The Art of Murder

was the council chopping down a dangerous branch … which I suppose is understandable after the weather we’ve been having. He thought no more about it until his wife told him something had happened in the church grounds. Reckoned someone had hanged himself.’

‘A cherry-picker?’ Sergeant Mackleby said. ‘So that’s where the tracks in the mud came from?’

Pendragon nodded and turned to Towers. ‘Inspector, I want you and Vickers to check out any CCTV footage you can find. There must be cameras on Stepney Way. Any images of that cherry-picker could be worth their weight in gold.’

Towers nodded.

‘Anything else from Forensics?’ Hughes asked.

‘Dr Newman has promised to rush through a DNA analysis. I’m hoping to hear from her within the hour,’ Pendragon replied. He flicked off the smart board and perched himself on a table to one side of the screen. Folding his arms, he said, ‘There’s obviously a very clear connection between the two murders.’

‘There is?’ said Sergeant Vickers from the back of the room.

‘Famous paintings,’ Superintendent Hughes said quietly.

Vickers turned to Thatcher next to him and shrugged.

‘The murder scenes are tableaux.’ Pendragon stared at the blank faces of the Vickers and Thatcher.

‘Rene Magritte?’ Turner said, whirling on his fellow sergeants. ‘Duh!’

Hughes caught Pendragon’s eye and he allowed himself the faintest of smiles.

‘The first murder scene was contrived to copy a famous painting, The Son of Man by the Belgium Surrealist Rene Magritte,’ Pendragon said. ‘It depicts a man in a black suit and bowler hat with an apple in place of his face. The second murder is another staged affair: The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali.’

‘Is that the one with the floppy clocks?’ Inspector Towers asked. ‘My sister had a poster of that on her bedroom wall years ago. I always hated it.’

‘It’s all pretty bloody weird, if you ask me,’ commented Sergeant Vickers, who had moved forward to sit on the edge of a desk across from Towers.

‘It is,’ Pendragon replied, looking around the room. ‘It’s bloody weird, but it’s real and the connection is irrefutable.’

‘So the murderer’s a nut?’ Rob Grant said.

‘Depends how you define “nut”, Inspector,’ Pendragon retorted, growing a little irritable. ‘The point is, the killer has a personal agenda. There’s absolutely no chance of a coincidence here. Killings like these are carefully planned and meticulously staged. But, most importantly, they are statements. Our killer is not just disposing of people. He’s making a point, a very serious point, and if we’re to have any hope of catching him, we need to understand that point, PDQ.’

‘Before he strikes again,’ Hughes added, and an icy silence fell across the room once more.

Chapter 13

Pendragon’s phone started ringing as he reached the door to his office.

He put the receiver to his ear and heard Dr Newman’s voice.

‘Chief Inspector, I have some news for you.’

‘Good news, I hope.’

‘I’ve got a DNA match for our second victim.’

Pendragon pulled over a pad from the top of a pile of paper at one side of his desk. ‘Fire away.’

‘A man named Noel Thursk. Had a record. Suspected of fraud five years ago. The case went to court. He was acquitted. Address recorded as number seventeen Trummety Street, Whitechapel.’

‘I’m most grateful,’ Pendragon replied. ‘Good work, Doctor.’

‘Glad to help.’

Pendragon was staring at the wall as Jez Turner tapped on the office door and popped his head into the room. The sergeant had to clear his throat before the DCI broke out of his reverie. Turner stepped in and threw himself into a chair facing the desk.

‘Forensics have a match on the DNA from the body in the churchyard,’ Pendragon told him.

‘Wow! That was quick.’

‘A man named Noel Thursk. Ring any bells?’

Turner was silent for a moment, looking vacantly at the mess on Pendragon’s desk. ‘It does actually,’ he said. ‘Can’t think, though … hang on.’ He came round the desk and started tapping at the computer keyboard. He soon had a list of names on the screen. ‘I emailed this to you earlier. It’s the guest list from the private view at Berrick’s gallery.’ Turner ran the cursor down the screen and stopped about three-quarters of the way through, over the name Noel Thursk.

‘Well, I never,’ Pendragon said. ‘Time we had Mr Jackson Price pay us a visit, don’t you think, Turner?’

Jackson Price sat stiff-backed in the chair in Interview Room 1, hands in his lap. ‘Look, Chief Inspector,’ he said earnestly, ‘I want to help you, I really do. I just don’t know how.’

‘Well, look at the facts, Mr Price. During the past thirty-six hours there have been two murders. Both victims were linked to you and the gallery. Both were at the event two nights ago. We need to establish any further links that we can. Did you know Noel Thursk well?’

‘I’ve been acquainted with him for a long time, but I couldn’t say I knew him well. I don’t know whether anyone did.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He was something of a loner. A rather private man.’

‘He was a writer, yes?’

‘He was originally a painter. Still dabbles, so I understand, but he decided, oh … at least a decade ago, that he couldn’t keep going and started to write about Art instead. Had a column in the Evening Standard for a long time, but parted company with the paper. I remember there was some big row and he was shown the door.’

‘When was this?’

‘A couple of years ago. He freelances now. Or, at least, he used to,’ Price added grimly. ‘And I heard he was writing a book.’

Pendragon looked up from where he had been contemplating a blank notepad in front of him. ‘A book?’

Price shrugged. ‘Isn’t that what journalists do if they hit the skids?’

‘Any idea what the book was about?’

‘None whatsoever, Chief Inspector. As I said, Noel was rather a private man and I didn’t know him well.’

‘You said he was a loner. Did he have any close friends?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘What about Kingsley Berrick? Was he not a friend?’

‘Oh, he knew him, of course. Thursk had made himself a fixture within the Art community. Part of the job description really, isn’t it?’ Price gave the policeman a blank look.

Pendragon was about to respond when his mobile rang. He recognised the number. ‘Turner,’ he said.

‘Guv, you have Jackson Price there?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve just interviewed Selina Carthage. She was one of the last to leave the party on Tuesday evening. You know, one of the guests who stayed a while with Berrick, Price and Hedridge?’

‘Yes.’

‘She confirms that Hedridge and Berrick left together. She then went home. She lives in one of those posh places in Moorgate with a doorman downstairs. He confirms she came in around one-forty-five. Anyway, Ms Carthage reckons there was a bit of scene at the private view.’

‘Can you be a little more specific, Sergeant?’

‘There was a gatecrasher. A guy called Francis Arcade, would you believe?’ Turner sniggered. ‘A bit of a lad,