The Art of Murder jp-3

by Michael White

  ‘Okay,’ he went on, and pushed the roller back into the paint tray. In the background, Wes Montgomery was playing sweetly, an elaborate riff in B-flat minor. ‘Obviously the killer is trying to tell us something. But what? Are they a frustrated artist, ignored and angry? In other words, just like Arcade? Or is it someone who is setting up the murders to make us think the murderer is a frustrated artist? Is the killer someone in the arts community … or are they trying to make us think along those lines, to throw us off the scent?’

  The door buzzer went and Pendragon placed the roller carefully on the rim of the paint tray, walked over to the door and depressed the switch on the intercom.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sir? It’s Turner. Can I pop up for a minute?’

  Surprised, Pendragon pushed the button to open the front door. Thirty seconds later the sergeant had reached the top of the stairs, slightly out of breath. He had a leather satchel slung over his left shoulder. ‘Evening, guv. I’m sorry to disturb you.’ He couldn’t resist a half-smile, seeing DCI Pendragon in jeans.

  ‘Come in, Turner. It’d better be something very interesting.’

  ‘Doing a spot of DIY then, sir? Looks good.’ Turner went over to the kitchen worktop and off-loaded the shoulder bag, placing it carefully on the Formica top. ‘It’s to do with Noel Thursk,’ he said, unzipping the bag and pulling out a laptop.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Thatcher got back with this just after you left.’ He nodded towards the laptop. ‘It’s Thursk’s. It didn’t take long to get into it.’ He looked at Pendragon for approval. ‘Password was peanuts to figure out. Ninety-nine per cent of people do the bleedin’ obvious, even though they’re always being told not to.’

  ‘The obvious?’

  ‘NT0658.’

  ‘Initials, then month and year of his birth?’

  ‘Correct. It was the second attempt because some people use the day of the birth month. Anyway … I’ve gone through the machine. Nothing. I’ve searched every disk and every USB drive in Thursk’s flat. Nothing on those either. No notes, no rough drafts. The only thing on there is the original proposal, which the publisher has anyway — a ten-page outline that gives the bare bones of the book.’ He brought it up on the computer. Pendragon read from the screen and scrolled down. It told him very little, merely making reference to Thursk’s long and close association with key players in the London art world. As the publisher, Lewis Fanshaw, was an old friend of his, he would have needed little convincing of Thursk’s credentials.

  ‘Not a great help.’

  ‘No, sir. But I dunno, I had a sense something wasn’t quite right. Just an instinct, I s’pose. So I ran a piece of software through it called Re-Search. It scans the computer and can find traces of files that were once on the hard drive and have since been deleted. It’s to do with binary markers that …’

  ‘Yes, all right, Sergeant. Get to the point.’

  ‘The point is, Thursk deleted a whole load of files from the hard drive very recently. You can see here.’ He pointed towards the screen. A list of processor files appeared. Six of them had been greyed-out. ‘I checked all the disks and external drives and found the same thing on one of the USBs.’

  ‘Amazing. And you can retrieve them?’

  ‘’Fraid not, guv.’

  Pendragon paused for a moment, lost in thought.

  Turner surveyed the tiny apartment. He had been here on two previous occasions, but each time had barely stepped beyond the door.

  ‘Okay, well, that’s progress of a sort. It tells us three important things.’ Pendragon counted them off on the fingers of his right hand. ‘One: Thursk knew he had some pretty incendiary material — why else would he be so secretive? Two: he must have been worried someone was after him — why else would he erase the files just before whoever it was caught up with him? And three: he wouldn’t have destroyed all traces of his work. He would have made a backup that he’s hidden somewhere.’

  Chapter 19

  Stepney, Friday, 10 p.m.

  The killer was quoting aloud to no one while packing equipment into a shoulder bag: ‘“Before I start painting I have a slightly ambiguous feeling … happiness is a special excitement because unhappiness is always possible a moment later.” Mmm … one of Francis Bacon’s better comments, and very apt,’ the killer said. ‘And tonight … I shall be Mr Bacon.’

  Mr Bacon duly left the building, pacing through the gloom and mist, face obscured by a hoodie and sunglasses. It was a long walk to the church, but the last thing Mr Bacon wanted was the attention of a CCTV camera offering up an incriminating registration plate for some clever copper to jump on. No, Mr Bacon had important work to do.

  The church was open, of course; the Lord protects, no need for locks. It was dark, Evening Mass over. Mr Bacon walked slowly towards the altar, the only illumination coming from the street beyond the stained glass. The vague light picked out sharp lines of gold: a giant crucifix in the centre of the altar, orderly strands of glinting thread tumbling to the stone floor, one corner of a portrait of a gasping Christ.

  At the door to the vestry, Mr Bacon paused, took several deep breaths and lowered the shoulder bag to the floor. Next to the door stood a fine wooden chair, a throne of dark wood trimmed with gold and mother-of-pearl inlay. It was a prized piece, donated by a wealthy benefactor years earlier. Mr Bacon smiled and turned away, then with a sudden burst of violence, he smashed open the door and charged in, Mace spray in hand. The elderly priest, Father Michael O’Leary, was folding the evening’s vestments and turned just in time to receive a faceful of noxious, blinding vapour. Falling back in shock and pain, he stumbled over a stool and landed in a heap on the floor. Mr Bacon was on him in a second, ramming a knee up into the priest’s groin with so much force his testicles became lodged in his abdomen. O’Leary screamed.

  Mr Bacon bent down and twisted the man face round. It was pale and contorted in agony. His eyes were streaming. ‘Do you really not recognise me, priest?’ Mr Bacon said.

  The injured man tried to focus, staring up uncomprehending, terror and pain overwhelming him. ‘Look closer,’ Mr Bacon spat, peering down at him. ‘Ah, yes, you are beginning to remember …’

  Father O’Leary went limp, his face now a white drooping thing, his eyes like coals dropped on snow. Trying to understand what was happening, he struggled to pull himself up, survival instinct overcoming his agony. But Mr Bacon moved a hand to the priest’s throat and gripped it tight. O’Leary caught a glimpse of a hypodermic with a nine-inch needle. He began to kick and struggle, but Mr Bacon was fit and strong and the priest was old, his body a mess. Mr Bacon brought the needle round the back of O’Leary’s skull. He tried to move his head, but the combination of shock, Mace and the pain raking his aged body made him no match for Mr Bacon.

  The needle began to penetrate the soft flesh at the nape of the neck. ‘An interesting fact …’ Mr Bacon said matter-of-factly. ‘According to some historians, the term “tenterhooks” comes from a form of execution popular in the fourteenth century. The condemned were left to hang on a metal hook passed through the nape of the neck. Very painful, apparently.’

  Mr Bacon pushed the entire length of the needle through the priest’s skull. Father O’Leary shuddered, and as the plunger was levered down, releasing heroin into his brain, began to shake violently. He froze, then died.

  Lowering the body to the floor, Mr Bacon stepped out of the vestry, grabbed the arms of the ornate chair positioned against the wall and dragged it across the stone floor. Levering the door open and keeping it in place with one foot, it was just possible to manoeuvre the chair through the opening and into the vestry.

  Inside the shoulder bag lay a bundle of clothing. Taking it out, Mr Bacon unrolled the fabric. Papal vestments: a white surplice, purple cope and purple hat. Placing these carefully over the back of a chair, the murderer stripped the dead man to his underwear, discarded his clothes and dressed him in the papal garments. When the body was ready,
Mr Bacon heaved it on to the seat of the wooden and gold chair. It was a struggle, but empowerment came from the incredible thrill of the moment, the sweet nectar of cold, cold revenge, pure Schadenfreude.

  Inside the shoulder bag was a folded steel rod. This Mr Bacon unravelled then placed inside the back of the papal cope to keep Father O’Leary’s dead spine straight and upright. Rope was then removed from the bag and tied about the waist and chest, pinning the priest’s corpse to the chair. More rope secured the arms, while the hands were draped over the throne’s sides.

  Now there was just the face to attend to. From the bag came two lengths of clear surgical tape. Peeling back the priest’s eyelids, Mr Bacon applied the tape to the soft skin and stuck the other end to the man’s forehead, pinning open his sightless eyes. Lastly, from a pocket in the hoodie, came a clear plastic sphere the size of a tennis ball. This was rammed into the priest’s mouth, behind his teeth, forcing open O’Leary’s mouth. Next the corpse’s lifeless lips were folded back, exposing the teeth. The entire ensemble created the look of a man screaming and grasping the arms of the throne, as though he were being electrocuted.

  Mr Bacon stood back to appraise the evening’s work and nodded appreciatively, then stepped out through the door, locked it and pocketed the key.

  Chapter 20

  To Mrs Sonia Thomson

  13 October 1888

  So, when was it that I stopped searching for the thing that is not there, the thing Christians call a ‘soul’? When was it that I started to treat human beings as playthings … materials for my work? I have one special individual to thank for that revelation, a most singular man, and I think, dear lady, I should explain how he crossed my path.

  My little experiment to see what life would bring me as an actor in all my daily actions proved remarkable. People flocked to me, men and women. I seemed to be irresistible, and my life at the University became a whirlwind of socialising. So much so, in fact, it was a minor miracle that when it came to scholarly concerns I managed to appease my professors at all.

  I was quick to learn that the best fun was to be had from mixing with those for whom three years at Oxford was a time in which to indulge their every whim. There were two types who fitted this bill. The less interesting of the two were the genuine artists, the poets, painters and philosophers who ignored most conventions, kept within few bounds and believed they were on a mission to experience ‘real life’ in order to fuel their artistic ambitions. They could be entertaining, but they were strangely predictable. Nevertheless through them I grew close to two Oxford legends, William Morris and Edward Burne-Jones. They were each in their fifties when I was introduced to them and had already gained the status of gods within the artistic community. They spent little time in Oxford except that each of them delivered a special annual lecture at the Faculty of Arts. I found both men surprisingly open to the ideas of youth, and, again, perhaps it was down to my talent as an actor and mimic, but they took to me.

  The other group were the immensely wealthy sons of the aristocracy, children of stalwarts of the House of Lords, themselves future peers. These young men whored, gambled, drank and took every drug known with complete abandon, as though their wealth made them immortal and immune from bodily corruption … the fools! They acted the way they did not from any high ideals or aesthetic imperatives, but simply to have a good time before having to submit to a more conventional existence. The problem about associating with these types was that one needed money to do so.

  I circumvented this initially by sponging off others. I used my considerable charm and thespian talents to wheedle my way into the cliques that seemed to be the most high-living. But even my charisma has its bounds, and eventually I was forced to find money from somewhere. Father provided me with an annual allowance, which, as you may imagine, was pitifully meagre. To fund my escapades, I found gainful employment as a Society artist. I was in my final year at Oxford and had something of a reputation as an up-and-coming young painter. I even managed to procure a letter of recommendation from Morris himself. What wealthy businessman or lady of leisure could resist?

  It was an altogether loathsome experience. The women were, without exception, pampered snobs gone to seed. The worst aspect to it was the sexual opportunism I was obliged to endure. Perhaps one in three of the gracious ladies would proposition me at some point, and I would find it a challenge to keep myself from vomiting over them. Needless to say, such experiences did nothing but exaggerate my hatred for everyone alive.

  Ironically, it was through the artists rather than the fun-loving aristos that I met the man who would set me on the correct path. That man was Magnus Oglebee. No, you probably have not heard of him, my dear lady, but then very few have. He was something of an enigma by intent. He guarded his privacy jealously and trusted only a select few. But when he did place his trust in you, you felt very special.

  It was Burne-Jones who invited me to Oglebee’s soiree in May 1888. Oglebee held these events at irregular intervals and only the elite of Oxford were welcome. As you may imagine, I was delighted. The party was at Oglebee’s mansion close to Boars Hill, outside the city. It was a cab ride there, and I arrived just as the sun was setting over the Neo-Gothic towers of the enigma’s grand home, Clancy Hall.

  It was a magnificent house, set in splendid gardens. The grand hall was dominated by a mahogany staircase that swept up to the first floor then split to left and right before sweeping round in two great curves. The main dining hall was lit with literally hundreds of candles held in crystal chandeliers. I was told the owner of this palace shunned gaslight and would only illuminate his home with the natural glow of candles. It was a breathtakingly beautiful affectation.

  No one knew how Oglebee had made his fortune. No one seemed to have a clue what he actually did in the world, or even how he spent his days. And, of course, this set tongues wagging among those few who even knew the man existed. I remember there was some fevered speculation that he was a vampire who only came out at night. Absurd, of course, and a notion most probably fuelled by excessive quantities of opium. But certainly a flattering piece of gossip, nevertheless.

  There were just twelve guests that night. Oglebee made it a happy thirteen. Morris and Burne-Jones were there. The author Charles Dodgson arrived late, fretting comically. And I saw at least two well-known politicians, one from the Upper House, men whose faces are often seen in the pages of The Times. We dined early, an exquisite meal of oysters, salmon and game followed by a wonderful dish I had never before experienced, a thing called creme brulee which was originally called Cambridge Burnt Cream, a delicacy from ‘the other place’. I’ll send you the recipe sometime.

  After the meal, we were invited into the vast library. Servants supplied us with cigars and brandy. I perused the books, staggered to find such delights as first editions of de Sade, Rochester, Byron, Keats, and a host of other luminaries. As well as these, I found books on alchemy and necromancy, the titles of which I had never heard of before, but all lovingly bound in the softest calf-skin.

  I had still not been formally introduced to Oglebee when I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned to see the man himself standing rather uncomfortably close. He was an exuberant host and I’d had many a chance to observe him during the course of the evening. In an oddly high-pitched, reedy voice, with a mild, indefinable accent, he had held forth at dinner upon a range of interesting subjects and regaled his guests with a succession of wonderful anecdotes. He was small, barely passing my shoulder, and had a bird’s face: pinched nose, and small black eyes that darted quickly from side to side as he spoke. And when his eyes were occasionally fixed straight ahead, he had the rather unnerving habit of seeming to look straight through you. He exuded immense confidence, almost disturbingly so, and I am happy to admit that, with him, I immediately felt I had to up my game. The acting skills that had served me well with the common herd of humanity, even with Oxford dons and artists, suddenly seemed insufficient. Oglebee, I realised, was a man apart.


  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Entertainment has been arranged.’

  He beckoned to the others and we all followed him into a large room adjoining the library. We began chatting amicably, and perhaps a little drunkenly. At dinner I had been careful to imbibe little, surreptitiously tipping most of what I had been given on to the carpet. Some instinct told me I needed to keep a level head.

  The room already lay in deep shadow, but then a team of servants appeared and began quenching the remaining candle flames. This cast us all into absolute darkness. The sound of music sprang from some hidden source. It was music such as I had never heard before. I could not imagine how Oglebee had managed to bring it into the room without any visible performers, but I quickly forgot how strange this was for suddenly a line of six lights appeared. They moved across the room, and as the glow grew brighter I realised they were candles in gold holders each carried by a young woman. Their naked bodies were painted gold and each woman had blonde, waist-length hair. They began to dance exquisitely.

  I felt a wooden object pushed into my hand. I could barely see it in the half-light, but as I bent close I could make out a pipe. I went to push it away, but saw that it was Oglebee sitting next to me, offering the contraption. He nudged it back and nodded. I could not refuse. I took a child’s drag on the pipe’s ebony tip. Oglebee laughed and poked an elbow in my ribs. ‘Oh, stop pretending, young man,’ he said. ‘I thought you were … an artist!’

  There is an unpleasant void in my memory. It lasts from soon after I took a deep draw on that pipe to a point in time where it seems a veil was drawn aside and I slowly surfaced into some form of normal consciousness. I detest losing control, or worse still, being forced to lose it. But that must have been what happened, for the next thing I recall is seeing a pair of breasts swaying in front of me and feeling a burning sensation in my groin. I remember pushing out my arms and pressing against soft flesh. I knew I was naked. I clambered to my feet a little unsteadily and took a deep breath.