Killing the Emperors

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘The Frankfurt School, Inspector. Surely you know about the Frankfurt School? The fons et origo of critical theory. That is where Hortense and Gavin and so many others learned that Western culture is a culture of domination that must be challenged and replaced. When Gavin became principal, he got rid of the terrible dinosaur who was Professor of Fine Art and gave the job to Hortense. She proved magnificent in making the college a pioneer in popularising postmodern discourse. Good heavens, you know they used to think the importance of art was that it was decorative?’ He shook his head and gave a little laugh. ‘Hortense taught her students the great truth that what matters is significance.’

  ‘You mentioned that Mr. Herblock wanted her to talk to a collector. Would that be unusual? Would she normally have much to do with collectors?’

  ‘No. Hortense was not attracted by the social side of the art world or by rich people. As I said, she was a true scholar.’ He smiled proudly. ‘Someone once described her as a Robespierre among art historians.’

  ‘And she saw that as a compliment?’

  ‘Of course. Hortense was a woman of great integrity. Once she learned from masters like Jacques Derrida and Michel Foucault that the imperative was to replace any epistemological foundation for art history by focussing on the processes of cultural transformation, she was on a crusade.’

  Pooley felt a devil rise in him. ‘A crusade, sir? An interesting choice of word.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Wilde. ‘How could I have used such an offensive word? I’m horrified. When I think of the seminal work Hortense was doing in exposing Islamophobia in Western art, and then I use such a term!’ He buried his face in his hands.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said Pooley. ‘I understand. Grief can do terrible things to people.’

  ***

  The baroness had thought long and hard about Sarkovsky. She had no doubt that he was now psychotic, was virtually certain he had had Thorogood and Hortense killed, but was no clearer as to why. The only hope for the survivors, she reasoned, was to keep him interested enough to stagger their deaths rather than just send in thugs with machine-guns to mow them down.

  Since her natural optimism kept her believing that her friends were smart and resourceful enough to come to the rescue soon, she was intent on staving off disaster. Sarkovsky liked cruelty and had little imagination, and it had taken her idea about nude painting to stop him insisting they have gladiator fights with real swords. Nude dancing was another desperate measure which she successfully traded for his idea of forcing everyone to have intercourse with the people they obviously least fancied. ‘Think Scheherazade,’ she said to herself yet again. ‘Keep him sweet.’

  She tentatively once more raised the matter of Marilyn’s billions. Surely there was some way that she could buy their safety? But once again, Sarkovsky snorted his disagreement. The thrust of his argument seemed to be that in these days of tyranny by financial regulators, a decent businessman like himself could not expect that a couple of billion could change hands for no apparent reason without anyone noticing. He was ruined in Russia and the West, he was making his arrangements to escape to South America with enough money to live comfortably, but in the meantime, he was settling scores with people who had made a fool of him. One thing Sarkovsky really didn’t like, he had made plain on numerous occasions, was to be made a fool of.

  ‘Hortense Wilde! She poisonous art person. I say Chester Herblock I want to buy art same like you and me see in Europe. I get offer good collection, quick sale. Herblock say outmoded rubbish. Not hot contemporary. I say not rubbish. And keep value. He present me that bitch whore, she agree to him, and give me stupid reasons. But everybody say she is great scholar, so I think is truth. I reject collection and that Marilyn bitch whore buys it. I buy more stuff Herblock recommends. It rubbish. Real rubbish. Very rubbish. Fault of bloody Hortense Wilde.’

  ‘I think she probably believed what she told you.’

  ‘If she believe, she crazy. If not believe, she bad woman. But she make Oleg appeeer stupid. Same Hirst shark,’ he sniggered. ‘Your idea.’

  Memories of other ideas she’d had for killing artists flickered through her memory, and the baroness winced. Not for the first time, she vividly recollected some of the times she had mocked Sarkovsky. Would the time she had laughed at his shirt and he had ranted and raved and finally stormed off in a sulk count as making him ‘appeeer stupid’? Mindful of the hoped-for St. Martha’s bequest, she had apologised the following morning and he had muttered something about how words were a sting more wounding than guns. On this, she hadn’t agreed with him then and she definitely didn’t agree with him now.

  ***

  Amiss was in such an anguished state that he’d contemplated the brandy bottle lustfully, but he then concluded that taking to drink at eleven a.m. was something to be done if Jack was murdered. Not when he and her friends were still hoping she might survive. ‘We are not all as self-indulgent and self-absorbed as you, Plutarch,’ he said. The cat opened one eye and sneered, and Amiss pushed her roughly off the kitchen table. He was still licking the blood off his calf and wondering how such a fat animal could have been so dexterous, when his phone rang.

  ‘I’ve only got a minute,’ said Pooley. ‘And I know you’ll be going out now to meet Mary Lou. I’m relying on you to steady her.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but tell me one thing. How the hell can you transport something like that tank? It must have weighed a ton.’

  ‘It would have required a truck with a winch, and at every stage the process would have required some very strong men. But gaining access was dead easy. They’d have been able to drive right up to the front of the building to dump her.’

  ‘Security guards?’

  ‘It’s like prisons. They’re worried about what goes on inside. Not outside.’

  ‘No sightings, I suppose?’

  ‘Not yet. Must go, Robert.’

  ‘Where do you think the next corpse might be deposited?’

  ‘Well, obviously we’re thinking about that. Can’t stop. ‘Bye.’

  ***

  ‘After lunch, Big Brother wishes us to dance.’

  ‘Dance?’ asked Fortune. ‘What do you mean “dance”?’

  ‘Depending on what music he plays us, we will dance appropriately. He has kindly agreed shortly to supply us with champagne to get us in the mood.’

  She sat down and surveyed the diminished group. ‘Can everyone dance?’

  Marilyn, Herblock, and Fortune, it turned out, attended many balls and regarded themselves as decent performers. Fortune, indeed, fancied himself as a master of the foxtrot. Pringle wasn’t keen, but said he could shuffle round the floor if required. Truss was so unhappy and dislocated by the loss of Hortense that he could hardly talk at all, let alone about dancing. And Briggs and Anastasia both said they knew no steps but liked to party.

  ‘And you, Jack?’ asked Briggs.

  ‘I have been told I display élan, if not precision.’

  ‘What’s élan?’

  ‘Zeal.’

  ‘I can imagine that,’ said Anastasia.

  No one had the heart to try any more general conversation, though at various times one or two of them would get up and walk around the room. The baroness noted with some satisfaction that they avoided looking at the rotting cowhead. Indeed, the day before, when Briggs had said how much he hated it, no one had said anything except the baroness, who had quipped that it seemed Hirst was for Christmas, not for life.

  When Big Brother said ‘Go look hatch,’ they all busied themselves ferrying its contents to be laid out on Trixie and Joleen. As they finished filling glasses and sat back, the baroness cleared her throat. ‘Big Brother has given me ecstasy tablets and says we’re to take one each to help us get into the spirit of dancing.’

  ‘How do we know they’re not cyanide?�
�� wailed Truss.

  ‘If they are,’ said Briggs, ‘why wouldn’t we take them? If he wants to kill us, he’s going to kill us anyway. If he doesn’t, they’re probably ecstasy. Here, shove them over here.’

  The baroness passed him the box she had taken from her pocket and he and Anastasia had a look. ‘They’re ecstasy,’ he said.

  ‘Certainly look that way,’ she said. ‘Let’s take them now. They won’t work for a while.’

  Anastasia, Briggs, and the baroness washed a tablet down with champagne and passed the box around. With only Fortune expostulating, the others all followed suit. Grumbling, Fortune finally did the same.

  ‘There’s just one other thing,’ said the baroness. ‘When the music starts it’s the signal for us to take our clothes off.’

  ‘I thought he might want another nuddy game,’ said Anastasia.

  ‘I am expected to dance the foxtrot naked?’ asked Fortune.

  ‘That’s the deal, I’m afraid,’ said the baroness. ‘Shall we do it with a good grace?’

  ***

  ‘I had to choose here,’ said Mary Lou. ‘It’s the last place I met her. She loved it.’

  Amiss and Mary Lou were sitting in Covent Garden, in the snug of The Salisbury, a pub favoured by the baroness because of its Victorian fittings, its connection with one of the few British prime ministers of whom she approved, its obdurate refusal to countenance music, television, or gaming machines, its kindly staff, and a snug which at many times during the day offered total privacy.

  ‘You’re speaking of her in the past tense.’

  ‘Oh, God, so I am. I can’t sleep much and when I do I have nightmares. I guess I’m really spooked.’

  ‘Hard not to be. Now what’ll you drink?’

  ‘A pint of Tribute.’

  It was an unexpected choice from someone who normally drank either wine or Coca-Cola, but Amiss fetched two pints. ‘To Jack,’ he said. ‘May she have a safe landing.’

  Mary Lou’s face creased up. ‘I don’t like beer much, but I had to have this. Being here is bringing it all back. She went on about the merits of various brands of real ale for ages, until she settled on Tribute. Then she got upset that I’d only have a half. “What’s the matter with you, Mary Lou? You’re not becoming anorexic, are you? This noble Cornish beer deserves respect. Not half measures.”’

  Amiss laughed. ‘I can hear her.’

  ‘So I tried to explain that I have to look good on television and that means I really can’t afford to put on even an ounce. The BBC is even more fattist than ageist. When it comes to women, that is. And she said “Rubbish. No one has such an informed and trenchant interviewing style. You’re irreplaceable even if you turn into one of those Red Hot Mamas.”’

  ‘She’s very loyal to us, isn’t she, in her own way. Not that I’m implying her assessment isn’t right.’

  ‘I hope it is, but of course they also like me because I’m relatively young, passably good-looking, and black. Which in the Beeb almost makes up for my being American.’

  Her face creased up again. ‘And that was when I passed on Ellis’ latest warning that Sarkovsky was a real bad lot and she must have nothing to do with him. She said she wouldn’t be seeing him any more and that we were all fusspots.’

  ‘Well, we’ve certainly got plenty to fuss about today.’ He checked his phone again. ‘Still nothing from Myles.’

  Mary Lou leaned forward and took his hand. ‘I’ve started praying. Dammit, I’m an American. It’s what we do. Anyway, I can’t think of anything else that might help.’

  He put his arms around her and hugged her tightly. A man with a camera came into the snug and took a photograph. ‘So who’s this you’re so friendly with, Mary Lou Dinsmore? It’s not your husband, is it? Boyfriend?’

  She looked at his triumphant expression and burst into tears.

  Chapter Eleven

  The assistant commissioner was looking shell-shocked. ‘Sarkovsky’s not in his Knightsbridge apartment, sir,’ said Milton, ‘nor in any of his other residences, nor on his yacht, and in fact hasn’t been seen for even longer than the ten people I believe he kidnapped. We need a warrant. Immediately. I’ve got the paperwork all ready.’

  ‘What exactly are you looking for?’

  ‘We need initially to search all his properties in case he’s imprisoned them in any of them. If we draw a blank, we need to look for information on some place he might own or have rented where he might be keeping them. We need immediate access to his lawyers and accountants too and all his domestic and office employees. And we need to put an army on checking land registers plus title deeds and all the rest of it.’

  ‘Even assuming we can persuade the judge, Jim, this could turn into an international incident. We’re not supposed to upset foreigners unnecessarily.’

  ‘We have two dead bodies, sir. At the present rate of attrition, all ten of them will be dead within a few days. I don’t think we should worry too much about upsetting foreigners. Collateral damage at worst.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose so, I suppose so. Get on with it, then.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Milton, as he jumped from his chair. As he put his hand on the handle, the assistant commissioner called to him. ‘Has it occurred to you that you might be barking up the wrong tree, Jim? Maybe Sarkovsky’s been kidnapped as well. Now that would put a different complexion on things, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I have only one tree, sir. Until I see another, I’ll bark up that.’

  ***

  Fortunately, Mary Lou had recovered her equilibrium quickly enough to do a deal with the photographer. In exchange for him not using the photo of her crying, she agreed to give him a quote, so the picture of Amiss hugging her was run under the headline ‘Just Good Friends,’ with a few lines about how they were comforting each other over the disappearance of their friend Battling Baroness Troutbeck. The tabloid chucked in for good measure a picture of her on Pooley’s arm going into a film premiere, both of them in evening dress, with a caption underneath about her husband, dashing Detective Inspector Pooley of Scotland Yard. With another picture of her interviewing a well-known actor and some guff about her coming top of some poll or other as the sexiest egghead on TV, that was another page of that tabloid happily filled.

  ***

  ‘It’s Myles, Robert. Sorry I couldn’t get back to you until now. Only just got your messages. There was no coverage in the hills. What’s up? Is Ida all right?’

  Amiss did a double-take before remembering that Myles was one of the very few people in the world who called Jack Troutbeck by her baptismal name. ‘No, she’s not, Myles. She’s gone missing.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  When Amiss had finished his brief account, Myles said, ‘Shit. This is serious. It’s that fucking psycho Sarkovsky, of course. I warned Ida a long time ago, but she had the bit between her teeth then and was galloping ahead. And then when they fell out, she kept saying he was in a sulk and didn’t want anything to do with her any more so there was nothing to worry about.’

  ‘The ghastly thing is, Myles, that it looks as if he’s been paying far too much attention to her. From what we can infer, he’s kidnapped a whole collection of people she’s taught him to despise and is knocking them off using methods she suggested when she was being facetious. The guy’s a bit literal-minded.’

  ‘What are the cops doing?’

  ‘I think they’re just about ready to apply for search warrants, but I doubt if that’ll work. We have to assume they’re in London. He can’t be flying them from a distant location corpse by corpse, can he? But he’s hardly going to have them imprisoned in his Knightsbridge penthouse. His butler might object.’

  ‘Of course not. Are the cops looking at his companies to see what properties they own?’

  ‘Yes, but from what Jim says, they’re not very
speedy.’

  ‘I know a man who’ll cut corners, Robert. He’ll be in touch with you. We need him to find where they’re likely to be. Meanwhile, I’ll get someone to start pulling a rescue party together and I’ll get out of Iraq as fast as I can. It won’t be today, though, and I doubt if it’ll be tomorrow. I don’t know if you pray, but if you do, pray that she’s trying to be a bit more tactful than usual.’

  ***

  Milton had announced late morning that Hortense Wilde had been murdered, but because of panicking by the assistant commissioner he was prevented from describing the circumstances. However Morrison had done a secret deal with a tabloid contact that would pay him enough to expand his railway and rolling stock to include Eurostar, so the news of a corpse outside the Tate was on the Internet by early afternoon. A member of the public who had been passing Tate Modern at three thirty a.m., and who had surreptitiously taken a photo of police carrying a tank to a police van, saw the news item and called another tabloid. So it was that by mid-afternoon the jigsaw was sufficiently complete for the net to be alive with the second hommage murder. After a fraught meeting with the assistant commissioner, Milton was allowed to confirm that rumour was fact. The press, who had been frustrated in their attempts to find the always elusive Banksy, were now in hot pursuit of Damien Hirst. The police were putting covert night surveillance on Tate Britain, the Saatchi Gallery, the White Cube, the Gagosian gallery and any other major locations they could think of that were strongly associated with conceptual art.

  ***

  ‘Robert Amiss.’

  ‘I’m Mike. Myles told me to call you.’

  ‘Oh, thank God.’

  ‘We don’t talk here. Can you meet me in an hour in central London? I’ll text an address.’

  ‘Done.’

  The phone went dead.

  ***

  By the time Big Brother instructed them to take their clothes off, alcohol and ecstacy had put everyone in a better mood. There had even been some nostalgic reminiscences of dances of the past. Herblock and Marilyn had had a lovely-dovey interlude recalling their first encounter at a ball raising funds for the New York Museum of Modern Art. They stripped resignedly, the music began and immediately Anastasia and Briggs began to gyrate energetically to the electronic rhythm.