Michael White - The Art of Murder

‘I assume you didn’t get a better look at him?’

‘No, guv. They obviously knew their way around the place, had an escape route planned. A door at the back was open when I reached it, but no sign of anyone.’

They had reached the other side of the crates. It was a space about three metres square. In the middle of the floor there were four metal rings in the concrete. Lengths of cut rope were tied around these. There was a puddle of liquid at one end of the arrangement. Around the edge of the liquid, the concrete had started to dissolve. The puddle had been cordoned off with police tape. To one side stood two plastic barrels. Pendragon noted the stickers reading ‘Corrosive’ on one of them. Two uniforms stood to the right of the scene with Jimmy Thatcher and Inspector Rob Grant. To the left stood two spindly wooden chairs. Sergeant Roz Mackleby was in one, a young woman wrapped in an ambulance blanket was seated in the other.

Pendragon’s mind automatically flashed back to the scene on Stepney Green six days earlier: Sergeant Mackleby comforting another woman in the back of an ambulance while close by a hideously mutilated body hung in a tree.

Jack walked over to the two women. ‘Ms French, I’m DCI Pendragon.’

Vanessa French looked up, meeting his gaze. She was in her mid-twenties. Clearly undernourished, but pretty. Her shoulder-length hair hung loose. Her make-up was smudged and tear-streaked. She had a strong, intelligent face.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘DCI Pendragon, I really want to be with Gary right now.’

‘I understand. But the medics will do everything they can for him and we can take you straight to the hospital from here.’

She looked at the concrete and then back at Pendragon. ‘Okay. I’ve tried to describe what happened already. I imagine you would like to ask me to again.’

Pendragon found a faint comforting smile from somewhere. ‘If you’ll indulge me.’

‘Where do I start? At the point where I crumpled into hysterical tears or before that?’

Pendragon said nothing, just waved a hand in front of her as if to say, You decide.

‘God! I feel so utterly bloody useless … I should have stopped them.’

‘No. You did the right thing.’

She took a deep breath. ‘I thought Gary — that’s my boyfriend, Gary Townsend — was having an affair. He’s been going out late at night recently. He’s Arts Editor for the Daily Telegraph — and, yes, I know getting out and about is par for the course in his job, but I was growing suspicious. So I followed him here.’ She looked slightly embarrassed for a moment. ‘Anyway, I got here about one-thirty, I suppose. The shutters were closed, but the side door was unlocked. I crept in. I could hear some weird sounds coming from around here at the back of the warehouse.

‘I made my way between the boxes and hid just over there.’ She pointed to the spot. ‘And then I saw it.’ She gasped suddenly and put a hand to her mouth. Mackleby leaned forward, but Vanessa French pushed her hand away gently.

‘I’m okay,’ she said and took a deep breath. ‘Gary was bound, tied down. It was shadowy. I couldn’t see properly. There was a figure in some sort of plastic suit and visor. He leaned forward with a plastic container, opened the top and peered down at Gary. Gary started to struggle. He was gagged, but I could hear him trying to shout, trying to scream. It was horrible.’ She paused again then shook herself, trying physically to dispel the terror. ‘The figure in the suit started talking, but his voice was distorted — like those voices you get on songs sometimes — do you know what I mean?’

Pendragon glanced at Mackleby, but she was concentrating her gaze on Vanessa French and did not see him.

‘He said something like, “Now, my Edvard Munch …”’ Then he just poured the contents of the plastic container all over Gary’s face.’

Vanessa stopped and looked appealingly at Pendragon, then she pressed her hands to her face and dragged them slowly down her cheeks. Pendragon felt a cold chill run along his spine.

‘Gary … Gary screamed. He screamed and he screamed.’ Vanessa took a couple of very deep breaths. ‘I was frozen to the spot … literally. I know it sounds like something out of a bad detective novel, but I did. I felt the world fall apart around me. I felt sick. Then … I ran.’

She stopped again and Pendragon searched her face. She was trying valiantly to keep control of her emotions.

‘I got outside. I threw up. I was crying. My eyes were streaming — it must have been the fumes … Oh God!’ She gasped and brought both hands to her mouth. ‘Imagine … just imagine what Gary must have ….’

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of a camera shutter. Pendragon glanced round and saw that the police photographer had arrived.

‘That’s when I called you …’

‘Thank you, Vanessa,’ Pendragon said, and leaned forward to take her hand. She jerked a little as he touched her, then looked up from the concrete to stare into his eyes again.

‘Please get the fucking bastard, Inspector,’ she hissed, and withdrew her hand.

‘So you saw nothing on your shift outside Hickle’s flat?’ Pendragon said as he and Turner jumped into the car.

‘No, nothing. Vickers rocked up about midnight. About an hour later we got the call to come here. I phoned Vickers on my way to the warehouse. He reckoned no one had left Hickle’s building.’

Pendragon negotiated the narrow road past the industrial units and out onto the main street. ‘Hickle could have slipped out,’ he said.

‘It’s possible I suppose, but not likely.’

‘Well, then, if Hickle is involved he must have an accomplice.’

‘Unless the guy is completely innocent, guv,’ Turner said.

To Mrs Sonia Thomson

17 October 1888

‘So it was you!’ Archibald exclaimed, his face pale as winter snow.

‘It very much looks like it, old fellow,’ I replied, throwing the bag containing my materials on to the bed.

‘You killed those women.’ He stared at me like a wax figure, so shocked, his eyes expressed no emotion. Just the corner of his mouth twitched. A nervous tic, I assumed. I had never seen Archibald nervous or even worried, not even during those dramatic times in the opium dens. He was always level-headed, self-confident.

‘So now you know, Archibald,’ I said quietly; and suddenly, he was rushing towards me, his fists balled.

As you know, he was a chunky fellow and strong. But he was at least fifteen years my senior and all that good living was hardly to his advantage. He threw a punch that went wildly awry. I extended my foot and he tripped, landing heavily on the floor close to the dining table where I had recently written my letters and planned my masterpiece. In an instant, I was on him. One hard punch to the back of his neck and Archibald was out cold.

I laid him on the bed flat on his back and looked down at his prone form. As I turned away the latest painting caught my eye. It sat there on the easel, untouched by our brief struggle. I approached and studied it carefully. It was a fine piece, and if I had decided to complete it, it would have merited every ounce of praise it would doubtless have received. But it was not to be. Looking down, I found my painting materials: a collection of jars with brushes poised at different angles, a tray of paints and a large bottle of thinner. Picking up the bottle, I opened the top, breathed in the rich odour and then poured the flammable liquid liberally around the room. From my coat pocket I extracted a box of matches and struck one, watching the flame grow and shimmer before my eyes.

The match landed on the carpet a few feet across the room and the thinning fluid caught immediately. Striding towards the bed, I pulled Archibald up and propped him over my left shoulder. On the way towards the door, I grabbed my bag of knives and implements and dashed for the stairs just as the fire started to take hold.