‘Actually, it’ll be my birthday in a few days. I’ll be forty-seven … God!’
‘Well, you look very well preserved.’
He smiled and inclined his head in thanks.
‘As an artist, I’m all for people staying young — mentally, anyway.’
‘You live for art, body and soul, don’t you, Gemma?’
She looked a little surprised, but admitted, ‘Well, yes, I do.’ She drank some wine and added, ‘Quite simply, it’s the most important thing in the world.’
‘I once knew a painter,’ Pendragon said. ‘An old girlfriend actually … at Oxford. She said to me that if she could choose between a Titian or the invention of the wheel, she would pick the Titian.’
Gemma sipped her wine and placed the glass back on the table. ‘I’m right there with your old girlfriend on that,’ she said. ‘No question. The thing is, the wheel provides the world with a practical advance, but the Titian feeds the soul.’
‘Fair enough, but if you can’t eat, you can’t appreciate art. And if the wheel had not been invented, we wouldn’t have got far as a race, now would we?’
‘So what? It’s a chicken and egg situation with technology. Humans invent the wheel and so civilisation evolves. Life becomes more comfortable. Then more people come into the world needing food and transport. And so on it goes. Art is above all that.’
Pendragon looked at her thoughtfully and swirled the wine in his glass.
‘It’s all about Truth-seeking,’ she went on. ‘Whatever form of art we’re talking about, it only has value if the creator is trying to represent Truth. Ninety-nine per cent of what’s created is worthless because it is not honest, it’s just entertainment. Think of all the horrible pop songs you hear, with their fake sincerity and ersatz emotion. Art isn’t about painting cute kittens, nor is it about romantic stories in which the heroine is swept off her feet by a tall, dark stranger who treats her mean. None of that is Truth. Titian is Truth. Dylan is Truth. Dostoyevsky is Truth.’
‘All right,’ Jack responded. ‘But what about the ego of the artist? There’s always that to consider, is there not? There must always be that element of the individual putting themselves into what they create.’
‘Naturally, Jack. We’re talking about human beings. Artists are rarely anything else!’
He laughed. ‘Fair enough. But there’s a thornier problem. Truth can’t be pure because the way it is perceived by the artist or the creator is not necessarily faithfully represented by them, is it? Theirs may be a distorted vision of the Truth. Which means that, sometimes, the end result is pretentious rubbish, no matter how honest the artist is being.’
‘Sure,’ Gemma agreed. ‘But that’s because of the other imperative of the artist.’
He gave her a puzzled look.
‘The need to innovate. An artist has to seek Truth, but also represent it in a new way.’
‘Which is what the Surrealists were doing, for instance?’
‘What all real artists have done, down through the ages.’
‘Yes, but I was thinking specifically about the case I’m working on now and the artists who have been imitated.’ And he caught himself gazing into space. ‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘Talking shop … thinking out loud.’
Gemma smiled. ‘I think we need more wine.’ And she held up her empty glass.
Chapter 33
Brick Lane, Tuesday 27 January, 7.30 a.m.
Pendragon was sitting in silence watching Superintendent Hughes flick through his latest report on the investigation. After a few moments she lifted her head, placed her interlocked fingers over the pile of paper and let out a pained sigh.
‘So, we have a potential murderer who’s been dead for over fifteen years? Excellent. An arrest should be easy.’
Pendragon met the superintendent’s eyes, his face expressionless.
‘Theories?’ she enquired. ‘Anything at all?’
‘Oh plenty of theories, Super,’ Pendragon responded. ‘But they are just that — theories — unsubstantiated by anything like a single fact.’
Hughes looked at him, keeping her silence, forcing Pendragon to talk on.
‘There are three possibilities for us to consider. One: there was some mistake with the DNA. But Dr Newman assures me that is not an option. There are so many matching markers that it is a six billion to one chance the DNA does not belong to the deceased Juliette Kinnear. Two: the woman isn’t in fact dead. We got on to Riverwell in Essex straight away. They emailed over a single sheet of facts and dates. Turner did some additional checking. Juliette Kinnear drowned during a hospital excursion to Maldon. The incident was witnessed by a Riverwell nurse, Nicolas Compton. The body was found two days later and identified by a family member. The girl was cremated. Full police records are extant.’
‘All right,’ Hughes said wearily. ‘The third option better be good, Jack.’
Pendragon ran one palm over his forehead. ‘I wish it were, ma’am,’ he said. ‘The only conclusion we can draw is that the murderer planted the DNA.’
‘Planted it!’
‘To throw us off the scent. It wouldn’t be the first time it had been done.’
‘Yes, Jack, it’s been done once before — the Mettlin case in Manchester, right?’
He nodded.
‘But that was very different. The planted DNA was from another gangster, an erstwhile “friend” of the real culprit, a living person who might easily have committed the crime if he hadn’t been beaten to it by the real killer, Johnny Mettlin. That was also eight years ago when DNA analysis was not so sophisticated.’
‘I know the facts, ma’am,’ Pendragon responded. ‘But the two scenarios are not that different. Hair may easily be preserved.’
‘But the owner of this DNA has been dead for fifteen bloody years!’
It was Pendragon’s turn to stay silent.
‘Okay,’ Hughes said after an uncomfortable thirty seconds. ‘What does Newman think about this scenario?’
‘That it’s certainly possible the sample could have been planted.’
‘Can she not tell if the hair has been preserved in any way?’
‘No. That was the first thing I asked her when the first two options were written off.’
‘So, what now?’ The superintendent looked exasperated. ‘We have three murders in under a week. A possible perp who has been dead a long time. No witnesses to any of them. Little in the way of other forensics. We don’t have a lot to go on, Inspector.’
‘I’ve contacted Riverwell. Turner and I have an appointment with the Chief Administrator there, a Professor Martins, at two o’clock. We need to get some more detailed background on Ms Kinnear.’
‘What about nearer to home?’
‘Inspector Towers and Sergeant Vickers are trying to find out as much as they can about the cherry-picker used in the second murder as well as ascertaining where the murderer set up shop after vacating the warehouse on West India Quay. Grant is following up on the background to the murdered priest. We’re particularly interested in trying to find any link at all between him and the first two victims.’
Hughes was looking down at her desk and nodding.
‘And I’ve got Sammy Samson sniffing around.’
She looked up. ‘God help us.’
‘He led us to the warehouse, and from there to the DNA,’ Pendragon reminded her.
‘Yes, I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies, shouldn’t we?’ Hughes said coldly. ‘All right. Report to me the moment you get back from Essex.’
Pendragon stood up and walked to the door. As he turned the handle, the super added, ‘And, Inspector, come back with some good news, okay?’
Chapter 34
The Riverwell Psychiatric Hospital was a small, private establishment three miles inland from the coastal town of Maldon. At any one time it accommodated no more than thirty-four patients, and according to the hospital’s website offered exclusive pastoral care for those with chronic cond
itions.
Jez Turner was reading through the hospital’s glossy brochure as Pendragon pulled the car up before a guarded gate set in ten-foot-high ornate iron railings enclosing the hospital grounds. Turner whistled suddenly, making Pendragon glance away from the uniformed gateman who was examining his ID through the open window.
‘Get this, guv,’ the sergeant said. ‘Riverwell is world renowned as a centre of excellence for the care and comfort of patients with medium to severe conditions. Annual full board and treatment fees come in at just under seventy-two grand.’
Pendragon raised an eyebrow. ‘More than I earn in a week,’ he responded dryly, nodding to the guard and driving forward as the barrier was raised.
The building ahead of them looked more like a boutique hotel than a psychiatric hospital. It was brick-built with high gables in a steeply sloping roof, topped off with a stocky chimney placed roughly in the centre of the roof. Pendragon guessed the original building had gone up in the first decade of the twentieth century, but he noticed that there had been many newer additions over the years and it had been extended so much these now made up the majority of the floor space. The grounds were pristine, and white with a hard frost.
They were met at the main door by a rotund man in his mid-fifties. He was wearing a pin-stripe suit, waistcoat and grey tie. He had a neatly trimmed white beard, small dark eyes and narrow lips. At first glance he looked like Santa after a make-over. ‘Welcome,’ he said in a rich baritone. ‘I’m Professor Martins … Nigel Martins.’ He stepped forward to offer his hand first to Pendragon and then to Turner. ‘Good journey, I hope. It’s not too far from the sound of Bow Bells, is it, Inspector?’ His face creased into a smile.
He led them through a reception area where a pretty blonde at a flat-screen Mac ignored the new arrivals. They followed the professor along a wide corridor. It was softly lit, the floor covered with a sumptuous, pale green carpet. The walls were hung with what looked like expensive paper. A cream dado rail ran along them at waist-height, and there was elaborate ceiling cornicing overhead. They passed an open door and saw half a dozen patients sitting bunched together on a pair of sofas, facing a bulky old TV set high up on a shelf on the far side of the room. At the end of the corridor, they took a right, then a left, and Martins stopped before a heavy oak door with an engraved brass plaque bearing his name. The professor removed a bunch of keys from his jacket pocket, unlocked the door and held it open, gesturing to the two policemen to enter. Martins bustled in after them and indicated a pair of leather chairs. ‘Gentlemen, please.’ He turned as an elderly lady in a black skirt and white frilly blouse appeared in the doorway.
‘Ah, Madeline,’ Martins said. He looked enquiringly at Pendragon and Turner. ‘Tea?’
Turner glanced at the DCI who was nodding. ‘That would be very welcome,’ Pendragon said. ‘Milk, no sugar.’
‘Same for me,’ Turner said.
‘Okay, that’s the essentials out of the way,’ Martins commented, lowering himself into his chair. ‘Now … could you just run through what it is you’re here for, Inspector? My secretary gave me a brief summary, but …’
‘We’re following a lead in a multiple homicide,’ Pendragon replied, coming straight to the point.
‘I see. Well,’ Martins sighed, ‘I’ll obviously do everything I can to help, but what possible connection can there be with Riverwell?’
‘Did your secretary mention that we were particularly interested in a patient who was here in the mid-nineties, a young woman named Juliette Kinnear?’
‘No, she didn’t. Good Lord, Juliette Kinnear! Now that’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time.’
‘You were working here then?’
‘Yes, I was. I transferred from Luton in 1993. Juliette arrived in … I think it was ’ninety-five. I’ll get her file.’ Martins touched a button on his desk phone. ‘Selina, could you track down the file on Juliette Kinnear, please? She was a patient here in the mid-nineties. She’ll be under Archive K. If you could print out two copies and bring them in ASAP. Thanks.’ He turned back to Pendragon. ‘You’ll know, of course, that Juliette is dead.’
‘It happened on an excursion from the hospital, didn’t it?’ Turner put in.
Martins turned to the sergeant and sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was a terrible tragedy. We thought we were getting somewhere with Juliette. We still have no idea what really happened down at the jetty.’
‘Can you talk us through it?’ Pendragon asked.
Martins looked at the DCI for a moment and screwed up his mouth. ‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘It was quite a day. Certainly not one I’ll easily forget.’
There was a short rap on the door then and the tea arrived. Madeline passed around the cups and withdrew without a word.
‘It was a warm spring day in April ’ninety-six. Juliette had been here for about a year. When she first arrived, she was in a terrible state. We kept her away from the other patients for the first three months. She was anorexic, belligerent, never spoke. But gradually we got her to eat, and she slowly began to accept where she was. She was on some pretty strong medications, but was improving in herself. At least, we thought she was.’
‘It seems she had come a long way … from when she was first admitted to the hospital. Being trusted to go on an excursion, even if was only to Maldon,’ Pendragon remarked.
‘Well, as I said, Juliette did make a fairly rapid improvement and we were feeling confident about her.’
‘This trip to the town,’ the DCI asked. ‘What was the reason for it exactly?’
Martins shrugged. ‘We believe it’s important for our residents to leave the confines of Riverwell when they are able. As part of the rehabilitation process.’
‘But surely Ms Kinnear was still a long way from leaving here permanently?’
‘Yes, of course, but she was supervised and it was only a small group.’
‘How many people were in it?’ Turner asked.
Martins thought for a moment. ‘Let’s think … There were six patients and three staff.’
‘Can you recall any names?’
He recited a list of staff members and Turner jotted them down in his notebook. ‘I’m not sure of all six patient names,’ the professor continued. ‘But I can check and get back to you on that.’
Pendragon glanced at the list Turner had written down. ‘Are all three members of staff still here?’
‘No. Stacy Franklin is a senior nurse now, in London. Dr Roger Napier — who was supervising that day — left in ’ninety-eight. Last I heard, he was working in Melbourne. The other man on the list … Nick Compton … was a junior nurse. Sadly, he passed away a few months after Juliette’s death.’
The two policemen looked startled to hear this. ‘What happened?’ Pendragon asked.
‘Suicide. Poor Nick hanged himself.’
‘Can you give us some further details, Professor?’
‘It compounded the tragedy. Nick Compton always blamed himself for the accident. He was with Juliette, you see. Had been left alone with her for a few minutes when …’
‘There must have been an investigation into the incident?’
‘Of course there was, Inspector,’ the professor responded, a little testily. ‘A very thorough investigation, as a matter of fact. I can get you full documentation.’
‘That would be useful.’
‘Obviously Dr Napier too came under close scrutiny. He was the most senior staff member present and Juliette was his patient. He was investigated for any possible negligence, and fully exonerated. He gave a very detailed account of the lead-up to the accident. One of the patients … Helen Weatherington, I seem to recall … had felt sick. The two nurses were otherwise occupied, and Napier had taken the girl to a washroom. Nick Compton had been supervising Juliette who decided she wanted to take a walk along the jetty. It was getting late and had started to rain. Nick tried to dissuade her from going, but the whole excursion seems to hav
e fallen into chaos by that point. Nick was inexperienced and easily persuaded by Juliette, who was a very forthright and intelligent girl.’
‘She went over the railings?’
‘Yes. The police were called. Nick went into the water to try and find her and was almost drowned himself. There was no sign of her.’
‘But the body was found some time later?’ Turner commented.
‘Yes.’ Professor Martins looked ashen. ‘Severely decomposed.’
There was a gentle tap on the door and they all looked up. Selina came over to the desk with a sheaf of papers. ‘Thanks,’ Martins said, without looking at the blonde girl, and she retreated. The professor handed Pendragon a dozen printed pages. There was a picture of Juliette Kinnear, taken probably a year before her death. She looked thinner than in the picture Turner had found. The DCI glanced through the material with Turner reading over his shoulder.
‘Juliette was rather an exceptional girl,’ Martins said after a moment. ‘She had been a promising young artist and also dabbled in writing and music. An all-rounder.’
‘Do you have any idea what precipitated her mental collapse, or was it simply a gradual process?’
‘Well, Inspector, it’s a complex matter, as you’ll appreciate. In Juliette’s case, her breakdown appears to have been brewing for a while unnoticed. Then, you could say, the dam burst. It’s a fairly common scenario.’
‘Can you elaborate?’
‘Juliette was a talented artist, there’s no doubt about that, but probably not as good as she thought she was. Consequently she was not receiving the recognition she thought she “deserved”. She experimented with drugs — we got some of the details out of her during group therapy. She believed she could enhance her artistic abilities and achieve success by taking the right cocktail of stimulants. When that failed, her mental stability began to slide, a decline exacerbated by the narcotics she continued to use. She was living with her father, John Kinnear, at Ashcombe Manor, near Braintree — about ten miles from here. He’s dead now. Mrs Kinnear had died a few years before when Juliette was fourteen or fifteen. John hadn’t remarried.’ Martins paused for a moment then added, ‘The family were biscuit manufacturers.’
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