laugh. ‘You don’t really understand anything, do you?’ he said. ‘There are two types of people in the art world, Chief Inspector. There are the creators and the spongers. Berrick and Thursk are … sorry,
Pendragon glanced at Turner then back at Arcade. He wanted to argue, to point out that he was contradicting himself, for if there were no problems, then Berrick and Thursk had not been problems. If they were simply fuelling his creativity, they had been doing him a favour; no reason to hate them therefore. ‘Tell me about Tuesday evening,’ he said instead.
‘What? The sickening display of pomposity and backslapping at Kingsley’s gallery?’
‘An event to which you weren’t invited.’
‘Wouldn’t have gone if I had been.’
‘So gatecrashing was just a display of frustration? Or was it performance art?’
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.
Chapter 16
‘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
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 expose, with Juliette’s story as its cornerstone. Noel
