The Art of Murder

but, disappointingly, nothing was ever reported. It seemed the University hushed up everything. No blame was ever placed upon Merryfield because he shared the cadaver with at least a dozen other students. He told me there had been a discreet enquiry into the episode and that he had been questioned at length. I put on a wonderful show of shock and disgust when, after swearing me to secrecy, he told me what had happened. None of the medical students or teaching staff could quite understand why a hard-to-come-by corpse, employed for serious research, had been so comprehensively and systematically eviscerated, each organ ransacked, every inch of flesh diced and pulverised.

For my part, I’m just as mystified as to why Merryfield never showed the slightest suspicion that the destruction of Franklin’s dead body had been in any way linked with our visit the previous night, or that it was anything to do with me. Either he was a very naive chap or I am an even better actor than I give myself credit for.

Chapter 15

Stepney, Friday 23 January, 8.30 a.m.

The morning sun was trying to break through heavy dark cloud as Pendragon and Turner drove through grey morning streets. Pendragon was sipping coffee, the sergeant at the wheel.

‘Did you learn anything from Chester Gerachi?’

‘Nah, just confirmed what that bird Selina said.’

‘About Arcade?’

‘Yeah, and Berrick leaving with Hedridge.’

‘Where did Gerachi go after the private view?’

‘Got a cab home. He lives in Bermondsey. I checked with the cab company. They dropped him there just after one-thirty.’

Pendragon nodded and took another sip of coffee. ‘Which doesn’t entirely rule him out. He could have made it back to Stepney in time to bump off Berrick.’

‘I thought the same thing. He’s clear though. His girlfriend was waiting up for him.’

They pulled up outside a large Victorian terraced house on Glynnis Road, close to Whitechapel tube station. Half a dozen rings on the doorbell brought no response, so Turner leaned on the ancient brass bell push until the front door was finally opened a crack. Through the narrow opening they could see a man’s face, eyes crinkled to slits. His long, spiky hair was almost comical, like the much-maligned cat in a Tom and Jerry cartoon after he’s had his paw jammed in a plug socket. Pendragon pushed his ID up to the crack. The young man glanced at it and went to close the door again, but Turner had his foot in the opening. There was a brief sigh from the other side of the door and it swung open a little.

Francis Arcade lived in a bedsit on the first floor. It consisted of one large room with a minuscule bathroom and a galley kitchen. Windows in the main room looked out over the grey street, parked cars, ragged, leafless trees and Stepney grime. It was a high-ceilinged room with elaborate cornicing. It would once have made a fine master bedroom. The floorboards were bare and painted black. The walls were painted dark grey. A bare bulb hung from the centre of the ceiling. It cast a bright, stark light over the dark surfaces. In one corner stood a narrow bed. It was the only piece of furniture in the room.

The rest of the space was taken up with canvases laid flat on the floor or leaning against the walls, an easel, boxes of paints, and pots stuffed with brushes of all sizes. One wall was covered with advertisements from magazines and newspapers. The canvases, a good dozen of them, were identical, flat black, featureless surfaces. Arcade caught Turner staring at them.

‘A new series,’ the young man said. ‘Shades of white.’

Turner made to reply but a glance from Pendragon stopped him. ‘Mr Arcade, we’re from Brick Lane Police Station. My name’s DCI Pendragon and this is Sergeant Turner. May we ask you a few questions?’

Arcade was tall, two or three inches over six foot, but incredibly thin. He could not have weighed more than seventy kilos. He had obviously just rolled out of bed. He was bare-foot, dressed in a pair of black baggy trousers that flapped about his feet, and a ripped T-shirt through which one pale nipple could be seen. About his neck was a grubby red kerchief. He had large hands, long fingers, filthy nails. His mop of jet-black hair was a mess, spiked up with gel. He had the remnants of black mascara about his large eyes, black pupils, a long, shapely nose and a sensuous wide mouth. Given a bath, a haircut and a few good meals, he could have been a good-looking kid.

Pendragon recalled what he knew of Francis Arcade from the record. He had been reported for two relatively minor offences, disorderly conduct and petty theft. No charges had been brought on either count. He had studied at St Martin’s and had once been considered a promising young artist. There had even been an article about him in Paint, which had trumpeted that Arcade was the young artist to keep an eye on. Then it had all gone wrong. He had been kicked out of college, a remarkable feat in itself. Officially it had been because he had slandered the school in an interview in the Big Issue, but Arcade had claimed he had been victimised and that they had used the interview as an excuse to get rid of him. Whatever the truth, it marked the start of a rapid slide in his fortunes. He was soon ostracised by the painting fraternity, and his few friends deserted him. He had taken to attacking the London art world at every opportunity, but each attempt to deride or upset those who pulled the strings had backfired, and now he was perceived by most people in the scene as an object of ridicule.

‘I take it this is about the stiffs?’

‘If by that you mean the two men whose deaths we are investigating, then, yes.’

‘That’s cool. I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know about the fuckers. I hated the air they breathed. Very good riddance, as far as I’m concerned.’

‘That seems a strange thing to say at this juncture, Mr Arcade.’

The young man shrugged. ‘Innocent until proven guilty, I was always told. Has that changed suddenly?’

Pendragon stared at him. ‘Can you account for your movements early on Wednesday morning?’

‘Yes, I can actually. I was at the Lemon.’

‘The Lemon?’

‘A club, sir,’ Turner said.

Pendragon screwed up his mouth and nodded. ‘And what time did you leave … the Lemon?’

‘About four, I think. You could ask them at the door. They saw me arrive about midnight. There were quite a few people at the club who could vouch for me. I was on the floor the whole time. Didn’t stop … except to take a piss a couple of times.’

‘What about early yesterday morning?’

‘Was that when my dear departed friend Noel Thursk died? I thought he hung himself.’

‘Just answer the question, please.’

‘Am I a suspect suddenly?’

‘You’re helping with our enquiries, Mr Arcade. If you would prefer to come down to the station, we have nice warm interview rooms there.’

Arcade bit on a dirty fingernail. ‘I was at the Lemon then too.’

‘Two nights in a row?’

‘I’ve been in a dancey mood.’

Pendragon looked around the room before staring hard at Arcade. ‘You knew Kingsley Berrick and Noel Thursk well?’

‘Better than I would have liked. Berrick was a breadhead, nothing more. He had no real interest in art. When he looked at a painting or a sculpture, he saw pound signs. And Thursk? A seedy little charlatan. All he was interested in was digging the dirt on the people around him. He was a crap artist and a crap writer. No great loss, really,’ Arcade concluded, screwing up his face in a mock smile.

‘I assume you blame these two men for your recent problems,’ Pendragon replied.

Arcade’s smile dissolved, to be replaced by a stare as black as one of his new canvases. ‘And what would those “problems” be, Chief Inspector?’

Pendragon felt Turner staring sidelong at him from where he stood a few feet to his left. Arcade gave a short