Archer offers a reassuring smile. ‘Mr Novak, do you have reason to believe you’ll get into trouble by speaking to us?’
He hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. ‘No.’
‘Tell us what you saw.’
‘They come early this morning.’
‘What time was that?’
‘I think . . . oh . . . just after six o’clock.’
‘Where were you going at the time?’
‘I had just finished outside the gallery.’
‘The National Gallery?’
‘Yes. I had turned the corner onto Charing Cross Road and I look around and I see a truck, like a big van. The back is open and there is a light. The truck is like cold inside, you know the type that take meat . . . beef, pigs, the sheep . . . you know what I mean?’
Archer nods.
‘But there is no meat. Just the cabinets, which are covered in the cloth. A red cloth, I think. Anyway, these men, they are wheeling the cabinets, with trolleys, you see, and putting them outside here.’ He points to the location of the cabinets. ‘That was it.’
‘How many men did you see?’
‘Two.’
‘What did they look like?’
Novak shrugs. ‘I do not know. It was dark. I couldn’t see their faces.’
‘Was there a company name written on the truck?’
He thinks for a moment and then shakes his head. ‘No.’
‘Did you talk to the men at all? Even to say good morning?’ asks Quinn.
‘I didn’t,’ he replies, indignantly. ‘I was working.’
‘Did you hear them speak?’
‘Ah yes. I did.’
‘What did they say?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Did they mention a name, perhaps?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Mr Novak, it’s important you think hard about what you heard. Even the smallest of details can help,’ says Archer.
Novak thinks for a moment; his face scrunches. ‘I think they were Polish.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t speak Polish.’
Archer hears Quinn sighing. ‘How do you know they were talking Polish, then?’ he asks.
‘Something . . . one of them said to the other.’
‘You just said you couldn’t speak Polish.’
He raises his hands and shrugs. ‘OK, I know a few words. One of the men called the other dupek . . .’ Novak turns to Archer. ‘Please excuse my language. It means asshole. I know that. When I was young man I was with a beautiful Polish girl and she would call me that all the time. She was very pretty . . .’
‘These men, Mr Novak. What time did they leave Trafalgar Square?’
‘I really not be sure. I left to do my job. Why don’t you ask the police officer?’
‘What police officer?’ asks Archer.
‘The one who arrived and spoke to them.’
‘What did he look like?’ asks Quinn.
‘It was dark. I couldn’t see. He looked like police. He had uniform.’
‘What time did this policeman arrive?’
‘I don’t remember for sure. After the men, is all.’
‘Did the policeman ask about the cabinets?’
‘How would I know?’
‘Was there any indication the delivery men and the policeman discussed the cabinets?’
‘It’s possible, but I couldn’t hear them.’ Novak scratches his chin. ‘There was laughing. Yes. I heard someone laugh.’
‘OK, Mr Novak. Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?’ asks Archer.
Novak scrunches his face and after a moment replies, ‘No, that is everything. Please may I go?’
‘I’m afraid we’ll need a bit more of your time,’ says Archer. She turns to Quinn. ‘I knew the man in the broken cabinet. I met him at The Connection two years back. His girlfriend, Sharon, was just here. We need to talk to her.’ Archer looks around for Sharon Collins and sees Eula leading her into The Connection.
Quinn nods his understanding. ‘Coombs,’ calls Quinn, looking toward one of the officers. The uniform hurries across. ‘Whizz Mr Novak and Mr Manly to Charing Cross in your nice police car and take their statements.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Quinn makes a call. ‘Os, it’s Harry. Three glass cabinets containing human remains were delivered to The Connection at St Martin’s around six this morning. Check the CCTV and find out the name of the uniform who stopped by and chatted to the delivery men . . . That’s right . . . get whoever it was in for an interview as soon as possible. Thanks.’
*
Archer and Quinn enter The Connection and show their ID to the male receptionist. He tells Archer that Sharon is with Eula in the dining room.
They follow the clinking and scraping of cutlery on china and enter the large dining space. Archer scans the tables and sees them sitting at a remote spot away from the lunch crowd. Eula Higgins is a sturdy West Indian woman of indeterminate age with shoulder-length plaits of curly black and purple hair. She looks across and nods at Archer and Quinn.
‘Sharon, Detective Inspector Archer is here. She would like to talk to you.’
Archer and Quinn sit at the table.
‘Hello again, Sharon,’ says Archer.
Sharon trembles as she holds onto a mug of hot tea. The ravages of addiction and street life have taken an even greater toll on Sharon than when Archer first met her two years back. She is in her thirties, however the lines on her face suggest a much older woman.
‘Are you OK to talk?’ asks Archer.
Sharon nods her head.
‘Thank you. I’m so sorry about Billy.’
Her shoulders begin to shake and her face contorts. Eula squeezes her forearm gently.
‘Could you tell me when you last saw Billy?’
It takes a moment for Sharon to compose herself. ‘I ain’t seen him in some weeks or more. He just upped and left.’
‘Do you know where he went?’
‘No. Where would he go? He ain’t got nowhere, or no one. Just me and the streets. That’s all.’
‘Did he tell you why he was going?’
‘He just said he had somewhere to be.’
‘Can you tell me about when it actually was that you last saw him?’
Sharon shrugs. ‘I dunno. Three weeks maybe. Sometimes he’d disappear for days and I wouldn’t see him, but he’d always come back to me. Dunno the date. Don’t have much call for dates no more.’
‘Where did you see him?’
She frowns as she tries to think. ‘We was on the Strand with a few tinnies, mindin’ our own business.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’
She shakes her head.
‘How was his mental health when you last saw him?’
‘He got by.’
‘Was he using?’
She gives Archer a suspicious look. ‘Whaddya mean?’
‘Anything you tell us might help to find who did this.’
She hesitates before responding. ‘Yes.’
‘Crack, heroin?’
Sharon confirms with a nod. She says nothing more and stares blankly at the table.
Eula speaks. ‘Sharon, tell DI Archer about the videos.’
‘It’s my Billy. I swear it. I was walking down Cecil Court . . . it was dark . . . quiet too . . . and I saw them two tellies in the windows, lit up like demon eyes, they was. I didn’t know what to think at first, then I saw the bony chest and thought of my Billy. When I got closer I could see his feet too. I’d know his feet anywhere. Hairy and ugly, they are.’ Her voice begins to waver, her eyes water. ‘I stood there watching for ages until I couldn’t stand it no more. They was hurtin’ him. It were horrible. Who would do that?’ Her shoulders slump as she weeps and falls into Eula’s embrace.
‘Sharon, where did you see these videos?’
Eula answers, ‘Th
ey were at Flanders Art Gallery in Cecil Court.’
Sharon Collins sobs in Eula’s embrace. Archer looks to Quinn and indicates they should leave. He nods agreement.
‘One more thing, Sharon. Do you know of anyone else who has gone missing from the streets recently?’
Sharon wipes her nose with her sleeve, looks back at Archer and shakes her head. ‘I ain’t heard anything.’
‘Thank you both. Sharon, if you don’t mind, we may have some more questions later. Take care of yourself.’
They leave Sharon in Eula’s care and make the short trip to Cecil Court, one of the oldest thoroughfares in Covent Garden. Small Victorian shops line the pedestrianised street, selling rare books, art, jewellery and general curiosities. In Flanders’ window there are two archaic televisions tilted at angles as if rising up against each other. Each one is showing a film that seems to be shot in a Super 8-style format. The television on the right shows a pair of feet that tremble and then become still. The second television shows a thin dirty torso of a man with faded skull tattoos. Billy Perrin. As with the first video, the man trembles, shaking violently for a few moments, before lying still.
‘Jesus! This a film of Billy’s murder,’ exclaims Quinn.
Archer feels her mouth go dry.
Flanders Art Gallery contains a solitary person: a thin woman in her mid-thirties. Her hair is cut into the shape of a bowl and she wears large round spectacles with thick orange frames.
‘Are you the manager?’ asks Archer.
The woman pushes the glasses up her nose and regards Archer from head to foot. ‘Yes.’
Archer presents her warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Grace Archer and this is Detective Sergeant Harry Quinn.’
The woman blinks and folds her arms. ‘I have not reported a crime.’
‘Your name is?’
‘Edith Cosgrove.’
‘Mrs Cosgrove—’
‘Miss.’
‘Miss Cosgrove, I have a few questions about the video art installation in the window.’
Her face brightens. ‘It’s quite something, isn’t it?’
Archer isn’t sure what to say to that.
‘He is so new. So fresh. His work oozes ideas. He is infected by a deep love of the macabre and is completely unflinching. It challenges our morals. Do you see?’
‘I’m not sure I do see. The artist calls himself @nonymous. I’d like to speak with him. Do you have a number?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘An address?’ asks Quinn.
‘Sadly, no.’
‘Presumably you have had some dealings with him?’
‘No. None at all,’ Cosgrove replies, as if proud of the fact.
‘You’ve never met him or even spoken to him?’
‘Correct.’
‘No emails?’
‘None.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because he is an enigma, Detective. No one knows who he is. That is part of his mystery, his persona, his brand. Like Banksy.
Quinn interjects, ‘Miss Cosgrove, we believe that the video in your window depicts the murder of a homeless man.’
The woman’s eyes widen behind her large spectacles, giving her an owl-like expression of surprise.
‘Miss Cosgrove, please explain to us how the video art of @nonymous came to be in your gallery.’
She pauses for a moment and looks to the side, frowning as if deep in thought.
‘I was contacted through Facebook.’
‘So you did receive an email?’
‘No, it was a message, not an email. On Facebook Messenger.’
‘Was it @nonymous who contacted you?’
‘No. It was one of his people, I believe.’
‘Did they give their name?’
‘No name.’
‘What did the message say?’
‘That @nonymous would be delighted to exhibit the first of his “Forsaken” exhibition here at my gallery. I was beyond thrilled, as you can imagine, and jumped at the chance.’
Archer is suddenly distracted by a crowd of people gathering around the window display. They are holding up smartphones and filming the videos.
‘His fans are growing in number,’ says Cosgrove.
Quinn walks to the window, finds the TVs’ power source and unplugs them.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Police evidence, Miss Cosgrove,’ says Archer smoothly. ‘Tell me, how did you receive the videos?’
‘They were delivered by courier.’
‘Do you know the name of the courier company?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Did you receive a delivery receipt?’
‘No.’
She hears Quinn putting a call through to Charing Cross requesting evidence bags.
‘You mentioned his fans are growing in number. Aside from the Internet, how would they get access to his work?’
‘His work is mainly video based. However, he does do graffiti art versions of his videos which can be seen at various spots around London. He seems to have tapped into the millennial consciousness and brought to the surface a hunger for brutality exhibited through old and new technology. He has gained a loyal following. As a fan myself, I’m really shocked he has somehow been involved in murder. I can’t quite believe it.’
Quinn’s phone rings. He answers and turns away.
‘Thank you, Miss Cosgrove. If you think of anything please call me at this number.’ Archer hands her a contact card.
Quinn has finished his call. ‘That was DCI Pierce. She wants us both back at the nick now.’
Archer feels a tightening in her chest. It’s not going to be easy working with DI Rees’s colleagues. It’s going to be even harder working with the fearsome DCI Clare Pierce, Archer’s new boss and the woman with whom Rees was allegedly having an affair.
4
T
HE THIRD FLOOR OF CHARING Cross Police Station is a large, busy, open-plan space that has also benefited from the refurbishment budget. The walls are painted a modern pale grey, the wood finish on the windows and skirting boards a matt white. Rows of computer monitors light up the interior. DI Andy Rees’s arrest exposed a bent copper within senior police ranks. Archer wonders if a complete facelift can cover up the corruption that has gone before.
Archer allows Quinn to take the lead. They stop at an office where a uniformed sergeant is seated at a desk, piled with files and paperwork.
‘Sergeant Mark Beattie. This is Detective Inspector Grace Archer.’
Beattie, a tall man with a hooked nose and spiky salt-and-pepper hair, shakes Archer’s hand and appraises her with curious eyes buried under bushy grey brows. ‘Welcome, DI Archer.’
‘Mark looks after staffing for investigations as well as managing day-to-day activities for the response teams. He has many more strings to his bow, as you will discover. We’d be lost without him.’
‘I remember your father. He was a fine detective,’ says Beattie.
‘Thank you, Sergeant Beattie.’
‘Call me Mark. Seems like you’ve landed quite a humdinger on your first day. DCI Pierce may want to—’
Quinn interrupts, ‘Yeah, Pierce will want us to sort it out this morning.’
Both men look at Archer and then exchange a look, which quietly vexes her.
‘What does that mean?’ she asks.
At that same moment Quinn looks behind her, with hooded eyes. She turns to see DI Rodney Hicks enter the office. Hicks was thick as thieves with Andy Rees. They worked closely on many investigations and socialised together with their wives and families.
Hicks raises his eyebrows at Archer. ‘Well, if it isn’t Detective Inspector Archer, no less. Come to arrest someone else today?’
‘Give it a rest, Rod,’ says Beattie.
Hicks raises his hand and slaps his temple. ‘Oh wait . . . you’re taking over from Andy. Now I remember.’
Archer grits her teeth, but doesn’t take the bait.
>
‘Good luck with that,’ grins Hicks and strolls by leaving behind a bitter funk of dry sweat mingled with a sharp budget deodorant.
‘Ignore him,’ says Quinn.
‘I expected it,’ she replies.
Beattie interjects, ‘I’ve pulled together a small team to get you going, ma’am. When DCI Pierce gets back from her meeting we can ask for more resources.’
‘Thank you, Mark. I appreciate your support.’
Archer’s thoughts turn back to Quinn’s comment about Pierce planning to sort this case out. She glances at Hicks, who is watching her from across the office. Archer and Hicks are the only DIs available, for now. Archer suspects she knows what Pierce’s intentions will be.
‘Will you excuse me for a moment?’ she says.
‘Sure,’ replies Quinn.
Archer walks back to the hallway and makes a call.
The phone rings and is picked up. Archer’s ex-colleague, NCA analyst Klara Clark’s husky Yorkshire lilt answers, ‘Klara Clark. How can I help you?’
‘Klara, it’s Grace.’
‘Hey, Grace. How’s the new job?’
‘Five minutes in and I have three corpses.’
‘I’ve been watching it unfold online. Are you taking over the case?’
‘I am. For now, at least.’
‘That’s great.’
‘Listen, Klara. Could you do me a favour and use your magic to find out what you can about this street artist that calls himself Anonymous? He spells it with the “@” sign. Absolutely. Anything you want me to tackle first?’
‘Those cabinets were delivered first thing this morning. See if you can get the name of the delivery company. Let me know as soon as you find out anything, would you?’
‘Will do.’
‘Is Charlie there?’
‘Yes, he’s in his office.’
‘I’d like to talk to him.’
‘Putting you through.’
‘Thanks, Klara.’
The phone beeps and after a moment Archer hears Charlie Bates clearing his throat.
‘Please tell me you don’t want to come back already?’
‘No chance. Guv, I need a favour.’
‘Oh.’
‘I need you to pull some strings.’ Archer brings him up to speed on what has happened so far. ‘I’m in Charing Cross now. I suspect DCI Pierce might want to sideline me from the investigation for the time being. That cannot happen. The only other DI here is Hicks. I know a little about him from the last case involving Rees. He lacks the smarts for this case, boss.’
The Art of Death Page 3