The Art of Murder jp-3

by Michael White

  I watched, not moving a muscle. I was transfixed, more excited than I had ever been in my life before. I could have reached out my hand and grabbed him, but I chose not to. I watched as the last vestige of strength left him and he slipped under the surface of the water.

  Chapter 11

  Stepney, Thursday 22 January, 7.38 a.m.

  Pendragon and Turner drew to a halt on Stepney High Street. The DCI flicked on the hazards, jumped out and led the way along the path as the sun started to come up. It cast a fiery red glaze over the gravestones. Shards of light were reflected in the east-facing stained-glass windows of St Dunstan’s. As they rounded the side of the church they saw two men at the foot of an oak tree. Looking up, they could see the flat grey object draped over one of its lower branches.

  ‘Fuck me!’ Turner said under his breath as they approached. ‘It’s not until you actually see it, you can believe it.’

  Pendragon averted his eyes from the monstrous thing in the tree and walked on, head down. Inspector Ken Towers was positioning a ladder under the tree, but it was proving difficult because the ground there was uneven. Beside him stood a man in a long black robe and clerical collar. He was in his early sixties, Pendragon guessed. He had a lined face and neatly cut white hair; bushy eyebrows, grey with a few flecks of black remaining. The DCI and Turner stopped beside the others, and for a few moments Pendragon silently studied the flattened shape hanging above them.

  ‘Sir, this is the vicar … Reverend Partridge,’ Towers said, nodding towards the other man.

  Pendragon broke away from the weirdly fascinating sight and shook the cleric’s hand.

  ‘I don’t understand this,’ Partridge said, his face scrunched up like a cabbage patch doll.

  ‘No,’ Pendragon said soothingly and looked away for a second. ‘Towers, who found the body?’

  ‘A woman out jogging.’ The inspector pointed to his left. An ambulance had pulled on to the path near the edge of the graveyard. Two women sat on its tailgate. One of them was a tall blonde, wearing knee-length Lycra pants and trainers, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was sipping from a white porcelain mug, a blanket wrapped about her shoulders, the corners hanging loosely over her front. Sergeant Roz Mackleby sat next to her, speaking softly.

  Pendragon turned back to the scene under the tree. ‘What exactly are you doing, Towers?’

  ‘I brought out the ladder, Chief Inspector,’ Reverend Partridge interrupted. ‘I thought the poor soul should be brought down.’

  Pendragon placed a hand on the cleric’s upper arm ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Reverend, but the Police Pathologist will be here soon. We should let him deal with it.’ And he encouraged Reverend Partridge to turn away.

  ‘Quite right. I understand,’ the vicar replied woodenly as Pendragon walked across the grass, still with his hand on the older man’s shoulder. The vicar was clearly in shock. ‘I’ll, em … I’ll be in the vestry. Don’t hesitate …’

  ‘Thank you,’ Pendragon said, and watched the man walk slowly towards the sanctuary of his church.

  A small crowd had gathered at the other side of the railings to the churchyard, twenty yards away from the crime-scene. As Pendragon watched them, a patrol car pulled up next to the ambulance, and behind that came a grey four-wheel drive with Dr Jones at the wheel.

  Pendragon called Turner over and they strode across the grass towards the new arrivals. The DCI waved to Jones as the pathologist clambered from his car and started to make his way between a couple of gravestones towards the tree. Pendragon and Turner waited for two uniformed officers to emerge from the back of the squad car and for Inspector Grant to come round from the driver’s side. ‘You two, get that crowd cleared,’ the DCI told the uniforms, and indicated the gathering with a brief inclination of the head. ‘Grant, I want this place sealed off. I want a screen around that tree. I don’t want anyone without a valid reason for being there within a hundred yards of it. Turner, you come with me.’

  They headed towards the ambulance. Sergeant Mackleby looked up as they approached and hopped down from the tailgate, her back straight.

  ‘Relax, Sergeant,’ Pendragon told her, and looked down at the young woman nursing her drink. She was staring at the ground. He glanced at Roz Mackleby, who raised her eyebrows. ‘Sally Burnside,’ she said quietly. ‘Found the … er … body on her morning run.’

  Pendragon sat down beside the young woman. ‘Ms Burnside,’ he said.

  ‘Sally,’ the woman replied, looking up suddenly. She brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face and took a deep breath. ‘I’m okay now.’

  ‘Look, I think anyone would …’

  ‘No, really, I’m good.’

  Pendragon paused for a beat and looked up at Turner who had his notebook out. ‘I’m DCI Jack Pendragon. I’m in charge of this case. This is Sergeant Turner.’

  The woman glanced briefly at Jez and took another sip of her drink.

  ‘Do you feel up to re-telling us what happened?’

  ‘I told you, Chief Inspector, I’m fine.’ Then she burst into tears.

  The police officers were silent, letting the young woman cry it out. After a few moments, Roz Mackleby leaned in with a tissue. Sally Burnside took it and blew her nose. ‘I’m sorry …’ she began.

  ‘There’s absolutely no need to apologise,’ Pendragon said, and waited for her to gather her thoughts.

  ‘I was on my usual morning run. I almost always take the path through the churchyard.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Just before seven. I was a bit late this morning. I came round from there.’ She pointed back along the path to where it curved close to one corner of the church. ‘I saw this odd thing hanging in the tree. I couldn’t make it out. As I came closer, I still had no idea what it was. It looked like a tarpaulin to me.’ She paused for a second and took another couple of deep breaths. ‘Then I realised what it was.’

  ‘And you called 999 straight away?’

  ‘Yes, I had my mobile.’

  ‘The call was logged at four minutes past seven, sir,’ Turner commented.

  ‘Did you see anyone else in the vicinity?’

  ‘No, no one at all.’

  ‘Was that from the moment you ran into the churchyard? Think about it carefully, Sally.’

  She shook her head. ‘No one. There were people out on the street, around Stepney Way.’ And she inclined her head in the direction of the main road. ‘A couple of cars, but I can’t remember anything about them.’

  ‘No, that’s okay.’

  ‘But inside the churchyard, no. After I called the police, I went and sat on the bench over there. I couldn’t see the … er … tree from there. I must have been in a state of shock because the next thing I knew two policemen were standing beside the bench.’

  ‘All right, thanks, Ms Burnside,’ Pendragon said, getting up and flicking a glance at Sergeant Mackleby, who resumed her place on the tailgate.

  Pendragon and Turner walked back towards the tree. A screen was being erected and they could see Inspector Grant and two constables moving in on the rubbernecks.

  Beneath the tree, Jones was staring up at the hideous corpse and shaking his head. ‘Now I’ve seen it all, Pendragon,’ he said, without taking his eyes from the object above his head. ‘God only knows what you expect me to do with this.’ Then he glanced round. ‘You know that song, “Strange Fruit?”’

  The chief inspector gazed into the branches. ‘Yes, of course I do, Jones. Billie Holiday, based on a poem by Abel Meeropol, about the lynching of two black men by the Klu Klux Klan.’

  Jones was nodding sagely. ‘Looks like someone’s taken the idea a few steps further,’ he said, his tone unusually serious.

  Chapter 12

  The digital clock on the wall flicked forward from 15.59 to 16.00 as Jack Pendragon walked into the Briefing Room of Brick Lane Police Station. The whole team had gathered there. Superintendent Jill Hughes sat in a chair at the front. Roz Mackleby and Rob
Grant were at desks to either side of the room. Inspector Ken Towers sat a little behind Hughes, perched on the corner of Mackleby’s desk. The three male sergeants, Turner, Jimmy Thatcher and Terry Vickers, stood in a ragged line, leaning against the back wall. Pendragon walked along the narrow space between the desks, edging past Towers and Hughes, and stopped in front of a smart board. A row of photographs had been stuck on to it. The first showed the body of Kingsley Berrick against the backdrop of a brightly coloured canvas. Beside this were a series of photographs of the body found that morning, hanging in the tree in the grounds of St Dunstan’s Church. Under the picture of Berrick’s corpse was a colour 10?? 8? portrait of the victim provided by the local newspaper, which had run a profile of the gallery owner two years before.

  ‘You’re all aware of the basic facts of the case,’ Pendragon began without preamble. ‘Two bodies in two days. The first found at Berrick and Price Gallery in Durrell Place. The vic was Kingsley Berrick, one of the owners of the gallery and a well-known figure in the London art world. He was killed by means of a needle plunged into his brain.’ Pendragon picked up a remote from a tray at the front of the smart board and clicked it. A picture from the Milward Street Path Lab appeared, a close-up of the back of Berrick’s neck, the red puncture wound clearly visible. ‘However, the killer did not stop there.’ Pendragon clicked again, and a six-foot-square picture of Berrick propped up in the gallery appeared. There was a moment’s preternatural quiet in the room. They had all seen this image before, but it still produced a potent effect.

  ‘Second murder was discovered this morning.’ Pendragon clicked the remote again and the image of the completely flattened body draped over the branch of a tree lit up the screen. A few clicks of the remote showed the hideous thing from half a dozen different angles. ‘Absolutely no idea of the cause of death, of course, nor the identity of the victim. Forensics will be working around the clock.’

  For a moment, no one spoke. Then Terry Vickers broke the silence. He had his arms folded across his chest and was staring fixedly at the smart board with his head tilted slightly to one side. ‘I just don’t get how these murders could ’ave been done, guv. I ain’t seen nothing like it.’

  ‘I agree, Sergeant. It beggars belief.’

  ‘Yes, but these murders have been committed, haven’t they?’ Superintendent Hughes said matter-of-factly. ‘So what has Jones found? And Forensics?’

  Pendragon turned back to the board. ‘Let’s consider the Berrick murder first.’ A morgue picture of the gallery owner’s body appeared. ‘The opening in his face was definitely made post-mortem. Jones believes it was done with some sort of mechanical punch or press.’

  ‘Nice,’ Towers muttered.

  ‘Dr Newman has confirmed that the man was murdered at least an hour before he was placed in the tableau. She’s found no useful prints and suspects the murderer wore protective clothing.’

  ‘A thorough job,’ Hughes commented, sitting up in her chair and leaning forward. ‘Do Forensics have any idea if we’re dealing with a single murderer?’

  ‘Can’t say for sure,’ Pendragon replied. ‘But Dr Newman found these.’ An image of the tyre track on the gallery floor replaced the morgue shot on the smart board. ‘I’d been wondering if there was more than one killer involved, but this suggests otherwise. Black tyre rubber from a wheelchair.’

  ‘So you’re suggesting that our killer dispatches Berrick with a needle in the neck. Smashes a six-inch-wide hole through his face and head, dresses him up and then transports the body to the gallery and across the room in a wheelchair before setting him up,’ Jimmy Thatcher declared. ‘A bit much, ain’t it, sir?’

  ‘Well, yes, it is, Sergeant,’ Pendragon retorted. ‘But you have before you the end result. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I would have thought it pretty far-fetched too.’

  Hughes was staring at the smart board, rubbing her chin with the fingers of her right hand. ‘Okay, it’s a working theory, Pendragon,’ she said. ‘Until we have a better suggestion, we’ll assume that’s what happened.’ She half turned in her chair. ‘What would you like to do next?’

  ‘First, check out CCTV footage from the neighbourhood. See if we can get a car reg, or anything else to give us a lead. It’s obvious the killer is using some specialist equipment. They must have a work space and access to equipment. It’ll be a slog but we have to follow any leads we can in that direction. Turner, what have you got so far from Jackson Price?’

  Jez pushed himself off the wall and drew his notebook from the pocket of his jacket. ‘The guest list reads like a Who’s Who of the London Cool Brigade,’ he began. ‘Super models, rock stars. It was obviously a big do and our vic was extremely well connected. I spoke to Mr Price. He was helpful, but I can’t say I gleaned much from him. He gives the impression it was all happy chappies at the gallery. He and Berrick were apparently best buddies.’

  ‘Yeah … bet they were!’ Towers declared.

  Thatcher and Vickers sniggered. Pendragon glared at them and they looked at the floor. ‘Go on, Turner.’

  ‘The evening went smoothly, apparently. Which I think is pretty bloody surprising considering all the towering egos gathered under one roof.’

  ‘What about the cab company?’ Pendragon turned to the others then to explain that Norman Hedridge claimed he had dropped Berrick at his flat and hadn’t gone in with him.

  ‘The company traced the driver for me. I spoke to him on the phone and he checks out Hedridge’s story. According to the log in his car, he dropped Berrick at his flat in Bexley Road, Bethnal Green, at one-seventeen a.m. He then took Hedridge to an address in the Barbican. Hedridge paid the fare for both him and Berrick using a credit card. That’s logged at one-twenty-nine.

  ‘All right, I want you to keep working the angle. We know Berrick and our charming MEP Mr Hedridge were … intimate at one time. Pay Price another visit, probe a bit deeper.’

  ‘You think this has something to do with the gay scene, Pendragon?’ Hughes asked.

  ‘I think it’s a possibility.’

  She nodded. ‘And what about the second murder? Anything yet?’

  The image of the second victim returned to the screen. ‘The victim’s body has been completely flattened. Dr Jones has emailed over some preliminary data.’ Pendragon picked up a folder from the desk nearest the smart board and glanced at the first page. ‘Body is an oblong, 3.5 metres long by just under 2.25 metres at the widest point. It has been flattened to a surprisingly consistent thickness of between 2.3 and 2.4 centimetres. There are a few recognisable anatomical structures.’ He pointed to the image on the board. ‘A row of ribs here, a section of intestine there. And an eye … here. This murder would seem even harder to enact than the first. I’ve spent half the day trying to work out an MO. Then, just before coming in here I received two calls that helped answer a few questions.’ There was an expectant hush.

  ‘Dr Newman called first. Her team found some tracks near the tree and a mud trail that leads away around the graveyard and out across Stepney Green Park to a footpath. Unfortunately, the tracks have been chewed up, so they don’t offer any detail. But then the second call came in. It was from the duty officer at Leytonstone Police Station. A member of the public phoned in to say they had some information about the incident at St Dunstan’s this morning.’

  ‘Information?’ Grant said.

  ‘The witness is a shift-worker. He claims he was walking by the graveyard at about five this morning when he saw someone using a cherry-picker. There was a tarpaulin screen obscuring half the tree. The witness assumed it was the council chopping down a dangerous branch … which I suppose is understandable after the weather we’ve been having. He thought no more about it until his wife told him something had happened in the church grounds. Reckoned someone had hanged himself.’

  ‘A cherry-picker?’ Sergeant Mackleby said. ‘So that’s where the tracks in the mud came from?’

  Pendragon nodded and turned to Towers. ‘Inspector, I wan
t you and Vickers to check out any CCTV footage you can find. There must be cameras on Stepney Way. Any images of that cherry-picker could be worth their weight in gold.’

  Towers nodded.

  ‘Anything else from Forensics?’ Hughes asked.

  ‘Dr Newman has promised to rush through a DNA analysis. I’m hoping to hear from her within the hour,’ Pendragon replied. He flicked off the smart board and perched himself on a table to one side of the screen. Folding his arms, he said, ‘There’s obviously a very clear connection between the two murders.’

  ‘There is?’ said Sergeant Vickers from the back of the room.

  ‘Famous paintings,’ Superintendent Hughes said quietly.

  Vickers turned to Thatcher next to him and shrugged.

  ‘The murder scenes are tableaux.’ Pendragon stared at the blank faces of the Vickers and Thatcher.

  ‘Rene Magritte?’ Turner said, whirling on his fellow sergeants. ‘Duh!’

  Hughes caught Pendragon’s eye and he allowed himself the faintest of smiles.

  ‘The first murder scene was contrived to copy a famous painting, The Son of Man by the Belgium Surrealist Rene Magritte,’ Pendragon said. ‘It depicts a man in a black suit and bowler hat with an apple in place of his face. The second murder is another staged affair: The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali.’

  ‘Is that the one with the floppy clocks?’ Inspector Towers asked. ‘My sister had a poster of that on her bedroom wall years ago. I always hated it.’

  ‘It’s all pretty bloody weird, if you ask me,’ commented Sergeant Vickers, who had moved forward to sit on the edge of a desk across from Towers.

  ‘It is,’ Pendragon replied, looking around the room. ‘It’s bloody weird, but it’s real and the connection is irrefutable.’

  ‘So the murderer’s a nut?’ Rob Grant said.

  ‘Depends how you define “nut”, Inspector,’ Pendragon retorted, growing a little irritable. ‘The point is, the killer has a personal agenda. There’s absolutely no chance of a coincidence here. Killings like these are carefully planned and meticulously staged. But, most importantly, they are statements. Our killer is not just disposing of people. He’s making a point, a very serious point, and if we’re to have any hope of catching him, we need to understand that point, PDQ.’