The Art of Murder (26 page)

‘It’s all right, PC Flint,’ the DCI said firmly. ‘The Super’s returned to the station. I’m back in charge, so
skedaddle.’ He closed the door behind them and walked back to face Arcade. The young artist simply stared into space, unblinking, hands held palms upwards and limp in his lap. He smelled unwashed. Pendragon lowered himself on to the corner of the bed a few feet from Arcade and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

‘Francis, do you want to tell me what happened?’

The expressionless mask of Arcade’s face did not change. Pendragon waited patiently for two silent minutes. ‘You might feel better if you talk to me.’ Still not a flicker.

The DCI studied the boy’s face. He looked even more Goth than normal. He had not shaved for days and had dark patches under his eyes. His hair hung shapeless and greasy. There was something not quite right about all this, Pendragon thought to himself. Arcade had definitely not killed Berrick or Thursk. He was seen by scores of people during the timeframe for each murder. And he certainly had not killed the priest, Michael O’Leary, because at the time of that murder he had been in police custody. So why would he have killed this woman? A copy-cat murder? Another of the kid’s cries for attention? That was hard to believe.

‘Why did you kill her?’ Pendragon said, completely without expression.

For the first time, Arcade stirred. He lifted his head and fixed the policeman with a look of complete clarity. ‘I did not kill Chrissy,’ he spat. ‘I loved her.’

Pendragon felt startled for a moment but covered it well. ‘Just because you loved her, that doesn’t mean you didn’t kill her.’

‘I did
not
kill her,’ Arcade yelled, and knocked his chair away as he sprang up.

The door burst open and one of the uniforms was there brandishing a truncheon. Pendragon glared at Arcade and the young man returned to his seat to stare down at the floor. The DCI raised a hand towards the police officer and flicked a look at the door. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, and watched the door close again. He rubbed a palm over his forehead, suddenly feeling incredibly tired.

‘Okay, Francis. Shall we start from the beginning?’

The boy looked up. A tear trickled down his left cheek. ‘He killed her.’

‘Who?’

‘That bastard Hickle.’

‘Hickle?’

‘Chrissy’s
boyfriend
Geoff Hickle. Dr Geoff Hickle. He killed her and disfigured her.’

‘Wait a minute, Francis. Just slow down. What makes you think this Dr Hickle killed Ms Chapman?’

‘Jealous. Jealous of me and her.’

‘What evidence … ?’

‘I just know,’ Arcade hissed, staring straight into Pendragon’s eyes.

‘All right. Let’s go back a few stages. What were you doing here?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be here? I love … loved Chrissy. She loved me. The doctor was out at work at the Royal London, saving lives. I came round to see her.’

‘Had she called you?’

‘No, that was the point, Inspector. She was supposed to ring me last night, but didn’t. I was worried, but I didn’t
want to seem uncool. And besides, I could only show when Dr Doolittle was away. It got to about four o’clock, though, and I couldn’t bear it any more. Chrissy wasn’t answering her mobile. The phone here just rang and rang. I did a quick check at the hospital and Hickle was there. He’d been in since eight this morning … apparently. So I came over.’

‘You have a key.’

‘Yeah. Don’t tell Dr House, though.’ And he pulled back his lips into a dark caricature of a smile.

‘And you found Ms Chapman?’

Arcade looked away, fixing his gaze on the far wall over the bed. ‘Yes.’

‘What did you do? Your prints have been found on the body.’

He turned away from the wall and stared into Pendragon’s eyes. ‘I could not …’ Another tear emerged from his eye. ‘I still can’t believe …’ He swallowed hard. ‘I sat beside her. I touched her face. It was cold. Then I sat on the sofa opposite and just stared at her. I must have called you lot. I don’t remember doing it.’

‘How long have you known Ms Chapman?’

Arcade seemed not to hear the DCI at first, or else he did not understand the question. Then he appeared to come round. ‘Er … about two years. She was always saying she would leave Hickle, but he seemed to have some sort of hold over her. Every time I thought I was getting close to prising her away from him, she would flip back.’

Pendragon nodded, staring at the young artist and wondering if the frustration the kid felt could have been
strong enough to push him to murder. He had seen crimes of passion before, triggered by messy love triangles and thwarted obsession, crushes that had spiralled into violence and mayhem. Could this relationship have been a delusion on Arcade’s part? Perhaps the kid had slid into insanity, been tipped over the edge by rejection and a growing fury towards the world.

There was a crashing sound from outside and several raised voices. Arcade did not move, but Pendragon jumped up and dashed for the door. It swung open on to the living-room and Pendragon saw a tall woman in a faux-fur coat standing staring at the macabre murder scene. It was Gemma Locke, her face white as chalk. Her hands flew to her face and she seemed to stumble before regaining her balance. She lowered herself into a chair, a low moan emerging from between her gloved hands.

Pendragon crouched beside Gemma Locke and handed her a glass of water he had just fetched from Chrissy Chapman’s kitchen.

‘I guess it’s obvious you would have known each other,’ Pendragon said gently, watching Gemma Locke take several small sips. She handed back the glass and he passed it to a constable standing close by. Then he stood up and pulled over a chair. Glancing towards the bedroom, he saw Arcade being led away in cuffs. The young man ignored Pendragon completely, and he and the two escorting officers passed behind Gemma’s chair and out into the hall without her even noticing them.

‘Chrissy and I were best friends, Inspector. We go back a long way – since I first moved to London.’ Gemma shook her head and closed her eyes, a pained expression spreading across her face. ‘I … I just can’t take this in. It’s crazy. Who would … Why?’

‘What was Ms Chapman like?’

‘Chrissy was a sweetheart. Everyone loved her, Jack. That’s why this is so … ridiculous!’

‘No enemies that you know of?’

Gemma Locke exhaled and shook her head again. ‘No. Chrissy was destined for greatness. She was the best of us,
the most talented of our generation.’

‘What can you tell me about her private life? She was serious about a doctor – Geoff Hickle, a surgeon at the Royal London, yes?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, they had been together about … oh, a year, I think. But the relationship was turning sour.’

Pendragon raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’

‘Well, you’ll find out before long, I suppose. Francis Arcade was pestering her.’

‘Pestering her? I had the impression it was serious between them.’

Gemma Locke gave Pendragon a sceptical look. ‘Hardly, Jack. Chrissy was ten years older than him for a start, and Francis is, well … not all there, to put it mildly. I’m sure he thought there was a serious relationship between them, but I can assure you there wasn’t.’

‘So, what was the problem with Dr Hickle?’

‘Oh, classic really. He’s a powerful figure in his world: a burns specialist at a top London hospital. Fancied himself as a real charmer and a bit of a medical hero. Big, big ego … huge. He was uncomfortable with the attention Chrissy was getting from the media. Felt he was living in her shadow. Didn’t really fit with his self-image.’

‘No. I can see there would be some conflict there.’

‘But then, having said that. I can’t see him as a killer.’

‘No one’s suggesting that,’ the DCI retorted. ‘Okay, look, I’m afraid you can’t stay here. Forensics are going to be taking the place apart.’ He helped Gemma to her feet and led her around the back of the sofa. She studiously kept her line of sight away from the dead woman.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked as they reached the hall.

Gemma took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

A few moments later, they were downstairs in the car park. The temperature had dropped dramatically as night had drawn in. Pendragon glanced at his watch. It had turned seven o’clock. He followed Gemma to her car. ‘I’d like to have another chat with you,’ he said as she reached into her bag for her keys. ‘The questions just keep coming. But not the answers, unfortunately.’

‘Sure. Give me a ring.’

He pulled his collar up and turned to go.

‘Where are you headed?’

‘Back to the station.’

‘Jump in. I’ll drop you there.’

The traffic was heavy with late-night shoppers and people on their way west. A fog had begun to descend on Stepney’s frosty, neon-splashed grey. Music by Monteverdi that Pendragon half-recognised was playing softly. For a few minutes they said nothing, each lost in horrible thoughts. Then Pendragon looked away from the brickwork and the graffiti-stained walls. ‘How well did you know Juliette Kinnear?’ he asked.

Gemma Locke tilted her head slightly, but kept staring at the road ahead. A red light brought them to a halt. She turned towards Pendragon. ‘Not at all. She was on the scene before my time.’ Gemma looked back at the road for a second. ‘But I do remember that she assaulted someone and wound up in a psychiatric hospital.’

‘She committed suicide.’

‘That’s right.’ Gemma flicked Pendragon a glance and
accelerated along Mile End Road. ‘I remember now. I was in Athens. Doing the clichéd Inter-Rail thing. Must have been … what … 1996?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I remember I didn’t hear about it until over a week after she’d died. I was staying in a youth hostel. The only things to read were a dog-eared Jackie Collins someone had left and a week-old copy of the
Daily Mail
. I chose the paper!’

Pendragon saw Brick Lane ahead on the right. The car slowed for another set of lights. ‘Do you know anyone who knew Juliette Kinnear?’

Gemma pulled a face as she thought about it. ‘Don’t think I do, Jack. As I said before, it was before my time. I didn’t make it to London until ’ninety-eight. Actually, no, come to think of it, Jackson Price would have known her. He and Kingsley were already making names for themselves then. But Juliette Kinnear was never very successful, was she? A poor little rich girl, I thought.’

Pendragon shrugged. ‘Conflicting accounts, of course. Some have said she was a great talent, her life cut tragically short. Others have suggested she was never as good an artist as she thought she was and that she committed suicide because she was sick of going unnoticed.’

‘Guess we’ll never know.’ Gemma shrugged, turning the car into Brick Lane and slowing as they approached the gates to the police station car park. She drew to a halt at the foot of the steps in front of the station. When she turned to Pendragon, he saw her eyes were bright with tears. ‘Please make sure you catch whoever did this terrible thing, won’t you, Jack?’

Pendragon ran the fingertips of his left hand across his forehead. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said, and jumped out of the car. ‘I’ll call you.’

He was halfway up the steps when his mobile rang. The screen said ‘blocked number’.

‘Hello.’

‘DCI Pendragon, please.’

‘Sammy! I’d almost given up on you.’

‘You should never do that, dear boy. I’m a man of my word.’

‘So?’

‘Rembrandt Industries. I could not write an article for the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
on them, to be honest, but I’ve got something that may help.’

‘Fire away.’

‘I asked around a couple of business associates. One of them said he’d heard of Rembrandt, but wasn’t happy about it. He owns units all over the East End. He’d agreed to lease them a warehouse in Leytonstone. Rembrandt had booked it for three months, put down a small deposit and then done a runner after a week without paying any rent. He said things had picked up, though, because he’d since rented out two other places that had been empty for ages to a Titus Inc. They had paid up front for both places, one in Whitechapel and one in Bermondsey. I was about to call you about the first place in Leytonstone … hadn’t thought much about the other two places my friend mentioned.’

Pendragon had reached his office. He pulled a pad of paper and a pen towards him across the desk. ‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Well, it was only this evening, about an hour ago. I got waylaid.’

‘Oh?’

‘In the Duke of Norfolk. But … ssh, Pendragon! It was fortunate that I did.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, Jack. And actually, when you hear how clever I’ve been, I think you’ll agree I should be on double time.’

‘Do you now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Get to the point, Sammy.’

‘All in good time, Inspector. I had a couple of drinks and was sitting there when it came to me. Rembrandt had a son. He painted the young man as a monk. Quite a famous portrait, actually. His name was Titus.’

‘How on earth did you know that?’

‘I
was
educated at Eton, Inspector.’ Sammy sounded miffed.

‘Okay, Sammy. A scholar and a gentleman.’

There was a short silence.

‘So?’ the snout said after a moment.

‘Well, thanks,’ Pendragon said. ‘Can I have the addresses of all three places?’

‘Can I have double time?’

Pendragon sighed and looked around the room. ‘Yes. I suppose you deserve it.’

‘I knew you’d see it my way,’ Sammy Samson said.

Turner eased open the front door to Francis Arcade’s bedsit on Glynnis Road. Sergeant Roz Mackleby was a step behind him. When he flicked on the light, the main room was illuminated by a powerful yellow glow. Mackleby paced across the room to check that the bathroom and kitchen were empty. They did not want any unpleasant surprises. It took only a few seconds to confirm they were alone.

‘I’ll start in here,’ Turner said. ‘You go through the kitchen and the bathroom. And remember, Roz, every nook and cranny. I don’t want to leave here empty-handed.’

The main room was as oppressive and as cluttered as Turner remembered it from his visit here four days before. The same canvases were stacked along the walls. The easel was empty now; the canvas Arcade had been working on was probably among the others but would have been indistinguishable. A bookcase stood against one wall. Turner walked over to it and began a systematic search, starting at the top left, removing a book, flicking through it and returning it, working his way down to bottom right.