has murdered four people.’

Dr Geoff Hickle looked tired but perfectly composed. He was a well-built man and tall. His hair, although curly and thick at the sides, was thinning dramatically on top, and he had a dark shadow of bristle about his chin and cheeks. He had large brown eyes and heavy brows, thick, sensuous lips and fine teeth that had clearly seen a recent makeover. He ran a surprisingly delicate hand down the left side of his face.

They were in Interview Room 3, Hickle on one side of the metal table, Pendragon and Turner on the other. Pendragon had just finished recording the time and date and those present. ‘… Dr Hickle has declined the offer of a lawyer,’ he concluded and let the silence hang in the room for a moment. Then he leaned forward with his arms on the table.

‘Thank you for coming in, Dr Hickle. I appreciate this must be a very difficult time for you.’

Hickle gave a slight nod.

‘How long have you known Ms Chapman?’

‘We met about eighteen months ago.’ His voice was a warm baritone, a comforting sound.

‘How did you meet?’

‘Oh,’ Hickle sagged a little and then exhaled, ‘I met Chrissy at a private view in Bath. A friend of hers, Jimmy Portine Della Rosa, the sculptor, had a show there. I was at a conference and a colleague dragged me along.’ He smiled briefly, flashing those teeth. ‘As you can tell, I’m not a big fan of art. Anyway, Chrissy was there, and … well, we hit it off straight away.’

‘What was the conference about?’

‘Sorry?’

Turner glanced at his boss and Pendragon ignored him. ‘The subject of the conference in Bath?’

Hickle opened his eyes wide and flicked a glance to left then right, making it clear he thought it an odd question. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Er … It was called Skin Regeneration in Stage Three Burns Patients: A Postoperative Analysis . Dr Fiona Wood … You know, the Australian researcher? … she was hosting it.’

Pendragon was nodding his head. ‘Yes, Dr Wood.’ He looked down for a moment then stared into Hickle’s eyes. ‘You’re a burns specialist at the London Hospital, is that right?’

‘It is,’ Hickle replied.

‘And you were working at the hospital at the time Ms Chapman was murdered?’

‘I don’t know, Inspector. No one has told me when they think the murder occurred.’

‘Ah, I’m sorry,’ Pendragon said, and glanced at Turner, who opened a folder and slid it across to the DCI. He took his time reading through the half-dozen lines of the murder report related to the estimated time of death. It had just been emailed over from Jones’s lab. ‘Early yesterday morning. Between nine and ten.’ Pendragon looked up at the interviewee.

‘My shift began at ten-thirty. I’m pretty sure you’ve already checked that.’

Pendragon ignored the comment. ‘So, pardon me if I appear blunt, Doctor, but can you account for your whereabouts yesterday morning?’

‘The last time I saw Chrissy, I was leaving the flat, going for a run. She had been working late in her studio the night before, and was half-asleep. Must have been seven-fifteen … seven-thirty. I left her in bed. When I got back, the place was empty.’

‘Wasn’t that a bit strange?’

‘No,’ Hickle replied, shaking his head slightly and meeting Pendragon’s eyes. ‘Not at all. I go for long runs. I was out for an hour. I just assumed Chrissy had rushed back to the studio. She quite often gets … got … obsessed with her work and couldn’t leave it alone. I thought it must have been one of those times.’