Michael White - The Art of Murder

‘The best form of explanation is action,’ Oglebee said, and clapped his hands.

He disappeared for a moment. Bettleman tried craning his neck, but was pinned down on the table too tightly. Then the other man reappeared a few feet behind his head. Bettleman could not see him properly, but could just make out a dark boxy shape on spindly legs. It took him a few seconds to realise it was a camera being positioned on a wooden tripod.

Then he felt a current of air move close to his body. Twisting his head, he saw white shapes. Four women appeared around the table. They looked similar to the girls he had seen at the house in Oxford — willowy, tall and blonde. Their hair hung to waist-level and each of them wore a slender coronet of white flowers. At a signal from Oglebee the women took a step forward, so that they were all ranged close to Bettleman, two of them to each side of him.

Oglebee stood to the left of the camera, making a small adjustment to the contraption. Then he picked up a flash on a wooden pole. ‘You see, Jack, I could never paint. But thanks to the technology of photography, I can capture moments, just like you do. And with this technology, I, like you, can express myself. I thought I would add a little humour to the piece. Four girls, one for each of your subjects in London. A nice symmetry, don’t you think?’ Then he walked round to the rear of the camera, made a final modification to one of the legs of the tripod, straightened up, and with the flash held out at arm’s length, parallel with his head, took a deep breath. ‘Ladies,’ he said.

The girls turned slightly to look at Bettleman. He tried to focus on them, terror and confusion ripping through him, his stomach churning. He felt vomit rise up in his throat. He did not see the girls’ hands move, did not see the blades until they were raised over his body. He made to scream, but nothing emerged, his muscles had seized in shock.

‘On three,’ Oglebee announced. ‘One, two, three …’

And the flash burst, casting a white radiance across the room.

Stepney, Sunday 1 February

Jack Pendragon felt more relaxed than he had been in a long time. If he had, during the previous week, found the time to imagine the end of the investigation into what the tabloids were calling the Modern Art Murders, he might have pictured things calming down pretty quickly. But that would have been far from the truth. In the three days since Gemma Locke had been apprehended, Pendragon had been the subject of media adulation. Much to Jack’s satisfaction, Fred Taylor from the local rag had been the lone dissenting voice. And when the hack had refused to soften his line after the arrest, his editor had insisted he take a long-overdue vacation.

Gemma Locke was now in custody and undergoing extensive psychological testing. Geoff Hickle was on the mend. His ear had been reattached and was taking, but it would be a while before his glorious teeth would be back to their former state. A thorough search of Gemma Locke’s flat had turned up the original collection of letters she had claimed were written by Jack the Ripper. Pendragon had held them between his gloved hands before bagging them for forensic analysis. After Dr Newman had finished with them, he had contacted Professor Stokes, an eminent archaeologist and expert in the history of London at Queen Mary College. Six months earlier, Stokes had been instrumental in helping Pendragon solve the mystery of how a ring once owned by the Borgia family had ended up on an ancient skeleton found on a building site off Mile End Road. Pendragon knew that if anyone could authenticate the letters, Stokes could.

Jack looked up from the pages lying on his kitchen table, past piles of other books and papers, to survey the living-room of his flat. The walls were still multi-coloured, the grubby pale blue only partially covered by fresh paint; half the skirting boards were still to be sanded. Heaps of unironed washing lay on the sofa, and the sink was piled high with unwashed dishes. He had let the place go during the past fortnight, but did not feel bad about it. He had had more pressing matters to attend to. He would get back to the decorating and smarten the place up when he could.

Then his eye was drawn to the kitchen worktop and the solitary birthday card standing close to the kettle. He reached over and pulled it towards him. It was from his son Simon. It read simply: ‘Dad, have a good one — 32 again? Love, Si’. Pendragon placed it back on the worktop and turned to his books, thinking that, after the chaos of the last two weeks, he really did not mind spending his forty-seventh birthday on his own, in the peace and quiet of his flat. He had never been one for parties and fuss.

The doorbell rang. He got up from the table and walked over to the intercom on the wall near the door. ‘If it’s Jehovah’s Witnesses … go away. Aren’t you supposed to be in church?’

‘Guv, it’s me.’

‘Turner? What is it?’

‘Can I come up?’

Pendragon opened the door to his sergeant and showed him over to the sofa. He collected up two piles of clothes and strode through to the bedroom with them. When he returned, Jez was looking around at the half-painted walls.

‘I know,’ Pendragon sighed. ‘Looks a bloody mess.’

Turner smiled. ‘I think you have a good excuse.’

‘Yes, well. What can I do for you?’

‘I thought … well, as it’s your birthday and all … I could buy you a drink?’

Pendragon ran his hand over his forehead, then folded his arms. ‘That’s very kind of you …’

‘I guess you don’t like to be reminded of birthdays any more.’

Pendragon produced a smile. ‘No, haven’t for a long time. But the drink …’

‘’Fraid I can’t take no for an answer over that drink, sir. Looks like you’ve been slaving over a hot textbook. Thirsty work.’

Jack laughed. ‘You’ve twisted my arm!’

‘So, you discovered anything amazing from those letters?’ the sergeant asked as they descended the stairs to the lobby.

‘Professor Stokes has confirmed they do indeed date from the 1880s, but has to prepare them for some invasive analyses to see if he can find out anything more. To be honest, he’s not very hopeful.’

They reached the ground floor and stepped out into the freezing early afternoon. There was a stiff breeze. ‘Good God!’ Pendragon exclaimed. It felt as though the cold was removing several layers of skin from his face.

‘Yeah, a bit nippy,’ Turner responded as they crossed the road. ‘But Stokes gave you photocopies, right? I read most of them on Friday at the station.’

‘More or less. He has some sort of scanner to duplicate delicate manuscripts without damaging them, and he was kind enough to pass copies on to me.’

‘That’s why the washing hasn’t been ironed!’

Pendragon glanced at the sergeant. ‘That and the constant demands from the media.’

‘Oh, to be a celebrity!’ Turner quipped. ‘And, can you now answer the question that’s troubled Ripperologists for over a century? Do you know who he was?’ Turner looked genuinely excited.

‘Oh, come on! Do you think if I did I’d be going to the pub with you now?’

‘No, probably not, sir. So that would be a “no” then?’

‘Sadly, nothing matches up. I think the letters were certainly written by a contemporary, and some details given about the murders prove almost conclusively that they were written by someone in the know … quite possibly The Ripper himself. But that’s about as far as it goes.’

‘Why?’

‘The letters are a frustrating blend of truth and lies. There never was a Fellwick Manor in Hemel Hempstead, nor a Sandler family fitting their description living in the town. There was no William Sandler born on 10 August 1867, and no such student enrolled at Exeter College, Oxford, under that name at any time between 1884 and 1886. But there was, and still is, a Wentworth Street, and there was even a corn-chandler’s shop there that burned down in October 1888. But again, absolutely no trace of a Sandler or a Harry Tumbril ever living there. There was a White Star Line ship called the Oceanic which crisscrossed the Atlantic at that time, but there is no record of our quarry purchasing a ticket to New York. And, once he arrived in America, if indeed that was where he ended up, he simply vanished, never to be heard of again.’