The Art of Murder (32 page)

‘Now, Archibald. You need to turn round,’ I said. ‘We’re heading that way.’ And I nodded to the black tunnel behind him.

‘Ah, fuck!’ he exclaimed. ‘What is that stink?’ And then he looked down to see in the dim light from the lantern that he was covered in human excrement.

‘Move!’ I snapped.

He glared at me. ‘You’ll pay for this, Tumbril. You will pay.’

I laughed at that. ‘Archibald, my dear fellow, my name is not Harry Tumbril. It is William Sandler. Now, this is the last time I will say it, move!’

Bent almost double, Archibald shuffled along the tunnel. After twenty yards it opened out into a much larger channel some ten feet across, the tiled ceiling a little above head-height, the walls curved.

Along one side ran a metal pipe about three inches in diameter. There was a narrow gap between it and the wall, and it was fastened on to the tiles and the stone behind it with large steel clamps. I double-checked the rope around Archibald’s wrists, then turned him to face me. He was clearly terrified, but he was also burning up with rage. He opened his mouth to say something, but I had grown bored. I punched him hard in the face and he stumbled back, hitting his head on the wall. Leaning over him, I
checked that he was breathing. Then, standing up, I untied the rope about his wrists and reworked it about the pipe attached to the wall. I pulled it taut and stood back. ‘Not exactly the Reform Club, is it, Archie?’ I laughed.

And now, dear lady, I’m approaching the end of my tale. I took rooms at Claridge’s, swapping the seediness of Whitechapel for the luxury and grandeur of Mayfair. To be honest, I felt I owed it to myself – a little reward for creating the most revolutionary piece of art since Giotto first popularised the use of perspective.

The hotel was entirely pleasing, as you would expect. Hot water, a luxurious bathroom, soft, clean sheets. I’m not one for hedonism, but it did make a favourable change from Wentworth Street. In room 325, I perused
The Times
, reading the most fantastical accounts of Mary Kelly’s demise. And on pages four and six, I found two much shorter stories. One of these concerned a terrible fire in Whitechapel which had destroyed two shops and the rooms above them. Three charred bodies and dozens of roasted chickens were found among the wreckage. The other story concerned a certain newspaper editor who had disappeared without trace. Last seen at the Reform Club, Archibald Thomson had not returned to the offices of the
Clarion
on Pall Mall. The police had been notified, and the man’s usual haunts visited by detectives. All to no avail. Mr Thomson seemed to have vanished into thin air.

I savoured Claridge’s, but after two days told myself I had things to do. My first job was to purchase a one-way ticket to New York, first class. The ticket was for the White Star Line’s ship
Oceanic
, which, according to the brochure, offered the ultimate in seagoing luxury. The ship was due to leave the following day, 6 October, on a two-week journey across the Atlantic.

That afternoon I returned to Whitechapel. Under cover of darkness, I crept into the passage where the drain was located, found the lantern which I had replaced behind the rusty barrels, and then retraced the steps I had taken with Archibald two nights before. Inside the narrow tunnel, the lamp cast a measly light, but I could see the dribble of excrement and the streak of unctuous mould. I crept along slowly and emerged into the larger tunnel. The light bounced around the discoloured tiles and illuminated the wretched figure of Archibald, just where I had left him.

Crouching down in front of him, I lifted his head. He was alive, but barely conscious. From my bag, I took a water bottle and brought it to his lips. He did not respond, so I slapped him hard about the face until he opened his eyes. He looked at me, but I could tell he could not make out who or what I was. I tried him with the water again and this time he sipped at it. The liquid seemed to invigorate him somewhat and he drank more, making small grunting sounds as the water trickled down his throat. Slowly he began to revive a little.

‘I’ve brought you some things, Archibald,’ I said. ‘I’m going away now. But I thought I would leave you a few tokens to remember me by.’

From my bag, I withdrew my favourite knife, a fine steel eight-inch blade with a calf-skin inlaid handle. This I placed on the filthy floor about three feet away from where Archibald was bound to the metal pipe. Returning to the bag, I pulled out a parcel covered with cloth. Unbinding the wrapping, I lifted the gift to Archibald’s face. In the gas light he could just see a box containing a round fruit cake, a ham, a large slab of chocolate and an opened bottle of red wine. More awake now, his eyes widened.

I lowered the box to the floor next to the knife, the whole assembly just out of reach. Then I placed the lantern close by so that the gifts would be illuminated after I left. Standing up, I looked down into his face. ‘Look on the bright side, Archibald,’ I said. ‘It will all be over soon. Cheerio.’

So, dear Sonia, there we have it. I have to say that writing these letters to you has been a most interesting experience. I did not intend them to be so detailed, nor so long, but I got carried away. I would say that it was cathartic, but that would imply I needed to get something off my chest. A ridiculous notion, of course.

Do what you will with this information. I imagine you will want to find Archibald’s body and to give him a decent burial. Each to his own. For me, this is certainly not the end of the tale, but the conclusion to
the part in which we have shared a connection. I will be arriving in New York City in a few days, and from there … who knows? I have no fixed plans. I’ll be glad to be away from London but shall doubtless, at some point, start to miss the place. I have a feeling I may never return to England. But anything is possible. Life is like art. Let your mind and your will run free, and who knows where fate may lead you? Farewell.

The London Hospital, Thursday 29 January, 9.14 a.m.

It was a tiny explosion, barely enough to shake the bottles and boxes from the shelves inside the small room, but sufficient to set off the alarms and to send a plume of black smoke through the half-open door into the corridor. And it had taken no more than ten minutes to arrange: a short walk along the corridor disguised in an orderly’s green plastic overalls, and then five paces past the door leading to Intensive Care. The chemicals were all there in the cleaner’s storeroom – sulphuric acid, bleach and floor cleaner. Add to these some nail varnish remover, a simple pre-made circuit improvised from a small battery and the flashlight from an old camera, and … boom!

It worked perfectly. There was a loud thud from inside the store, followed by the high-pitched confusion of smashing glassware and the clatter of falling boxes. The alarm sounded and the corridor began to fill with smoke. The two nurses at the desk situated just inside the Intensive Care Ward ran out, followed a few seconds later by the only attending doctor on the ward. In the confusion, it was a simple matter to slip into the long, narrow room unnoticed.

The first job was to tamper with the alarm. The computer on the ICU sister’s desk close to the door purred quietly. A few taps on the keyboard brought up the personal bleeper program. To change three of the parameters was straightforward. A tap on the ‘Return’ key completed the task.

Gary Townsend lay unconscious. Over the upper half of his body was a perspex canopy. He had three plastic tubes supplying him with different medications. A monitor bleeped and a screen displayed his vital signs. His face was a hideous mess, as though someone had taken a blow torch to a plastic doll’s head. His hair had liquefied almost halfway back over his head, leaving random charred clumps. His eyes were shrouded with melted skin and there were deep furrows in his cheeks through which slices of stark white bone could be seen. Patches of diaphanous gauze lay across exposed stretches of the man’s forehead and in strips down each side of his neck. He was barely breathing.

The canopy pivoted up on a pair of metal hinges. A quick glance round confirmed no one was coming back from the corridor. The cap of the hypodermic slipped off easily. Finding a vein was a little trickier, but then the needle slid into flesh, the plunger was pushed home and the heroin shot into Townsend’s bloodstream. He was dead before the canopy had clicked back into place.

A steady walk back to the door, a turn right away from the scene of the diversion, remembering to look down turning the corner into the corridor covered by CCTV … and the job was done.

Brick Lane, Stepney, Thursday 29 January, 9.45 a.m.

Pendragon had managed to grab a couple of hours’ sleep. At 3.30 a.m he had left the station and called Vickers whom he knew would be on his way back to Brick Lane from Hickle’s flat on Wilmore Terrace. Vickers had told him he had seen nothing of interest and that Thatcher was now on duty. Less than six hours later, the DCI was back in his office, checking on two other sergeants who had done their stint observing the building in which Hickle lived. There had been no sign of the man. Jack wanted to check on Thatcher’s progress with the warehouses Sammy had mentioned, but knew the sergeant would not be in for a few hours. Instead, he flicked on the coffee machine and waited for it to warm up.

Turner knocked on the door and came in. He looked as though he had not slept for a week.

‘I think you need some of my extra strong Italian roast,’ Pendragon said as the sergeant lowered himself into a chair the other side of the desk.

‘That would be fantastic, sir.’

There was another tap on the door. A new recruit,
Sergeant Manners came in.

Pendragon turned away from the coffee machine. ‘Sergeant?’

‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but I thought you ought to know. Just finished on the duty desk, received a message about ten minutes ago, from the London Hospital.’

Pendragon raised an eyebrow. ‘From whom?’

‘A consultant in A and E. A woman was admitted early this morning after a mugging. She asked specifically for you. Name’s Locke.’

‘Gemma Locke?’

‘Yeah.’

Pendragon came round the desk, holding the coffee scoop in his left hand. He watched Manners leave and ordered: ‘Turner, you stay here. Chase up any of the warehouses Thatcher hasn’t got to yet.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To the London Hospital.’

‘But, guv, the coffee …’

Pendragon ignored him and was out of the door before Turner’s ‘Oh, fuck’ had left his lips.

The London Hospital never slept. At 10 a.m. it was abuzz with people. Ambulances rolled up or left the main bay at the front of the building, using the narrow slipway on to Mile End Road. The reception area was a throwback to Victorian times. Very little natural light reached it. Chipped marble columns and scuffed walls covered with noticeboards added to the sense of claustrophobia. A rather sorry excuse for a gift shop stood in the corner furthest from the main doors.

Pendragon made his request and flashed his badge to the young girl at the desk who started to tap on the keyboard of her computer. ‘Yes, Ms Locke,’ she said, between chews on her gum, never meeting Pendragon’s eyes. ‘Down there.’ She pointed to her left. ‘After the second double doors, turn right.’

Pendragon strode down the corridor, ignoring the posters imploring everyone to stop smoking, cover up with sunscreen and get a flu jab. From all around came sounds of human activity. He heard a baby cry. A doctor in a white lab coat sporting a collection of pens in his top left pocket rushed past him. From further off Pendragon could hear drills and builders swearing. He pushed through the second set of doors and turned right, as instructed, to find another, smaller reception desk. He showed his badge again and the young male nurse pointed to a curtained area, the second bed on the left.

‘Jack Pendragon!’ Gemma Locke said, smiling as the DCI gingerly pulled back the curtain a little. ‘You promised to call.’ She was sitting on the edge of the bed reading a magazine. She had a bandage around her head and a row of steristrips on her upper cheek. Even without make-up, she still looked strikingly attractive. The bottom of her fringe protruded from the lower edge of the bandage around her forehead. Beneath it her dark eyes were as alive as ever.

‘Apologies,’ Pendragon said, suddenly remembering he had some flowers in his hand. He held out the small bouquet.

‘Oh, Jack! That’s very thoughtful of you.’

‘Well, you look like you’ve been in the thick of it,’ he replied.

Gemma touched the bandage and nodded towards a chair beside the bed. Jack lowered himself into it. ‘I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks,’ she said. ‘They gave me the all-clear after a check-up about eight o’clock this morning. Came back about half an hour later to give me a painkilling jab.’ She pointed to her arm. ‘The doctor told me it was a slow-release drug and that I should rest here for a couple of hours. He forbade me to operate any machinery, and said I should just read a book or something. I was about to call a taxi. But it’s great to see you. You got my message, obviously.’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought I ought to report the incident, so I called my favourite copper. Actually, you’re the only policeman I know!’ Her face broke into a broad smile and then suddenly a pained expression. ‘Ow!’ she said. ‘Make a mental note, Jack. Remind me not to smile.’

‘What happened to you?’

‘I was walking along Stanton Street about one this morning. Should have caught a cab, of course. That’s what everyone will tell me.’

‘One a.m.?’

‘Yes, Jack,’ she responded wearily and rolled her eyes. ‘I’m an artist. I don’t keep office hours.’

‘Duly noted,’ Pendragon replied lightly. ‘I’m a copper, I don’t do nine to five either. Go on.’

‘I didn’t hear anyone approach. Just felt this pain in my head and felt … I don’t know how to explain it … puzzled isn’t the right word. But, well, yeah, it’ll do. Puzzled. What could be hurting me … you know? That’s it. I woke up on a bed a bit like this one.’