The Art of Murder

Chapter 4

Pendragon turned away and saw that Turner was as pale as death and Grant was doing his best to keep his stomach from embarrassing him. ‘All right,’ he said, his own face expressionless, only his dark blue eyes showing emotion. ‘I want the building sealed off. And I do not … Sergeant? Are you with us?’

Jez Turner was transfixed by the sight in front of him, his face a blend of confusion and creeping revulsion.

‘Sergeant!’ Pendragon waved a hand in front of Jez’s face.

‘Sorry. Sorry, guv. It’s just …’

‘Put a call through to the station, inform Superintendent Hughes. Get outside! I want the whole lane cordoned off. No one in, especially the press. I want the media kept out of this for as long as possible, understand?’

Turner nodded and headed for the exit. Pendragon glanced at Inspector Grant and ran a hand over his forehead and through his short salt-and-pepper hair. ‘We need Forensics here on the double. Put a call through to Dr Newman. And get Sergeant Mackleby to escort Seymour and Lutsenko to the station. We need statements ASAP.’

Inspector Grant stared fixedly at Pendragon and then left without a word. The DCI watched him cross the room and was about to turn back to the macabre sight when he saw Dr Neil Jones, the police pathologist, turn the corner under the arch and walk straight towards him across the wooden floor. Jones was short, pot-bellied and bearded. He was dressed in green plastic overalls to protect his suit and carried a grey plastic case in one latex- gloved hand. When Pendragon had first met him six months earlier, soon after the DCI had moved to his current job at Brick Lane, he’d thought Jones bore a striking resemblance to Gimli the dwarf from The Lord of the Rings, though he had never mentioned it.

Jones nodded to Pendragon and moved the Chief Inspector gently to one side so he could take a good look at the disfigured corpse.

‘My goodness,’ he said, as though regarding the football scores in the Sunday paper. ‘How very unusual.’ He ran a latex-covered finger around the inside of the huge hole where most of the man’s face had once been. ‘Well, he’s definitely dead, Pendragon,’ Jones remarked without looking up.

Pendragon ignored him. He was used to the pathologist’s unconventional sense of humour and knew the best reaction was no reaction at all, just let the man get on with his job.

‘I suggest you leave us two alone to get acquainted,’ Jones added, nodding towards the corpse. Pendragon got the message and walked away towards the reception area. As he emerged from the gallery, he saw Inspector Grant trying to restrain a tall black man in an ankle-length oyster-coloured cashmere overcoat who was attempting to enter the reception area from the hall. ‘Look, officer, it’s my gallery, for Christ’s sake!’ the newcomer was saying. His voice was refined, educated. He towered over Grant by at least six inches.

‘Inspector,’ Pendragon said. Grant turned and, seeing his boss’s expression, let the man pass. The DCI took a step towards the tall black man. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Pendragon. You’re the gallery owner?’

The man stood rigid before Pendragon, searching his face intently. ‘Jackson Price,’ he said. ‘I’m co-owner with Kingsley Berrick. What the hell’s going on here?’

‘Would you like to take a seat, sir?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I’m afraid there’s some rather bad …’

‘What’s happened?’ Price moved forward and, before Pendragon could stop him, passed under the arch and into the gallery.

‘Sir. If you would …’ Price was now three steps into the room and staring at the horrific sight close to the far wall. Then he simply sank to his knees, buried his head in his hands and started to rock to and fro.

Chapter 5

Five minutes later, Jackson Price was installed on one of the leather sofas in reception, nursing a mug of steaming peppermint tea. He hadn’t said a word since entering the main room and was now staring fixedly into space. Pendragon was seated at the other end of the long sofa. He studied Price in profile. He was a handsome man: entirely bald, head smoothed to a shine; taut ebony skin; facial bones prominent but elegantly proportioned; eyelashes long. He had the air of an actor or an impresario. The two of them were alone in the reception area but nothing could be done about the occasional sounds coming from the gallery as Jones worked on the corpse.

‘I realise this is extremely difficult,’ Pendragon began. ‘But … do you know the dead man?’

Price turned to him, his face fixed in a blank expression, as though still processing what Pendragon had asked. ‘It’s Kingsley Berrick,’ he said at length, his voice a monotone. ‘My business partner. He has a distinctive scar on his chin, just here.’ He pointed to a region just below his lower lip, then looked away towards the huge canvases on the far wall.

Pendragon nodded. ‘When did you last see him alive?’

Price turned back and seemed to unwind a little. He took a deep breath and then a sip of the hot tea. ‘Last night, at the private view.’

‘Can you talk me through it?’

‘It was a Luke Martin retrospective — these big canvases?’ And he nodded across the room to a wall-sized expanse of turquoise. ‘Some of the crasser journalists call him the “English Mark Rothko”. Absurd, of course.’ He sniffed and took another sip of peppermint tea. ‘Anyway, it was a great success. The hacks claimed they loved it. We even had a couple of young royals here — admittedly from the wrong branch of the tree,’ he added with a wave of his hand. ‘A sprinkling of rock stars, old and young, and Casper Hammond popped in, en route to his hotel, straight off the plane from Hollywood … apparently. Best of all, everything was sold by nine o’clock.’

‘And Mr Berrick?’

Jackson Price looked back at his tea, suddenly quiet. For a few moments it had seemed as though he had slipped into an alternate reality, one in which nothing terrible had happened. Now he was back confronting the grim truth. ‘Oh, Kingsley was in a fabulous mood,’ Price said quietly. ‘He was terribly nervous earlier in the evening. But he always was a worrier. If I told him once, I told him a thousand times that worrying would be the death …’

‘Mr Price, did Kingsley Berrick have any enemies?’

‘Enemies?’ Price shook his head. ‘The very idea is simply preposterous, Chief Inspector. Everyone loved Kingsley.’

Pendragon decided to change tack. ‘Did you see him leave last night?’

‘Yes. As a matter of fact, I did. It was late … must have been oh, let me see … one o’clock? There were only a few of us still here. He left with Norman.’

‘Norman?’

‘Norman Hedridge, Kingsley’s partner. Well, ex-partner. They’re still friends, but no longer an item.’

‘I see. And did Mr Berrick say where they were going?’

‘Home.’

‘And who remained behind with you?’

Price looked down at his cup again and took another sip before answering, ‘Chester and Selina. Yes, that’s it. Just the three of us.’

‘Then?’

‘Well, we stayed and chatted for a bit. Selina left before Chester. I set the alarm and went home.’

‘Can anyone verify your movements after you left?’

Price looked startled for a moment. ‘My mother was still up. I live with her.’

‘She stayed up that late?’

‘She’s a worrier too.’

Pendragon paused for a beat. ‘So how did the cleaner get in?’