Michael White - The Art of Murder

‘What did you do then?’

‘I took a shower, had breakfast, hung around the flat.’ He shrugged. ‘Went through some notes. Then I walked to work. I left the flat about ten, I think.’

Pendragon sat back. ‘Okay, Doctor. Cast your mind back over the past week. Can you tell me where you were early Wednesday morning?’

Hickle looked down at the table and then lifted his head slowly. ‘So, you do have me down as a suspect?’

‘Well, I assumed you knew that.’

‘Okay,’ Hickle said slowly, his voice now devoid of its former warmth. ‘Last Wednesday morning … Yes. Wednesday is my early shift. I was at the hospital by five-forty for a six o’clock start.’

‘And earlier?’

‘Earlier? Well, I was asleep.’

‘At Ms Chapman’s flat, or yours?’

‘Mine.’

‘In …’ Pendragon glanced at the notes again … ‘Wilmore Terrace?’ Pendragon continued to look at the report in front of him for a moment. ‘And the following morning? Thursday?’

‘When are we talking … one o’clock? Two?’

Pendragon looked up at him, his face completely expressionless.

‘Between three and five.’

Hickle leaned forward, flashed Turner a black look and then stared back at Pendragon. ‘I was asleep.’

The sergeant made to speak, but Hickle interrupted him. ‘At Chrissy’s place.’

‘And Friday night, Saturday morning?’

‘Chrissy and I had a quiet night in. But, of course, that can’t be confirmed now, can it?’

Pendragon studied Hickle’s face. The man was irritated, but he was remaining quite calm.

‘It doesn’t look good, does it, Doctor?’ Pendragon said.

‘Oh, nonsense, Inspector.’ He flashed those teeth for a second, giving the policemen a slightly scornful look. ‘There are many people within a mile of here who could not prove where they were on those four occasions. Doesn’t mean to say any of them is your man.’

‘No, you’re right,’ Pendragon replied. ‘But I think the field narrows itself considerably if we only deal with those who cannot prove where they were on those four occasions and who also knew all four victims.’

Hickle grimaced. ‘What?’

‘You knew Kingsley Berrick, Noel Thursk, Father Michael O’Leary and, of course, the final victim.’

‘No, you’re wrong, Inspector. I met Mr Berrick once. I believe I may even have been introduced to Thursk, but who was the third victim … O’Leary? I’d never even heard the name until I read the local paper the other day.’

‘Well, all three men knew you. But probably not as Geoff Hickle. They would have been more familiar with Jerome Travis.’

Hickle looked genuinely surprised. ‘Ah, I see. So it’s about my student misdemeanours? That was an awfully long time ago!’

‘I’m afraid there’s rather more to it than that.’ Turner passed Pendragon a second folder. ‘Would you like me to refresh your memory of those far-off days?’

Hickle tilted his head. ‘I don’t think I could stop you.’

‘You were studying medicine at St Thomas’s from ’ninety-one to ’ninety-six. You’re an Essex boy.’

Hickle gave the policemen a faint smile. ‘You know what they say about taking the boy out of Essex …’

‘Grew up in Billericay. Around 1994 you met Juliette Kinnear there during a summer vacation from college. She was seventeen and trying to break into the art scene. Through her family connections, she’d made the acquaintance of some of the younger movers and shakers in London, including Kingsley Berrick and Noel Thursk, who was at that time an aspiring painter himself.’

‘This is an entertaining story,’ Hickle said. ‘But what relevance does any of it have to Chrissy’s death?’

Pendragon ignored him. ‘It was about this time that you realised you could make some serious money. You were fed up with living the student life on the breadline. Mum and Dad lived in a council house, so there was nothing to be had there. And this is where you got really lucky. You’ve always been a man of faith, haven’t you, Doctor?’

Hickle nodded. ‘Yes. Is that a crime now?’

Pendragon looked at Turner. ‘Sergeant. You’ve done a lot of the leg-work. Perhaps you would like to continue the story.’

Turner cleared his throat, looked down at the information in front of him, intertwined his fingers over the papers and looked Hickle straight in the eye. ‘Your family have been strict Catholics since your great-grandfather’s time, and through the Church you met the local priest, one Father Michael O’Leary. Now, Father O’Leary is a … sorry, was … a very strange character. A priest, who was interested in little boys … Nothing very unusual there. But he also liked his recreational drugs. Somehow, and we haven’t worked this out yet, he became very fond of cocaine. And cocaine, as you would know, Dr Hickle, is expensive. So, to finance his habit, our friend Michael O’Leary did a little dealing on the quiet. And when he met you … well, it was a marriage made in Heaven. If you’ll excuse the pun.’

‘Look,’ Hickle said, turning from the sergeant to Pendragon, ‘okay, I put my hands up for the crimes I committed … What? Almost twenty years ago? Press charges … ruin me if that gives you a kick. But it won’t bring Chrissy back, and it won’t find you your killer.’

Pendragon looked down at the file. ‘Dr Hickle, this is the situation. You knew all the victims. You must have discovered that Noel Thursk was writing a book about your old girlfriend, Juliette. You were concerned … no, very concerned, and justifiably so, that Thursk would destroy your medical career. It then occurred to you that there were others who knew all about your past and that they would back up Thursk’s sordid little story. But the piece of information that really nails it is this.’ And he passed a sheet of paper across the table to Hickle. ‘As a man of science, you’ll know what this is and you’ll be able to interpret it.’

‘It’s a DNA analysis.’

‘Correct. More precisely, it’s a DNA analysis of hairs found on some machinery used to create your murder-scene tableaux. The DNA comes from Juliette Kinnear.’

‘What?’

‘Your old girlfriend, Juliette Kinnear.’

‘But she died a very long time ago.’ Hickle looked utterly lost, and for a second both Pendragon and Turner felt a twinge of uncertainty.

‘But you were together for two years, were you not? A long time in which to acquire hair. What was it? Did she cut her hair on a whim and you preserved a clipping? Or did you swap locks as a romantic gesture?’

Hickle’s face was grey. ‘This is insane,’ he managed to say. ‘What sort of crazy story is this?’

‘Do you deny knowing O’Leary?’

‘No.’

‘Do you deny knowing Berrick and Thursk?’

‘No.’

‘Do you deny having a relationship with Juliette Kinnear? Do you deny selling drugs to the artists you knew in the nineties? Do you deny being terrified by the prospect of Noel Thursk’s book?’

‘No … No … Yes!’

‘Oh, come on, Geoff. Or should I call you Jerome?’

‘Look, okay. I knew those people. But I had no idea this Noel Thursk guy was writing a book. And as for Juliette … it’s absurd. Yes, we dated for a while, but … DNA, hair … oh, come on, Inspector.’ Then, suddenly, Hickle seemed to bring his emotions under control again. ‘You have nothing on me. This is all circumstantial.’ He glared at Pendragon, studiously ignoring Turner.

Pendragon took a deep breath and looked at the papers in front of him. ‘You’re absolutely right, Dr Hickle. But it’s enough to force you to give prints and agree to a DNA swab. And it’s enough to keep you in custody while we find irrefutable evidence that you have killed four innocent people. Then we will most definitely have something on you.’