The morning was hotting up, and according to the front page of one of the tabloids that Pendragon had glimpsed in a newsagent’s on the way to his car, it was going to be the hottest day of the summer so far: ‘A Real Scorcher’, in fact.
Putting a police parking permit on his dashboard, he walked along the road towards the river. The rush hour was over. Workers would be at their desks and kids would be in school, longing for the break so they could get out of their stifling classrooms. He walked over Lambeth Bridge, the forbidding, angular lines of Millbank ahead of him. Leaning on the red and grey balustrade, he looked downstream and took in the magnificent vista of London glowing in the freakish heat. To his left stretched the Houses of Parliament, its honey-coloured limestone discoloured by a century’s worth of car fumes. Directly ahead stretched Westminster Bridge with the buildings of County Hall at its southern end. Towering above it all was the London Eye, looking like an alien spacecraft that had lost its way and landed on the South Bank.
He suddenly felt the stab of an emotion he could not easily define. It was a mixture of things: nostalgia, regret, a sense of belonging, and, yes, a touch of loss. He knew he had done the right thing returning to London, but it was going to take him time to adjust. Although this was still the London he had grown up in, it was also a foreign land in so many ways, very different from the place he’d thought he would always know.
The vista of the Thames before him opened up a treasure trove of memories. He had looked out over the river from the old Docklands when he was a kid with his dad, a lifetime ago. He remembered his father telling him then that the river was the artery of the city. How in the olden days, as he’d called them, it was the fastest way to get through the city, and how during the fourteenth century the water often froze over and people set up market stalls on the ice.
And then there were the times when Pendragon had visited London with Jean and stood with her on the Embankment, enjoying the view of the water coursing through the heart of this great city. More recent still were the times they had brought the kids up here for the day. They usually ended up on the banks of the Thames then, too, admiring the view from Waterloo Bridge, the City, or St Paul’s – the building that once towered over everything but now looked like a broody hen surrounded by her post-modern chicks.
Returning to the forensics lab, he showed his pass at the reception desk and took the lift to the second floor. The receptionist had called ahead and, as he exited the lift, trying to figure out which way to go, Dr Newman appeared at the end of the hall to his left, swing doors oscillating to a stop behind her. She was wearing a pristine white lab coat. ‘Chief Inspector. Thanks for coming.’
‘Not at all. Your text implied some good news. I’m fond of that.’
She led him back through the swing doors and into a vast space. To one end, tall windows looked out over the road. The ceiling was high and striped with long fluorescent lights. Rows of stainless-steel benches ran across the room, crowded with glassware and equipment. At the far end, a long counter ran under the windows. A dozen or more monitors were placed a few feet apart on this, most of them responding to lab-coated staff tapping away at keyboards.
Pendragon followed Dr Newman through a sliding glass door into a smaller room beyond. It had the look of an expensive modern kitchen. A stainless-steel counter ran the length of one wall, a rectangular island bench stood in the middle of the floor, and to the left, backed against the wall, was a workstation with two computers, piles of papers and a pivot lamp.
‘We’re still trying to find a good DNA sample,’ the Head of Forensics said as she crossed the pristine, tiled floor. ‘Nothing yet, and no unusual prints.’ She lowered herself on to a metal stool in front of the counter and indicated Pendragon should take the one next to her. On the counter sat a glass dish containing three clumps of dried mud. Beside this lay an A4 monochrome print. Newman handed the photograph to Pendragon who turned slightly on his stool to study the picture.
‘It’s an enhanced image of the footprint we found on the path running under Tony Ketteridge’s kitchen window,’ Dr Newman explained. ‘It’s only a partial, perhaps seventy-five per cent of the footprint, but it’s enough to give us a clear picture of the shoes worn by whoever was on that path the evening the garden was watered.’
Pendragon looked intently at the image. ‘It looks very strange.’
‘It is. If it had been made by a boot it would have a much wider profile and there would be tell-tale troughs in the mud from the tread. There’s no tread at all in this sample. A bare foot would be equally as obvious, and it’s not that.’
‘What kind of footwear leaves this sort of impression?’ Pendragon asked, looking up from the photograph then peering at the mud sample in the dish.
‘A rather delicate shoe, I would say.’
Pendragon was silent for a moment and looked again at the photograph, pursing his lips as he concentrated. ‘So you’re thinking slippers … something like that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Couldn’t it have been left by Pam Ketteridge?’
‘Far too big.’
‘Then, Tony Ketteridge? As he watered the garden?’
‘I thought the same. But I checked. Ketteridge had surprisingly small feet for such a big chap. Size seven. These prints are a size ten.’
‘So, let me get this straight,’ Pendragon said. ‘You’re saying whoever killed Tony Ketteridge was wearing size ten slippers? That would be a first.’
Dr Newman put her elbows on the counter, rested her chin on her interlocked fingers and looked down at the pristine metal surface. Then, tilting her head to one side, she said, ‘Don’t think I didn’t go through all the permutations myself, Chief Inspector. I had visions of a neighbour finishing his cocoa and hopping over the fence to commit murder. Maybe it was a love triangle with the gorgeous Pam.’
Pendragon couldn’t help laughing.
‘But it’s even odder actually because the profile of the footprint is not that of a normal slipper, the sort you’d wear at home to put your feet up. It’s the shape of a fancy slipper.’
‘A fancy slipper?’
‘Yes, a dress shoe, something very delicate. Theatrical, really.’
Pendragon gave her a puzzled look.
‘Then, using a high-resolution microscope, I found this.’ Dr Newman led the DCI to the bench along the adjacent wall where a very large microscope with a huge, binocular-like appendage stood in the middle of the stainless-steel surface. ‘Take a look,’ she added, and showed him how to use the eyepiece.
‘If I’m not mistaken,’ Dr Newman continued, ‘that is gold thread. Extremely expensive, and not at all the sort of thing you find on slippers in the Summer Special bin at Tesco.’
Back at the station, the team was waiting for him. Jez Turner had put up the photographs of the latest murder scene alongside an enlarged snap of a smiling Tony Ketteridge taken earlier that summer.
Pendragon did not apologise for being late, but ploughed straight in. ‘Right,’ he said, surveying the room. They were all there: Towers and Grant, Sergeants Thatcher, Vickers and Roz Mackleby. Perched on the edge of the furthermost desk, was Superintendent Hughes looking distinctly unimpressed.
‘Let me bring you all up to speed. As you know, Tony Ketteridge was site manager at the Frimley Way construction project. He was about to retire for an early night with his wife, Pam, when he was murdered in the kitchen of his home.’ He tapped the picture. ‘There seems to have been a struggle, but nothing too serious. There are bruises on the victim’s back, but no skin or hair under his nails. There’s a tiny cut to his throat. You can just about see it, there.
‘The most interesting feature, however, is a puncture wound in Ketteridge’s left armpit. It’s identical to one found on Tim Middleton’s body. According to Dr Jones’s initial findings, Tony Ketteridge was poisoned with the same, or very similar, blend of chemicals that killed the architect at La Dolce Vita, and it looks as though the poison was administered in precisel
y the same way – probably with a hypodermic.’
‘But how on earth could the murderer have used a hypodermic in the restaurant?’ asked Sergeant Mackleby.
‘To be honest, I have no idea at this stage,’ Pendragon replied.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ Thatcher said. ‘Nobody could be stuck with a needle and not know it.’
‘I agree, Sergeant. It’s another of your conundrums. Perhaps you should put your analytical skills to work on the puzzle.’
Turner looked over at Sergeant Vickers with a smirk.
‘What have forensics found?’ Superintendent Hughes asked. ‘Anything useful?’
‘I went to the lab in Lambeth this morning. They’re still trying to find a decent DNA sample, but it looks like the murderer was extremely careful. And, of course, there are no prints.’
‘Obviously.’
‘But they’ve unearthed one very important thing.’
Two of the officers who had been contemplating their feet looked up simultaneously. Pendragon passed a USB drive to Turner and asked him to put it into a smart board to one side of the room, next to the whiteboard containing the pictures of Ketteridge. Turner slipped the tiny device into the slot and tapped at a couple of controls on the smart board before returning to his seat. A metre-square image appeared on the white surface.
Pendragon walked over to it. ‘This is a partial print that Dr Newman found in some wet mud on the path close to the Ketteridge’s back door. It’s been so dry recently it seems an unlikely find, but it’s clear our intruder got into the garden over a neighbour’s fence and unwittingly put their foot into a newly watered flower bed.’
‘But there’s a hosepipe ban!’ Jimmy Thatcher blurted out.
A couple of the policemen laughed and Jimmy’s cheeks flushed.
‘Bloody Brain of Stepney,’ Jez Turner murmured, and jabbed the sergeant in the ribs.
Thatcher pulled a face. ‘Fuck off,’ he mouthed silently.
‘Yes,’ Pendragon said to the room at large, keeping a straight face. ‘We got a lucky break there.’
‘Couldn’t whoever did the watering have left the print?’ Ken Towers asked.
‘Exactly my question to Dr Newman,’ Pendragon replied. ‘But this is an imprint from a size ten shoe and Ketteridge was a seven. Furthermore, this print is not from a boot or even a regular shoe. It’s from a slipper. And, even then, it’s not the print of a normal slipper. The shape is long and narrow, like a ballet shoe or dress slipper.’
‘But …’ Vickers began.
Pendragon raised a hand. ‘There’s more. Can you flick to the next image please, Sergeant?’
Turner had the remote for the smart board in his palm. He pressed a button and the image changed to show a single wavy gold line.
‘Dr Newman found this in the mud sample. It’s gold thread.’
Jill Hughes was staring at the screen intently, hand on chin. ‘This is a break,’ she said to the room. ‘That’s expensive stuff. Can’t be too many shoes like that. We need to check out manufacturers, retailers …’
‘It’s in hand, ma’am,’ Turner interrupted. ‘DCI Pendragon called me from the car on his way from the lab. I’ve done an internet search. The best fit for the shape Dr Newman described is a ballet shoe. There are four manufacturers in London and twenty-six retailers, ignoring the cheap places that do five quid ballet pumps for beginners. I plan to follow them up after lunch.’
‘A good start, Sergeant,’ Hughes replied. ‘So, Chief Inspector. Any ideas about suspects?’
Pendragon shook his head. ‘We’ve nothing concrete. No witnesses, and only this single anonymous print.’
‘Well, it might not remain anonymous for long,’ the Superintendent replied optimistically. ‘What about the wife? We all know the stats for homicides committed by so-called loved ones.’
‘Absolutely no evidence. It looks like their marriage wasn’t great, but that’s hardly a motive. Pam is also … how shall I put it …?’
‘Mad?’ Turner interjected.
They all laughed except Pendragon and Hughes.
‘This is the crucifix thing?’ the Superintendent said. ‘I was debriefed earlier.’
‘She’s a religious obsessive,’ Pendragon said. ‘But again, that’s no …’
‘Sounds distinctly dodgy, though, don’t you think?’
‘I questioned her at the house. I don’t think she killed her husband, but she is involved … tangentially.’
‘What do you mean, guv?’ Inspector Grant asked, staring at Pendragon, his arms folded across his chest.
‘She knew about the skeleton. According to Pam, Tony Ketteridge did visit the construction site, but around nine-thirty or ten. At least four hours before Karim’s murder. He apparently hid the skeleton under the site hut and put it in his car boot, only to dump it in the skip later. Pam Ketteridge was horrified by the thought that her husband’s death could be linked with Karim’s and Middleton’s. She kept saying he had sinned. It was almost as though she believed Tony’s murder was God’s revenge.’
‘As I said … mad,’ Turner remarked.
‘I think she should be brought in for questioning,’ Hughes declared.
Pendragon shrugged. ‘I think it’s a waste of time, but okay.’
‘So what’s new on the skeleton?’ the Superintendent asked, wishing to move things on.
‘It’s with Dr Newman’s people at the Lambeth lab. But they’ve been preoccupied with the recently dead.’
‘But there’s obviously a link?’
‘Well, yes …’
‘And the ring? No sign of it?’
‘No.’
‘I see.’
The room had fallen silent.
‘Okay,’ Pendragon said after a few awkward moments. ‘Rob, I’d like you and Sergeant Mackleby to interview Mrs Ketteridge. Go to her house, we don’t need to drag her in here.’ He flicked a glance at Hughes then turned to Vickers and Thatcher, as Grant and Roz Mackleby headed for the door. ‘You two, start a new detailed search of the area around the skip. If the ring is there, I want it found. Ken, you get over to Bridgeport Construction. There has to be a link to them. All the victims had some affiliation with the company – two of them were employees. Jez, you work on the slippers. We’ll meet back here at six. And I want some answers, yes?’ He turned to the whiteboard to study the photos as the rest of the team trooped out.
‘Jack, I’m …’ Hughes was two feet behind him.
‘I don’t like being treated like that in front of my team.’
‘I regretted it the moment the words came out.’
He stared at her stonily. ‘Apology accepted.’ He went back to his office without a backward glance.
Pendragon was sitting at his desk, staring into space, when Turner tapped on the door and came in. ‘Bad moment?’ he said.
‘No. What’s up?’
‘I’ve been thinking, guv. You said Jones found four chemicals in the poison that killed Tim Middleton, and that the poison that killed Ketteridge was the same or very similar.’
‘Yes.’
‘And two of the chemicals, arsenic and … what was it? … Camrinol?’
‘Cantharidin.’
‘Yeah … why do they have to make these names so bloody difficult? The arsenic and the cantharidin are both fairly easy to get your mitts on. But the other two: abric acid and … what was the other one?’
‘Oleander.’
‘Right, those two. If they’re so hard to come by, Google should be able to help us find where you get hold of ’em. Can’t be too many sources.’
‘I see your point, Turner. But they’re so obscure, I don’t see how we can easily trace where they came from. It’s not like the golden slippers. Someone could have brought those two chemicals into the country ten years ago and we’d never be any the wiser.’
‘Okay, maybe you’re right. But what about the other two then?’
‘Go on.’
‘You reckoned cantharidin was in some sex dr
ug.’
‘Spanish Fly.’
‘Well, what about searching on the web for suppliers?’
‘I think you’ll find hundreds. And even if you narrowed it down, they would probably be one-man operations working from a garage in Stoke or somewhere. But …’ Pendragon stopped for a second ‘… actually, you may be on to something,’ he admitted.
‘What, guv?’
‘The other component of the poison …’
‘Arsenic?’
‘Yes.’
‘What of it?’
‘I’m sure I’ve read about it recently somewhere. It’s not just an old-fashioned poison.’
Turner came around Pendragon’s desk and started tapping at the keyboard of his computer. ‘One good way to find out.’
Pendragon sighed. ‘Naturally. There’s me thinking I’d have to pop to the library. I’ll never get used to this,’ he added, nodding towards the monitor.
‘Of course you will, Granddad,’ Turner laughed. In a few seconds, Google had informed him that there were over one hundred million links to the word ‘arsenic’. He then typed in ‘arsenic + uses’. This narrowed it down to just under forty million. He scrolled down and the fifth website listed was entitled ‘Arsenic, use in Glass-making’.
‘That’s it!’ Pendragon declared. ‘Of course. Let’s see if there are any glass-makers in this area.’
Turner keyed in the appropriate words and a long list of references to glass-makers in East London appeared on the screen. Almost all of them were historical or links to irrelevant websites, but the tenth on the list was for the website of Murano Glass UK, a specialist glass-maker in Commercial Road.
Jack Pendragon - 02 - Borgia Ring Page 17