The Art of Murder (10 page)

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.

‘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 said, ‘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.’

‘What was his book to be about?’

Fanshaw uncrossed his legs and shifted in his chair. ‘It was provisionally entitled
The Lost Girl
. It was about Juliette Kinnear.’

Pendragon gave him a blank look. ‘I’m sorry …’

The publisher smiled and sat forward, elbows on the desk in front of him. ‘It’s okay, Chief Inspector. I’m not surprised you don’t recognise the name. I think this book would have brought the subject to a much wider audience. Juliette Kinnear was an artist. She was one of the Biscuit Kinnears, you know who I mean?’

Pendragon nodded. ‘I’ve heard of them. A very wealthy family.’

‘She was enormously talented. Indeed, I would say she was the most talented female artist of her generation. If she had lived, she would have been world renowned by now, I’m sure of it.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘Oh, she suffered from some mysterious mental disorder and committed suicide in the mid-nineties. A terrible waste.’

‘And Thursk’s book was a biography of her?’

‘No, it was actually a lot more than that. It was really an exposé, with Juliette’s story as its cornerstone. Noel was digging deep, very deep, into the London art world. He was extremely well connected, you see. Basically, he knew everyone. And everyone’s guilty secrets.’

‘Ah,’ Pendragon intoned.

‘So there you have your motive, I imagine, Chief Inspector.’

Pendragon nodded. ‘Although it doesn’t quite explain the connection with Kingsley Berrick.’

‘Maybe the connection is spurious.’

‘I don’t think so, Mr Fanshaw. But I’m most grateful for the information. Now, would it be possible for me to have a copy of Thursk’s manuscript, as far as he wrote it?’

Fanshaw drew a deep breath and screwed up his face. ‘I’m afraid, that’s just it, Chief Inspector. Noel hadn’t delivered a single word.’

Brick Lane, Stepney, Friday, 1 p.m.

Pendragon was in a foul mood as he came through the doors of the station, head down, barely looking where he was going. The duty officer turned to a young constable beside him and raised his eyebrows as the DCI stormed past them. Just beyond the main desk, Pendragon almost knocked Jimmy Thatcher off his feet. The young sergeant was holding armfuls of papers, half of which flew across the corridor.

‘Damn it!’ Pendragon exclaimed, and crouched down to help. Straightening, he passed a large sheaf of paper to Thatcher and apologised. ‘Sergeant?’ he added. ‘You tied up with paperwork?’

‘Yes,’ Thatcher said mournfully.

‘Well, take a break. Get over to Noel Thursk’s flat. Forensics have been through the place. I want you to bring in the man’s computer and any disks or … what are those things? … USB drives you can find. Pass them all on to Turner. Then you can get back to the paperwork.’ And he nodded at the untidy pile in the sergeant’s arms.

‘Anything from Grant and Vickers on the cameras?’
Pendragon asked as he strode into the Ops Room, pulling off his overcoat as he went.

Turner was seated at one of four desks arranged in a vague semi-circle. ‘Nothing, sir. But I’ve stumbled on something you might find very interesting.’

‘Arcade’s alibi?’ Pendragon asked as he approached the desk. Turner was staring intently at a flat screen and tapping at a keyboard. ‘Nah. A podcast.’ Turner looked up at his superior’s blank expression. ‘You have no idea what I’m talking about, have you?’ the sergeant added.

‘None at all.’

‘A podcast is a broadcast over the internet. You can stream it on an MP3 player or any computer if it’s online. Audio, visual … It’s a bit like TV or radio, but you pick it up with a computer.’

‘So what sort of
podcast
have you found?’ Pendragon asked. The way he said it sounded as though he couldn’t quite grasp the concept or why the world needed such a thing.

‘I was doing a search on Francis Arcade. Got the standard Wikipedia stuff and a few art sites he’s mentioned on, then this popped up.’ Turner clicked the mouse and the screen changed. Photographs of two faces appeared, those of the murder victims, Kingsley Berrick and Noel Thursk. Written across the faces were the words
TWO DEAD MEN: A Post-mortem Podcast
. The sergeant clicked again and a two-and-a-half-minute video played. It was shot using a single camera. The jerkiness showed it was almost certainly hand-held. The setting was the Berrick & Price gallery the previous Tuesday. It featured the two dead men of the title in conversation with others at the event. The camera moved
around the room. Snatches of conversation could be heard – Berrick deliberating on some aspect of commercial art, Thursk nodding as he listened to a woman telling him an anecdote. He smiled and replied with something inaudible.

The podcast ended as abruptly as it had started and the screen turned black.

‘Before you ask, guv, this was only put online a couple of hours ago.’

‘Shame,’ Pendragon said.

‘So what do you make of it?’

The DCI shook his head and lowered himself into a chair. ‘I’m at a loss. It’s almost as though the man wants us to pin the murders on him.’

‘You want to go back for a second visit?’

‘No, Sergeant. I think this time we get Mr Arcade in here.’

As Pendragon spoke into the digital recorder, Arcade sat perfectly still on a metal chair pulled up close to the table in Interview Room 1. The Chief Inspector concluded by saying that the suspect, Mr Francis Arcade, had declined the services of a lawyer.

Pendragon stared at the young man and remained equally still, equally silent, for more than two minutes. The only sound in the room came from the electronic ticking of the wall clock. Finally he pulled a plastic folder towards him across the shiny metal surface of the table. ‘I watched your wonderful piece of work,’ he began. Arcade did not stir. ‘Who filmed it?’

Arcade returned Pendragon’s intense gaze. ‘Michael Spillman, a friend.’

‘We might need to talk to him.’

‘I wouldn’t bother. He flew to New York early Wednesday evening. Besides, he was just doing me a favour. Made a copy of the videotape and emailed it over. Berrick and Price had commissioned a recording of the evening. It was all above board. Ask your mate Jackson.’

‘It’s a rather obvious message, isn’t it?’

‘A few days ago these two men were alive and well. Now they cannot speak or move, and soon they’ll be ash. Haven’t you ever wondered at recordings of someone who has since died? Are they really still alive? Were they always dead? I sometimes wonder if isolated tribes who have no understanding of the camera are right to fear it. Perhaps it does leach away our souls. But then, perhaps it’s good that it does, for how else may we be kept alive when memory fails?’

‘Very profound. Very Damien Hirst,’ Pendragon replied tonelessly. ‘Where’s the artistic merit to it?’

‘I thought this was a murder investigation. Why are you so interested?’

Pendragon shrugged. ‘Humour me.’

Arcade gave a wan smile. ‘I don’t spare a moment’s thought for artistic merit and nor should you, Chief Inspector. But … if you want me to humour you.’ He tilted his head to one side for a second. ‘It’s about intent. My friend supplied the material just like an art shop provides paints and canvases. I edited the film. But much, much more important is the intent behind the work. The conceptualisation, if you like. In this case, the mystery of the after-image. The only possible form of Life After Death.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m an artist. That’s what I do.’

‘Oh, come on! That’s a glib remark and you know it, Francis.’ Pendragon allowed a look of disappointment to flicker across his face.

‘It’s the truth.’

‘It’s boring.’

Arcade could not hide his surprise.

‘You’re provoking us, deliberately positioning yourself as the prime suspect. Why?’

The young man shrugged and stared fixedly at a point on the wall behind Pendragon.

‘I think I know what you’re up to. This is all about publicity, isn’t it?’

‘Hah! You sound like Berrick,’ Arcade exclaimed. ‘That’s the sort of shit he was so concerned about.
The oxygen of publicity
,’ he added in a pompous tone.

‘But it makes sense, doesn’t it?’ Pendragon moved a hand across the space between their faces. ‘“Failed Artist Seizes Opportunity to Get Noticed”. Perfect.’

‘You surprise me, Chief Inspector. I was beginning to think you weren’t quite as thick as some of the other pigs.’

Pendragon paused for thirty seconds, letting the silence grow uncomfortable. Then he placed the plastic folder upright on his lap and opened it so that Arcade could not see the contents. ‘I imagine, as an artist, you are quite accustomed to seeing extreme images, Francis.’ Pendragon stared into the young man’s eyes. ‘This is Mr Berrick, though I’m not sure you’ll recognise him.’ He removed a glossy from the folder and pushed it across the table. It spun round and stopped a few centimetres away from
Arcade. It was a close-up of Kingsley Berrick’s disfigured head taken by the police photographer at the gallery on Wednesday morning.