Jack Pendragon - 02 - Borgia Ring

by Michael White

  ‘So that line of inquiry has run dry?’

  ‘I think it has, guv. Unless you can come up with another angle? Whoever bought those slippers could have got them from a dozen places in London any time over the past thirty years. Or they could have bought them abroad. I think it’s a dead end.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ Pendragon agreed. ‘Do you know where you’re going, by the way?’

  It was the sergeant’s turn to offer a contemptuous look, and Pendragon returned to the pleasures of his baguette. A few minutes later, they pulled off Commercial Road into a small industrial complex with warehouses and utilitarian low-rise brick office buildings lining a narrow access road. Murano Glass UK was one such building on the right, towards the end of the road. Its frontage consisted of closed warehouse shutters and a plain red door to one side. Pendragon rang the bell. An intercom crackled and a woman’s voice said: ‘Murano Glass.’

  ‘DCI Pendragon. The station called through this morning. I’ve come to see the MD, Mr Sidney Gregson.’

  There was a buzz and the door opened. Pendragon led the way into a brightly lit corridor. A woman’s head appeared around an opening at the end and she beckoned to the two policemen. ‘I’ve called Mr Gregson. Should be here in a moment,’ she said as they came into the room. ‘Please take a seat.’

  Turner had just picked up a motor sports magazine from a coffee table when the door opened and Sidney Gregson came in. He was a well-dressed man in his mid-forties with a goatee and large red spectacles. He had ‘moneyed bohemian’ stamped all over him. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said with a smile. Pendragon introduced himself and the two men shook hands. Gregson turned as Jez walked over.

  ‘Sergeant Turner.’

  ‘Please, this way.’

  They followed him out, Turner trailing behind. Glancing round, he caught the secretary giving Gregson’s retreating back a very black look. They entered a smart office and Gregson closed the door behind them. Cabinets filled with exotic glass sculptures lined one wall, a large limed oak desk filled the far end of the room, and a plush suede sofa stood to its left. Gregson threw himself into a huge leather swivel chair. He didn’t offer the policemen a seat. Picking up a crystal paperweight, he tossed it casually from palm to palm.

  ‘Thank you for seeing us at such short notice, Mr Gregson,’ Pendragon said.

  ‘The person who made the appointment mentioned that you were investigating the Stepney murders. I saw a report on TV last night. I can’t imagine what you would want here, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Two of the victims were poisoned. Preliminary analysis indicated one of the major constituents of the poison used is arsenic.’

  The MD knitted his eyebrows. ‘So you immediately thought of glass-makers?’ There was a sarcastic edge to his voice. Pendragon very quickly decided he didn’t much like Sidney Gregson.

  ‘Arsenic and arsenic compounds are controlled substances,’ the DCI replied. ‘As you would know, you can’t just pop into a shop and buy some.’

  ‘That’s quite true, Inspector. So you think your poisoner works here?’

  Pendragon gave Gregson a puzzled look. ‘Not at all. But the arsenic had to come from somewhere. Have you had any chemicals stolen from the foundry?’

  ‘I can give you a pretty unequivocal no on that,’ Gregson replied smoothly, halting the paperweight-tossing for a second. ‘But would you like me to check with the stores manager, just to make sure?’

  ‘That would be helpful.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  They turned right out of the office, away from reception, and down a flight of stairs. A swing door opened on to the foundry floor. It was a relatively small space, but filled with activity. A group of workmen stood along one wall, grinding some sort of powder using large pestles. Beside them was a large machine that had the appearance of an enormous food processor. A furnace took up most of the centre of the floor. At its mouth stood a burly man wearing a heavy leather apron, protective gloves, and a visor pulled down over his face. In his hands he held a long metal pole. A large blob of orange-red molten glass extended from the far end of the pole. As Gregson and the two policemen passed, the glass worker leaned over and twirled the metal pole. The molten glass shifted and changed shape like melting toffee. Beside the furnace, another man in similar clothes but with his visor up over his head was stirring a brightly coloured substance in a large metal tub.

  ‘We make top-end stemware here,’ Gregson explained. ‘Wine glasses primarily. But we also accept private commissions for figurines and vases. We’re a boutique manufacturer, we only produce a few thousand hand-crafted pieces a year.’

  ‘How many staff do you have?’ Turner asked as they passed into a glass-sided passageway that ran the length of the foundry, well away from the dangers of the furnace.

  ‘Fourteen,’ Gregson replied. ‘That includes admin staff and drivers. We have three master glass-makers. The chap you see there is Tom Kanelly – almost a celebrity in his world. And the man stirring the treacle-like stuff is Francesco Donalti. He’s what’s called a “hot metal man”. He’s one of the top colourists in the trade. Actually worked on Murano for ten years. We’re very lucky to have him.’

  At the end of the corridor, they came to a door with a sign that read: CHEMICAL STORE. AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY. It was a small, square, windowless room lined with metal shelves, a single spartan wooden bench standing the middle. A man in white overalls was sitting at a computer terminal. He stood up as Gregson entered.

  ‘Alec, where’s Daniel?’ Gregson asked him. ‘Daniel Beatty is our storeman,’ he added, turning back towards the two police officers. ‘This is Alec who helps out here a couple of days a week.’ Gregson’s tone was dismissive. Then, to Alec, he said, ‘This is DCI Pendragon and Sergeant Turner. They think we might have been supplying arsenic to undesirables.’

  Alec was in his early-twenties. He wore thick-framed glasses and had greasy hair worn in a side-parting. ‘A-aarsenic?’ he stammered. ‘We d-d-d-on’t use that m-m-much.’

  ‘It doesn’t take a lot to kill someone,’ Pendragon retorted.

  Alec flushed. ‘N-n-n-o. That’s r-r-right.’

  ‘So where is Daniel?’ Gregson repeated impatiently.

  ‘He’s p-p-popped out f-f-for a late l-l-lunch.’

  Gregson looked at his watch and sighed. ‘Okay, Alec, could you just confirm for these gentlemen that we have not mislaid any arsenic trioxide?’

  ‘Yes. I-I-I m-m-mean, n-n-n-o.’

  ‘See over here, Inspector,’ Gregson said, pointing to a toughened glass box with a combination lock. Inside could just be seen a small collection of brown bottles. On the front of the glass box there was a sign: DANGER – CONTROLLED SUBSTANCES. EXTREME CAUTION. FOR USE BY AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY. HAZCHEM LEVEL 2. ‘This is where we keep the most hazardous chemicals. Arsenic trioxide is not just a poison, it’s extremely carcinogenic. Only Daniel knows the combination … and I myself, of course.’ ‘Could we take a look at your inventory?’ Turner asked him.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, man!’

  ‘It should be an easy matter, should it not, Mr Gregson? It would be computerised, surely?’ Pendragon insisted.

  ‘Yes, very well. Alec, can you pull up the files?’

  The young storeman tapped at the keyboard and quickly brought up the appropriate screen. Gregson nudged him aside and took up position in front of the monitor. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘We had a fifty kilo delivery of arsenic trioxide from Toulouse in March. As Alec said, we use relatively little. High-quality glass has nothing like the arsenic content of the cheap stuff. Here are the daily uses throughout April and May. We had a second delivery on May the twenty-third. Take a look. Everything’s accounted for.’

  Turner studied the figures for a moment and then nodded to Pendragon.

  ‘Well, thank you, Mr Gregson. We won’t trouble you any further,’ said the DCI.

  Gregson showed them to the main entrance to the building. ‘I’m glad we couldn�
�t be any more helpful. If you see what I mean,’ he said, closing the door.

  ‘Lovely man,’ Turner remarked as they walked across a small parking area towards the car.

  ‘DCI Pendragon?’

  The two policemen turned in unison. The secretary from the glass company was striding towards them. She kept glancing over her shoulder.

  ‘I have to be quick,’ she hissed. ‘I know why you’re here. We did have a break-in – two weeks ago. He was away on one of his fancy holidays.’

  ‘He being Mr Gregson?’ Turner asked.

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Why didn’t someone report it?’

  ‘We did. I did. I phoned Limehouse police station on May the twenty-fifth.’

  ‘And you felt you couldn’t tell the boss?’ Turner queried.

  ‘Were you born a genius or have you had to work at it?’ the secretary snapped in reply. Turner was speechless. ‘Alec is my son. He’s … well, he’s very bright, but he has problems. Gregson thinks he’s a retard. He only gave him the job to shut me up. Oh, don’t look so shocked, Sergeant,’ she said, breaking into a grin. ‘Women like me learn to use every weapon in the arsenal.’ She glanced behind her again. ‘Dan covered for us and we all chipped in to repair the lock – it was forced open. Look, I have to go.’

  Pendragon caught her by the elbow and held it gently. ‘Sorry, but what’s your name?’

  ‘Lydia. Lydia Darlinghurst.’

  ‘Lydia, I’m a little confused. You had a break-in on … what? … the twenty-fourth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the only thing taken was some arsenic trioxide?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much went?’

  ‘Just one small jar of a hundred grams.’

  ‘We’ll have to check with Limehouse.’

  ‘You do that, Chief Inspector. I’m no liar.’ She looked over her shoulder again, then fixed Pendragon with a hard stare. ‘You will keep this quiet, won’t you? You have your information. If that bastard learns …’

  Pendragon touched his nose and let go of Lydia’s elbow. Without another word she ran back to the building.

  ‘“Oh, what a tangled web we weave”,’ Pendragon said, opening the door to the squad car.

  The DCI arrived in the briefing room ten minutes before the others. He brought a freshly filtered cup of his preferred Bolivian blend with him and was busy reading up about the Borgia family on Wikipedia. Jez Turner was the first of the team to arrive.

  ‘You’re not supposed to download from iTunes on police time, you know, sir,’ he said, seeing Pendragon at the computer.

  ‘I’ll remember that, Sergeant.’

  ‘What you up to?’

  ‘Taking a lead from you this morning and doing some research on the Borgias. Remember I mentioned them yesterday after I saw Professor Stokes? His theory about the bishop ring once owned by the family?’

  ‘Yeah, I do. But, well … what of it?’

  Pendragon sighed and sat back in his chair, holding his cup above his crossed knees. ‘It wasn’t owned by just any old family, Sergeant. The Borgias …’

  Turner looked blank.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, why do I bother paying my taxes? There’s no bloody education system left! The Borgias were one of history’s most notorious families, at the peak of their influence in the late-fifteenth century. The head of the family, Rodrigo Borgia, became Pope Alexander VI. His son was Cesare Borgia … ring any bells? No? Of course not! He was what you’d call a warlord, and vicious with it. In fact, the Borgias were a sort of Renaissance Mafia, super-rich and very, very unpleasant. And the Pope’s daughter, Cesare’s sister Lucrezia, was perhaps the worst of them all: spoilt, cruel, a nymphomaniac and murderess …’

  Turner looked interested suddenly. ‘What? Like a psycho Renaissance Paris Hilton?’

  ‘Paris who?’

  ‘You are joking?’ Turner gave Pendragon an incredulous look.

  The DCI’s mobile rang.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Pendragon?’

  ‘Ah, good evening, Dr Newman …’

  ‘I’ve just put down the phone on a Professor Stokes.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I should have called you. I’m sorry. I forgot.’

  ‘He claims you told him he could have samples of the skeleton?’

  ‘I said no such thing,’ Pendragon replied, pulling a face at Turner. Meanwhile Sergeant Mackleby and Inspector Rob Grant walked in and sat down.

  ‘But he …’

  ‘Dr Newman, if I may interrupt? Professor Stokes has actually been very useful to us and has some interesting ideas about the skeleton. He asked if we could loan him one of the bones. I think he called it a …’

  ‘A proximal phalanx. Yes, I know.’

  ‘Is there any particular problem with letting Stokes take a look?’

  There was silence at the other end of the line.

  ‘You do have the rest of the skeleton?’ Pendragon added hopefully.

  ‘All right, Chief Inspector,’ Dr Newman said in her crispest, most official tones. Then, more gently: ‘As a personal favour to you, this Professor Stokes can have the bone for twenty-four hours. Is that good enough?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Pendragon said, and frowned at the phone for a moment, puzzled, before hanging up.

  The team sat in a rough semi-circle, with Pendragon in a chair in front of the smart board at its focal point. ‘Would you like to go first, Rob?’ he said, turning to Inspector Grant who had Roz Mackleby sitting beside him.

  Grant cleared his throat. ‘Can’t pretend we learned much, sir. We spent over an hour with Pam Ketteridge, and I can honestly say I left knowing nothing more than I did when we got there. I hate to agree with Sergeant Turner on anything,’ he added, glancing at Jez, ‘but he’s right. The bloody woman’s as nutty as squirrel shit.’

  ‘Sergeant, do you agree?’ Pendragon glanced at Roz Mackleby.

  ‘Well, the facts are these, sir. She was upstairs in bed when her husband was murdered. Her dabs are all over the kitchen, as you would expect. There’s no DNA evidence she killed Tony. No prints of hers on him. And, most importantly, no murder weapon. That said, she is the only suspect we have, and with a good motive – plainly an unhappy marriage.’

  ‘Yeah, but there’s also the religion crap,’ Vickers said.

  ‘We’ve already gone over this, Terry,’ Mackleby sighed. ‘It’s not against the law to fill your house with crucifixes.’

  Vickers shook his head but said nothing in reply.

  ‘There is also the business with the skeleton,’ Ken Towers suggested.

  ‘What about it?’ growled Grant.

  ‘Maybe she got so upset by what Tony had done with the remains …’

  ‘Oh, rubbish,’ snapped Grant. ‘No, the only likely motive would have been if she had found out about her husband’s fancy woman. The slapper … what’s her name?’

  ‘Hannah James,’ Pendragon said quietly, staring into space. He turned to Mackleby. ‘Did you raise the subject of the girlfriend?’

  ‘I didn’t want to add to the poor woman’s misery. But Inspector Grant asked a few leading questions.’

  Pendragon glanced at Grant.

  ‘I asked her if she suspected her husband of having an affair at any time.’

  ‘And how did she react?’

  ‘She laughed.’

  ‘Confident woman.’

  ‘Crazy, more like.’

  ‘Okay,’ Pendragon said. ‘We may have to call her in and probe a bit deeper. Maybe we’ll have to tell her about Hannah. See how she reacts. Ken, what’s the story with Bridgeport Construction?’

  ‘Not much, I’m afraid, sir. I interviewed Ketteridge’s boss and his boss. Both of them have alibis which I’ve checked out. They’re clear. The company has over three hundred employees, and of those twenty-eight are involved with the Frimley Way project in some capacity – building, management, admin. The company has its own surveyors, structural engineers, and guys who liaise with the c
ouncil over building regs and approvals. Looks like the only outside firms they employ are architects.’

  ‘Which brings us to Rainer and Partner. But they had nothing directly to do with Karim or Ketteridge except that their company was designing the building due to go up at Frimley Way,’ Pendragon said. He turned to Vickers and Thatcher, sitting together at one of the tables in the middle of the semi-circle. ‘Please tell me you have something positive to report?’

  ‘’Fraid not, guv,’ Sergeant Thatcher replied. ‘Absolutely no trace of the ring.’

  Pendragon folded his arms across his chest and looked down at the floor. ‘Okay, get home,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Maybe we should all sleep on it.’

  Leaving the briefing room last, Pendragon turned into the corridor leading to reception and the main doors. He saw Superintendent Hughes shaking hands with a tall man in top brass uniform. Pendragon immediately recognised him as the divisional head, Commander Francis Ferguson. The Super turned, head down, and walked towards Pendragon, only glancing up at him when she was a few paces away. ‘Ah, just the person I wanted to see,’ she said, and indicated her office.

  She sashayed around her pristine desk and lowered herself into her chair. Without being asked, Pendragon took the chair on the other side of the desk. He suddenly felt dog-tired.

  ‘That was the Commander,’ she said unnecessarily.

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘I’m in line for promotion. He just came by to give me some advance warning.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ Pendragon replied with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

  ‘Thank you. Just one problem, Jack. The Commander’s getting a bit antsy about what the media have dubbed “The Mile End Murders”. If you don’t get this case solved pronto, I can say au revoir to that Chief Super’s job. And I really don’t want to do that … Jack.’

  ‘I’m doing my best. We all are.’

  ‘So, what’s happening?’

  He sighed and ran his fingers over his forehead. ‘It seems clear the three murders are connected. The skeleton is the common link between them, but we don’t have any idea exactly how it’s involved. Middleton and Ketteridge were definitely murdered by the same person, but they have been extremely professional. Forensics have almost nothing to go on. There’s no murder weapon, no prints, no DNA.’