‘Franklin?’
‘That was his name. A murderer, apparently. Killed two small children.’
I stared down at the sinewy naked form and could not visualise it as ever having been a living thing, let alone a person possessing the passion to kill.
Later Merryfield and I walked back to Broad Street together. After arranging a date and time for my first extra-curricular anatomy lesson with him, we parted on good terms. He wandered off to his room in Lincoln College and I walked slowly along Turl Street towards Exeter. But I knew even then that I would not sleep until I had spent some more time with Franklin.
I waited for three hours, watching the clock on my mantelpiece until the hands reached one. We were all supposed to be tucked up in our rooms by ten at night, and the curfew was strictly enforced. But, as you will have gleaned, I’ve never been an entirely conventional fellow. Within twenty-four hours of arriving at Exeter I had found at least three different ways to avoid the Bulldogs. It was a simple matter to slip unnoticed past the head porter, Mr Cooper, as he read the Oxford Times and sipped tea in the porters’ lodge. I could move with great stealth and almost completely silently. As a precaution, I had put on black clothes, smeared my face with paint and pulled a hat tight down over my head.
Another useful skill I had acquired years earlier was the ability to pick locks. To this day there is still not a lock that has defeated me … and, believe me, good lady, I have picked a few.
I have a near-perfect memory and could recall every detail of the inside of the lab. Another useful skill of mine. You have to admit, I am a rather clever chap. The room was black, but there was a gas lamp close to the door. I pictured the layout of the room: the wooden and metal benches, the chairs, the sinks and the metal ‘tombs’. I made my way in the dark straight to the part of the room where Merryfield and I had been talking the previous evening. I lit the gas mantle, turning the tap to produce the palest, most sallow light.
The memory of it all is as clear as crystal in my mind today. Most people would probably have felt uncomfortable in that place. The cold was biting, my cheeks felt numb and my fingers were freezing. I could see my own breath in the air. But aside from these discomforts, I felt remarkably relaxed. The dead have never scared me, and in this dark, frigid room, I felt absolutely at home. And so I set to work.
I shall not describe precisely what I did. Let us just say I was searching for something. I always had been. This was in the days when I believed there was still something to find inside the human body. A time before I realised there was nothing there. Before I gleaned the real truth.
I haven’t really explained this so far, have I? Perhaps I should. My parents’ religious zeal repelled me, this much is undeniable. I had no time for myths and legends, and I certainly did not believe in a benevolent God. But at the same time, I could not come to terms with the idea that this meagre existence on Earth was the end of the story. I realise now that it was just my ego making me think this. After all, it is human ego that drives all religious faith, and like most people I needed to believe in the existence of the soul. As far back as the days when I’d vivisected rats and frogs, I was searching for a physical manifestation of it. I knew it had to be in there somewhere. That is what I was doing that night in Merryfield’s lab. I was hunting for tell-tale signs that the dead murderer’s body had once hosted a soul, that traces of it somehow remained. I realise the futility of it now, dear lady. But I was young once.
Anyway, I digress. I half-expected something concerning my nocturnal adventure to appear in the local paper, but, disappointingly, nothing was ever reported. It seemed the University hushed up everything. No blame was ever placed upon Merryfield because he shared the cadaver with at least a dozen other students. He told me there had been a discreet enquiry into the episode and that he had been questioned at length. I put on a wonderful show of shock and disgust when, after swearing me to secrecy, he told me what had happened. None of the medical students or teaching staff could quite understand why a hard-to-come-by corpse, employed for serious research, had been so comprehensively and systematically eviscerated, each organ ransacked, every inch of flesh diced and pulverised.
For my part, I’m just as mystified as to why Merryfield never showed the slightest suspicion that the destruction of Franklin’s dead body had been in any way linked with our visit the previous night, or that it was anything to do with me. Either he was a very naive chap or I am an even better actor than I give myself credit for.
Chapter 15
Stepney, Friday 23 January, 8.30 a.m.
The morning sun was trying to break through heavy dark cloud as Pendragon and Turner drove through grey morning streets. Pendragon was sipping coffee, the sergeant at the wheel.
‘Did you learn anything from Chester Gerachi?’
‘Nah, just confirmed what that bird Selina said.’
‘About Arcade?’
‘Yeah, and Berrick leaving with Hedridge.’
‘Where did Gerachi go after the private view?’
‘Got a cab home. He lives in Bermondsey. I checked with the cab company. They dropped him there just after one-thirty.’
Pendragon nodded and took another sip of coffee. ‘Which doesn’t entirely rule him out. He could have made it back to Stepney in time to bump off Berrick.’
‘I thought the same thing. He’s clear though. His girlfriend was waiting up for him.’
They pulled up outside a large Victorian terraced house on Glynnis Road, close to Whitechapel tube station. Half a dozen rings on the doorbell brought no response, so Turner leaned on the ancient brass bell push until the front door was finally opened a crack. Through the narrow opening they could see a man’s face, eyes crinkled to slits. His long, spiky hair was almost comical, like the much-maligned cat in a Tom and Jerry cartoon after he’s had his paw jammed in a plug socket. Pendragon pushed his ID up to the crack. The young man glanced at it and went to close the door again, but Turner had his foot in the opening. There was a brief sigh from the other side of the door and it swung open a little.
Francis Arcade lived in a bedsit on the first floor. It consisted of one large room with a minuscule bathroom and a galley kitchen. Windows in the main room looked out over the grey street, parked cars, ragged, leafless trees and Stepney grime. It was a high-ceilinged room with elaborate cornicing. It would once have made a fine master bedroom. The floorboards were bare and painted black. The walls were painted dark grey. A bare bulb hung from the centre of the ceiling. It cast a bright, stark light over the dark surfaces. In one corner stood a narrow bed. It was the only piece of furniture in the room.
The rest of the space was taken up with canvases laid flat on the floor or leaning against the walls, an easel, boxes of paints, and pots stuffed with brushes of all sizes. One wall was covered with advertisements from magazines and newspapers. The canvases, a good dozen of them, were identical, flat black, featureless surfaces. Arcade caught Turner staring at them.
‘A new series,’ the young man said. ‘Shades of white.’
Turner made to reply but a glance from Pendragon stopped him. ‘Mr Arcade, we’re from Brick Lane Police Station. My name’s DCI Pendragon and this is Sergeant Turner. May we ask you a few questions?’
Arcade was tall, two or three inches over six foot, but incredibly thin. He could not have weighed more than seventy kilos. He had obviously just rolled out of bed. He was bare-foot, dressed in a pair of black baggy trousers that flapped about his feet, and a ripped T-shirt through which one pale nipple could be seen. About his neck was a grubby red kerchief. He had large hands, long fingers, filthy nails. His mop of jet-black hair was a mess, spiked up with gel. He had the remnants of black mascara about his large eyes, black pupils, a long, shapely nose and a sensuous wide mouth. Given a bath, a haircut and a few good meals, he could have been a good-looking kid.
Pendragon recalled what he knew of Francis Arcade from the record. He had been reported for two relatively minor offences, disorderly conduct and p
etty theft. No charges had been brought on either count. He had studied at St Martin’s and had once been considered a promising young artist. There had even been an article about him in Paint, which had trumpeted that Arcade was the young artist to keep an eye on. Then it had all gone wrong. He had been kicked out of college, a remarkable feat in itself. Officially it had been because he had slandered the school in an interview in the Big Issue, but Arcade had claimed he had been victimised and that they had used the interview as an excuse to get rid of him. Whatever the truth, it marked the start of a rapid slide in his fortunes. He was soon ostracised by the painting fraternity, and his few friends deserted him. He had taken to attacking the London art world at every opportunity, but each attempt to deride or upset those who pulled the strings had backfired, and now he was perceived by most people in the scene as an object of ridicule.
‘I take it this is about the stiffs?’
‘If by that you mean the two men whose deaths we are investigating, then, yes.’
‘That’s cool. I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know about the fuckers. I hated the air they breathed. Very good riddance, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘That seems a strange thing to say at this juncture, Mr Arcade.’
The young man shrugged. ‘Innocent until proven guilty, I was always told. Has that changed suddenly?’
Pendragon stared at him. ‘Can you account for your movements early on Wednesday morning?’
‘Yes, I can actually. I was at the Lemon.’
‘The Lemon?’
‘A club, sir,’ Turner said.
Pendragon screwed up his mouth and nodded. ‘And what time did you leave … the Lemon?’
‘About four, I think. You could ask them at the door. They saw me arrive about midnight. There were quite a few people at the club who could vouch for me. I was on the floor the whole time. Didn’t stop … except to take a piss a couple of times.’
‘What about early yesterday morning?’
‘Was that when my dear departed friend Noel Thursk died? I thought he hung himself.’
‘Just answer the question, please.’
‘Am I a suspect suddenly?’
‘You’re helping with our enquiries, Mr Arcade. If you would prefer to come down to the station, we have nice warm interview rooms there.’
Arcade bit on a dirty fingernail. ‘I was at the Lemon then too.’
‘Two nights in a row?’
‘I’ve been in a dancey mood.’
Pendragon looked around the room before staring hard at Arcade. ‘You knew Kingsley Berrick and Noel Thursk well?’
‘Better than I would have liked. Berrick was a breadhead, nothing more. He had no real interest in art. When he looked at a painting or a sculpture, he saw pound signs. And Thursk? A seedy little charlatan. All he was interested in was digging the dirt on the people around him. He was a crap artist and a crap writer. No great loss, really,’ Arcade concluded, screwing up his face in a mock smile.
‘I assume you blame these two men for your recent problems,’ Pendragon replied.
Arcade’s smile dissolved, to be replaced by a stare as black as one of his new canvases. ‘And what would those “problems” be, Chief Inspector?’
Pendragon felt Turner staring sidelong at him from where he stood a few feet to his left. Arcade gave a short laugh. ‘You don’t really understand anything, do you?’ he said. ‘There are two types of people in the art world, Chief Inspector. There are the creators and the spongers. Berrick and Thursk are … sorry, were … spongers, parasites who fed off the spirit and the soul of artists. For me, there are no “problems”, as you call them. There are only opportunities … opportunities to create. I learn from everything that happens to me. Each new experience in my life feeds my work. Because of that, I don’t have problems. I’m immune.’
Pendragon glanced at Turner then back at Arcade. He wanted to argue, to point out that he was contradicting himself, for if there were no problems, then Berrick and Thursk had not been problems. If they were simply fuelling his creativity, they had been doing him a favour; no reason to hate them therefore. ‘Tell me about Tuesday evening,’ he said instead.
‘What? The sickening display of pomposity and backslapping at Kingsley’s gallery?’
‘An event to which you weren’t invited.’
‘Wouldn’t have gone if I had been.’
‘So gatecrashing was just a display of frustration? Or was it performance art?’
Francis Arcade spun round to face Turner. ‘Oh, man, your boss is a comedian.’
Turner stared at the young man, his face impassive, and Arcade looked back at Pendragon. ‘So, what? Is “performance art” a new phrase you’ve picked up, Mr Plod? It’s got fuck all to do with anything like that. I gate-crashed because it amused me.’
Pendragon gave Arcade a doubtful stare and then looked sidelong at Sergeant Turner. There was a sudden stillness in the room. Arcade walked past the two officers and stopped at his easel. He picked up a palette covered with black paint and began to dab at the canvas. To Pendragon it felt as though a switch had been thrown and Arcade was no longer with them.
Chapter 16
‘Have to say, guv, these artistic types are a bloody odd bunch,’ Turner said as they walked across the street to the car.
Pendragon was deep in thought.
‘I mean, that bloke hated Berrick and Thursk and made no bones about it. Doesn’t he care what we think?’
‘Clearly not, Sergeant. Which may strengthen the view that he had nothing to do with the murders.’
‘Or it could be a double bluff.’
Pendragon exhaled through his nostrils and shook his head. ‘I think you’ve been watching too many American crime shows, Turner. Check out Arcade’s alibis for both nights as soon as you get back to the station. But, I can guarantee, they’ll stack up. And while you’re about it, see how Grant and Vickers are getting on with the CCTV footage. Give me a call if they’ve found anything.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘I’ve got to see a man about a book.’
Ten-thirty on Friday morning, and the only people milling around Soho Square were shoppers wrapped up against the biting wind and laden down with spoils from the January sales. Pendragon turned into a side street and headed towards a stucco-fronted building close to the end of the narrow road. Steps girded by black railings led to a large black-painted door. He pushed a button on the wall and a voice distorted by electronic noise came through the intercom speaker. ‘May I help?’
‘DCI Pendragon. Here to see Mr Lewis Fanshaw,’ he replied. There was a momentary pause and the door clicked open.
A narrow hall with a vaulted ceiling led through to a broad reception area. Pendragon introduced himself again and the receptionist gestured towards a line of leather-covered chairs around a low table piled with literary magazines and publisher’s catalogues. Pendragon was trying to find something interesting in an article about yet another great Indian saga due to be unleashed upon the world when a beefy man in his mid-forties appeared from the hall, one huge hand extended, a smile on his face. He was wearing a crumpled blue jacket and grey slacks, a white open-necked shirt and a very bright waistcoat.
‘DCI Pendragon,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Please, come in.’ He placed one hand on Pendragon’s shoulder and waved the other towards his room.
Lewis Fanshaw’s office was large and square. A pair of sash windows opened on to a narrow courtyard surrounded by dark brick walls. On the ledges stood two window boxes, the plants inside them dead, their crumpled leaves glazed with frost. Fanshaw sat down behind a handsome old mahogany desk. To each side of it stood piles of manuscripts, some contained by rubber bands, others spilling out haphazardly. Fanshaw sat in a modern cloth-covered swivel chair and leaned back, right leg over left knee, one Hush Puppy and one Donald Duck sock on display with a strip of pink flesh just visible above the sock. He placed his interlinked fingers on his crossed knee and sa
id, ‘So, Chief Inspector, you must be here about poor old Noel. Did Margaret get you a coffee or a tea, by the way?’
‘That’s fine,’ Pendragon responded. ‘Yes, that’s why I’m here. We’re treating Mr Thursk’s death as murder.’
Fanshaw blanched. ‘Murder? But I was told …’
‘Suicide? That appears not to have been the case.’
‘I see. Well, of course, Chief Inspector, anything I can do to help …’
‘We’re beginning to suspect that Noel Thursk’s murder may be closely linked with that of Kingsley Berrick. The two men knew each other, and, well, there are connections between the murders which I cannot go into at this time.’
Fanshaw was nodding. ‘No, of course not. So how may I be of assistance?’
‘I understand that you were going to publish the book Noel Thursk was writing.’
Fanshaw raised his eyebrows and sighed. ‘Yes, well, that was the theory.’ Pendragon gave him a puzzled look. ‘We signed the book over four years ago. Delivery dates came and went several times. I’d begun to lose heart. Now, of course … I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound callous. I liked Noel. He was a strange, very reserved man these past few years. Never used to be. We were at college together, you know. He was a lot of fun in those days. I think he had the stuffing knocked out of him. The winds of fate, and all that?’
‘What do you mean, precisely, Mr Fanshaw?’
‘Sadly, Noel was one of those people whose ambition outstretched his talent by some considerable degree. He was a good artist, don’t get me wrong, but not exceptional. And his style was deeply, deeply unfashionable. He could not adapt. People stopped taking him seriously a long time ago. Eventually he accepted it and crossed the tracks, as it were, to write about painting rather than actually being a painter himself. But it damaged him. He made the transition, but he relinquished a major part of himself along the way.’
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