Jack Pendragon - 02 - Borgia Ring

by Michael White

  Back in his own office, Pendragon spent some time familiarising himself with his new surroundings, especially the computer system he was networked to. It was obvious from the off this was going to be a complex case; they had both a fresh corpse and a missing skeleton on their hands, and it was only day one.

  An hour flew by as he wrote up a report of what he had done so far, which he saved in a newly created file named KARIM. Then he dropped in on Turner.

  ‘Disks aren’t working properly,’ the sergeant said despondently. He had a cup of murky grey liquid in his hand.

  ‘Looks nice,’ Pendragon deadpanned, nodding towards the cup.

  Turner smiled. ‘Sorry about earlier, guv.’

  Pendragon waved it away. ‘So what’s up with the disks?’

  ‘One of the tech guys is on to it. Data drop-outs or something, he reckons. Might be the heat. He says he can transfer the images to a DVD, but it’ll take a few hours.’

  ‘Okay. I’m going to see Jones. While I’m out, get on to a local historian. There might be someone at Queen Mary. Or else King’s on the Strand have a great history department, I seem to remember. Oh, and do your own bit on Google. I’ve made copies of Ketteridge’s pictures. They’re on my desk. I want to know everything there is to know about that ring.’

  He took a car from the pool. It had been parked facing the sun and was boiling hot. Police cars didn’t come with air conditioning as standard, so he wound down the windows. The novelty of this heatwave was wearing off. A big part of him wished the aquamarine sky would cloud over.

  As he emerged into Saturday afternoon traffic on Whitechapel Road, he glanced at the photos of the skeleton where they lay on the passenger seat. At a red light, he had a moment to flick through them for a couple of seconds. This whole thing smelt bad, he thought. Ketteridge was caught in the middle, by the look of it. They were probably all under pressure: the construction firm, the architects, the investors. Everyone always was, especially in high-stakes games like property development. The land alone was worth millions, and every day lost meant more money wasted on plant hire, labour, interest payments. It was easy to see why the site manager hadn’t reported anything. But then, who was to say he hadn’t planned to once he’d got the all-clear from his higher-ups?

  There were two cars parked close to the doors to the path lab, both jalopies, a rusty Nissan and an ancient Ford Capri with leopardskin seat covers and furry dice dangling from the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Classy,’ Pendragon murmured to himself as he strode towards the entrance.

  It was refreshingly cool inside, but the stink of the place was all-pervading. He was about to enter the suite of rooms that constituted Jones’s domain when a door swung towards him. It was held open by the pathologist. There was a group of half a dozen people coming along the passageway. Amal Karim’s family here to identify the body, Pendragon guessed. An elderly woman and a young man led the way followed by younger visitors, siblings or close relatives of the dead man, perhaps. The old woman was wearing a dark silk sari; her face was moist with tears. A young man in a cheap brown suit was supporting her with one arm around her shoulders. His own eyes were filled to brimming. Pendragon watched the group leave the building.

  Jones tapped him on the shoulder and nodded towards his lab. ‘Always the worst part of the job,’ he said. ‘The dead are dead, but the relatives … Anyway, I suppose you’ve come about the bone.’

  ‘Bit optimistic, I know.’

  ‘Too bloody right … What do you expect?’

  ‘Anything. Hunches?’

  ‘DCI Pendragon, I’ve had a corpse to deal with, and the corpse’s family … and it’s still only frigging …’ he looked at his watch ‘… twelve-forty and I’m starving!’ He looked down at the ground sheepishly then at Pendragon. ‘It’s old – extremely old. The very lovely Dr Newman is right, it’s a metatarsal, fifth finger of the right hand, the little finger. You can tell by the size and curvature of the bone. It’s been freshly separated from the other bones of the same finger. You can see that from patches of discoloration to either end of the bone.’

  ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘A few hours before this bone was found, an entire human skeleton lay in the same spot at the bottom of a dirty great hole on a construction site. The skeleton went walkies sometime last night. But whoever performed the disappearing act was obviously a little careless.’

  Back at the station, the afternoon was allocated to a succession of interviews. First on the list was Terry Disher, the man who had unearthed the skeleton the previous afternoon.

  ‘Am I a suspect?’ he asked as soon as he sat down opposite Pendragon. They were at a steel table in Interview Room 2. He had declined the offer of tea. Pendragon had a cup in front of him, and took a sip before responding.

  ‘Just routine, Mr Disher. This is a murder inquiry.’

  ‘Do I need a solicitor?’

  ‘No. But if you feel …’

  The builder was shaking his head. He was a big man, at least six foot four and two hundred and fifty pounds. Not much fat on him. He had whitish-blond hair and intense blue eyes. Pendragon had read the report on him. Disher was twenty-six. Went to school in Bromley. Worked abroad on construction sites in Germany for a few years then came back to London. Married a year ago, one son. He lived on the local estate.

  ‘All right. Fire away,’ he said. ‘Dunno if I can help, but I’d like to see the bastard who did it put behind bars.’

  ‘You were a friend of Mr Karim’s?’

  He reflected for a moment. ‘Yes and no. As much as anyone could be, I guess. He kept himself to himself. That lot all do.’

  ‘“That lot” meaning the Indian workmen?’

  ‘All the ethnics. The East Europeans, the black guys. There’s not a lot of … what do they call it now? … multi-culturalism in the building trade.’

  Pendragon produced a half-smile. ‘No, I don’t imagine there is.’ He took another sip of tea. ‘Do you know if Mr Karim had any enemies? Did anyone in the company dislike the man?’

  Disher shrugged. ‘As I said, he kept himself to himself. I don’t think he had any friends or enemies.’

  ‘Okay. So tell me about the skeleton.’

  He didn’t look surprised. ‘What do you wanna know?’

  ‘You found it, yes?’

  ‘Me and two others. Ricky Southall and Nudge … Norman … Norman West.’

  ‘Tony Ketteridge was there?’

  ‘I called him over straight away. Dunno why I bothered, though.’

  Pendragon gave him a quizzical look. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Nothin’.’

  Pendragon took a sip of tea. Returning the cup to the saucer, he placed his hands, palm down, to either side of it. The silence quickly became oppressive. ‘I’m sure you can do better than that,’ he said finally.

  ‘Yeah, sure, and get me P45. What d’ya take me for?’

  ‘This is a murder investigation, Mr Disher. Surely I don’t need to remind you again?’

  ‘I thought I wasn’t a suspect. Just routine questions, you said.’

  Pendragon sighed and pushed back his chair. ‘Okay, you’re free to go, but if I find you’re withholding vital information, I’ll bring you in so fast you won’t know what hit you.’ He started to get up.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Disher shook his head. ‘Can’t fucking win, can I?’

  Pendragon stared at him, saying nothing.

  ‘We had a row.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Me and Ketteridge.’

  ‘Over the find?’

  ‘We’ve never been bosom buddies, but … well … I didn’t like his attitude after we dug up the bones.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘That we should get rid of them ASAP.’

  Pendragon raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I know the skeleton was old. But, I dunno … it didn’t seem right somehow.’

  ‘You took a stand over it?’

  ‘He wo
uldn’t budge and I walked off.’

  ‘The architect was there, wasn’t he?’

  Disher nodded. ‘Slimy bastard. He agreed with Ketteridge, of course. Big surprise.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘According to Ricky and Nudge, Ketteridge bottled.’

  ‘And Karim volunteered to watch over things?’ Pendragon said quietly. ‘You noticed the ring too?’

  ‘Couldn’t bloody miss it. Big emerald, by the look of it. I think that made all the difference.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Pendragon drained his cup, eyeing the builder over the rim.

  ‘Well, there were five of us there. Ketteridge would hardly want to bury the skeleton, ring and all. And he couldn’t take the ring off without looking distinctly dodgy, now could he?’

  ‘So why didn’t he report it?’

  Disher gave another shrug. ‘Wanted to buy some time probably. Talk to the higher-ups, pass the buck … Wouldn’t you?’

  Tim Middleton did indeed come across as a slimy bastard. Precious and self-important, he looked distinctly uncomfortable as he too declined the offer of tea and tried to get comfortable in the plastic seat across the table from the DCI.

  Pendragon had done some research. Rainer and Partner were a small-to-middling local firm of architects. Frimley Way was one of their bigger projects: a block of six apartments, high-spec yuppy hutches for the noughties. Middleton was thirty-six, made a partner a year ago, unmarried, hailed from Leicestershire. He had graduated from Oxford Brookes and then worked for a large company in Harrow for three years before joining Max Rainer, who had been a friend of his late father.

  ‘Did you know the murdered man, Mr Middleton?’

  ‘Not personally,’ Middleton replied, crossing his legs and flicking away a speck of dust only he could see. ‘We’re deeply shocked and saddened.’

  ‘Is that the royal “we”?’ Pendragon asked, his expression blank.

  Middleton smiled faintly. ‘We, Rainer and Partner, sent our condolences to the family.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Sorry, Chief Inspector, but was there a particular line of questioning you had in mind?’

  Pendragon took his time studying some papers on the table. He pulled a photograph of the skeleton from the pile and placed it in front of Middleton. ‘All your own work, I understand.’

  ‘Yes. The whole thing was quite bizarre.’

  ‘Particularly since the skeleton has since vanished.’

  Middleton looked appropriately shocked.

  Before he could recover, Pendragon said: ‘I understand you were all for getting rid of it … what with the job slipping behind schedule, and all.’

  ‘Now hold on.’ Middleton had uncrossed his legs and pulled his chair towards the table. He looked genuinely alarmed. ‘I had no idea …’

  ‘But you did support Mr Ketteridge’s suggestion that the skeleton should be dumped somewhere? The whole thing hushed up?’

  ‘No, I did not!’

  ‘Oh?’

  Middleton glanced at the ceiling then straight at Pendragon. ‘It was actually my idea to leave a security guard there overnight. It was too late on a Friday to do much else.’

  ‘You didn’t think to call the police?’

  ‘The skeleton is … was … ancient. You could tell that straight away.’

  ‘So everyone keeps telling me. Makes no difference.’

  Middleton sighed and held his hands up, shoulders raised. ‘It wasn’t my call, Chief Inspector. You know that.’

  ‘So tell me about the project. Are you indeed behind schedule?’

  Middleton held Pendragon’s gaze. ‘We’re always behind schedule. The client can never have things done fast enough. It’s a given, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘And the client is always right.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Okay, Mr Middleton, thank you for your time.’ Pendragon was already getting up. Middleton looked surprised it was all over so quickly. But then, as the DCI pushed his chair under the table, he said: ‘Incidentally, Mr Middleton, can you account for your whereabouts between one and three o’clock this morning?’

  Middleton leaned against the back of his chair, a smirk on his face. ‘Er … well, I was asleep.’

  ‘Alone? At home?’

  ‘Sadly, yes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Pendragon said quietly. Pursing his lips, he nodded as if this information slotted neatly into some secret agenda.

  Sergeant Turner was about to knock on the interview-room door when it swung open and he saw Pendragon leading Tim Middleton out.

  ‘Do you have a minute, sir?’

  Pendragon nodded, escorted Middleton to the front desk and returned to the interview room. ‘Anything interesting?’ he asked as he closed the door behind him.

  ‘Not really,’ Turner replied. He slotted a DVD into a machine and stabbed at the play button then stood back beside the table. Pendragon resumed his seat.

  The screen was black apart from a digital time display that started at 02.14.24. The seconds clicked forward and images took shape. At 02.14.47 they caught a fleeting glimpse of a featureless shape moving behind the piles of earth. In the blink of an eye it was gone. ‘I’ve tried to enhance that,’ Turner said as the film moved on. ‘But it’s nothing more than a blob of grey. Someone was there, for sure, but the camera is poor quality and the image just pixellates like mad if I try to enlarge it or enhance it.’ Then, as he spoke, a blurred image appeared, a hunched figure in dark clothes and balaclava. A gloved hand smothered the lens and the screen turned to static.

  ‘Same on all four cameras,’ Turner said gloomily.

  Pendragon was sitting with his legs crossed studying his interwoven fingers, perched on one raised knee. ‘Predictable, really,’ he said wearily, and stifled a yawn. ‘Okay, let’s open it up. Get on to Central Monitoring. There must be at least half a dozen cameras within a few hundred metres of that building site. They couldn’t all be vandalised. And if they have been, someone must have seen it being done, even at that time of the morning. By the way, anything from the search team?’

  ‘Got a call from Vickers just now. Zilch. They’re winding down for the day. Plan to start again first thing in the morning.’

  Pendragon’s third meeting of the afternoon came as something of a relief; a fact-gathering exercise rather than a verbal sparring match with a suspect.

  ‘Professor Stokes, thank you for sparing the time on a weekend.’

  ‘Not at all. Pleased to help,’ Stokes replied. He was a tall, thin man, bald except for a tuft of grey hair to each side of his head. He had a long narrow nose and small dark eyes. Pendragon had learned from Google that Professor Geoffrey Stokes was fifty-six, had held a professorship at Grenoble before moving to Queen Mary College, and was considered one of the foremost authorities on the history of London.

  Pendragon showed him the photographs of the skeleton, laying them out in a row on the table.

  Stokes tugged at the spectacles dangling from a delicate chain round his neck and perched them on the bridge of his nose. He bent closer to study the photos. ‘Extraordinary! Your sergeant told me on the phone that these came from the construction site on Frimley Way.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I took the liberty of stopping by there on the way in. Your forensics people were about. A very nice woman showed me where the skeleton had lain.’

  ‘Collette Newman?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stokes looked up and adjusted his glasses. ‘How exactly may I help you, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘This skeleton was unearthed yesterday afternoon. It’s clearly very old. Far too old to identify. But we have reason to believe it is somehow linked to a recent murder. I’m not at liberty to go into detail at this time, but if there is anything you can tell us from these photographs we’d be extremely grateful.’

  ‘May I not see the skeleton itself?’

  ‘Unfortunately that’s not possible at the moment.’

  Stokes s
hrugged. ‘Well, there’s only so much … We’d have to make some broad assumptions.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, most importantly, that the skeleton hasn’t been moved since it was first placed where it was found. Assuming that is the case, then I can hazard a guess at its age. The soil here is blue clay; what used to be called bungam. Very common in East London. Below this is a layer of peat, which would have been exposed during the Bronze Age. If our skeleton had been found in the peat, I would have dated it to around 2,000 BC, but in the bungam stratum, well … certainly less than a thousand years old.’

  ‘Can you be any more precise?’

  ‘I noticed a few things at the site. The skeleton was found in the mid-bungam which places it between four hundred and seven hundred years ago. I also spotted a few fragments of wall at the same depth. The stones are the type used to construct primitive drains. That narrows the timeline to the fifteenth or sixteenth century.’

  ‘Amazing. So, do you have any idea what could have been built on this spot? Someone’s home?’

  ‘No.’ Stokes smiled and shook his head, his eyes bright. ‘We have very good records of all the buildings in this part of London. I know this site well. It’s in my own backyard … almost literally.’ And he produced a crooked smile. ‘The house the builders have just demolished was Victorian, a rare one to miss any serious bomb damage during the Blitz. But, oddly enough, it wasn’t listed. Before that a much smaller Georgian house stood on the site. It was the first private residence there. Before that it was an inn, the Grey Traveller. In one form or another, it had stood there since the late-fifteenth century. That’s as far back as the records go for the area.’

  ‘So, it’s quite possible the tavern was there when our man died?’

  ‘It’s more than likely. Indeed, I would think the drain led from the tavern. Not many private houses were linked to drains in those days. An inn was more likely to have such a thing, a pipe that led from the building to a septic tank.’

  Pendragon picked up the photos again and looked at the top one. He handed them to Stokes. ‘The ring,’ he said. ‘What do you make of that?’