‘So, what do we have?’ he said aloud to the empty room as he prised open a fresh tin of paint. ‘Rene Magritte: Surrealist artist, born Lessines, Belgium, 1898. Came to prominence in the late twenties, early thirties. Creator of a style defined as Magic Realism in which he used ordinary objects but placed in unreal situations and juxtapositions. His work exhibited a great sense of humour, a certain contrived and deliberate dislocation from perceived reality.
‘And Salvador Dali: a close contemporary of Magritte’s, six years younger. Born in Figueres, Spain, May 1904. Named after a brother who died nine months before the painter’s birth, he was told by his parents that he was the reincarnation of his dead sibling. Rose to prominence at about the same time as Magritte. The two men knew each other and spent time together first in Paris in the late-twenties and then at Dali’s Spanish home in the thirties.’ He paused for a moment and lowered the roller into the paint tray, watching the sponge soak up the paint.
‘Any other associations? Each man lost his mother when he was young. Magritte was fourteen, Dali seventeen. Anything connecting the two painters to the two murders — other than the fact that in each case the body was set up in a pose reminiscent of their most famous work?’
Pendragon picked up the roller. ‘No,’ he said aloud. ‘No connection that I can see.’ Perhaps Francis Arcade had been on the money when he remarked that they should look for someone with a dead Surrealist fixation. There seemed to be nothing to connect the murders other than the painting style of the two artists whose work had been travestied.
‘Okay,’ he went on, and pushed the roller back into the paint tray. In the background, Wes Montgomery was playing sweetly, an elaborate riff in B-flat minor. ‘Obviously the killer is trying to tell us something. But what? Are they a frustrated artist, ignored and angry? In other words, just like Arcade? Or is it someone who is setting up the murders to make us
The door buzzer went and Pendragon placed the roller carefully on the rim of the paint tray, walked over to the door and depressed the switch on the intercom.
‘Yes?’
‘Sir? It’s Turner. Can I pop up for a minute?’
Surprised, Pendragon pushed the button to open the front door. Thirty seconds later the sergeant had reached the top of the stairs, slightly out of breath. He had a leather satchel slung over his left shoulder. ‘Evening, guv. I’m sorry to disturb you.’ He couldn’t resist a half-smile, seeing DCI Pendragon in jeans.
‘Come in, Turner. It’d better be something very interesting.’
‘Doing a spot of DIY then, sir? Looks good.’ Turner went over to the kitchen worktop and off-loaded the shoulder bag, placing it carefully on the Formica top. ‘It’s to do with Noel Thursk,’ he said, unzipping the bag and pulling out a laptop.
‘What about him?’
‘Thatcher got back with this just after you left.’ He nodded towards the laptop. ‘It’s Thursk’s. It didn’t take long to get into it.’ He looked at Pendragon for approval. ‘Password was peanuts to figure out. Ninety-nine per cent of people do the bleedin’ obvious, even though they’re always being told not to.’
‘The obvious?’
‘NT0658.’
‘Initials, then month and year of his birth?’
‘Correct. It was the second attempt because some people use the day of the birth month. Anyway … I’ve gone through the machine. Nothing. I’ve searched every disk and every USB drive in Thursk’s flat. Nothing on those either. No notes, no rough drafts. The only thing on there is the original proposal, which the publisher has anyway — a ten-page outline that gives the bare bones of the book.’ He brought it up on the computer. Pendragon read from the screen and scrolled down. It told him very little, merely making reference to Thursk’s long and close association with key players in the London art world. As the publisher, Lewis Fanshaw, was an old friend of his, he would have needed little convincing of Thursk’s credentials.
‘Not a great help.’
‘No, sir. But I dunno, I had a sense something wasn’t quite right. Just an instinct, I s’pose. So I ran a piece of software through it called Re-Search. It scans the computer and can find traces of files that were once on the hard drive and have since been deleted. It’s to do with binary markers that …’
‘Yes, all right, Sergeant. Get to the point.’
‘The point is, Thursk deleted a whole load of files from the hard drive very recently. You can see here.’ He pointed towards the screen. A list of processor files appeared. Six of them had been greyed-out. ‘I checked all the disks and external drives and found the same thing on one of the USBs.’
‘Amazing. And you can retrieve them?’
‘’Fraid not, guv.’
Pendragon paused for a moment, lost in thought.
Turner surveyed the tiny apartment. He had been here on two previous occasions, but each time had barely stepped beyond the door.
‘Okay, well, that’s progress of a sort. It tells us three important things.’ Pendragon counted them off on the fingers of his right hand. ‘One: Thursk knew he had some pretty incendiary material — why else would he be so secretive? Two: he must have been worried someone was after him — why else would he erase the files just before whoever it was caught up with him? And three: he wouldn’t have destroyed all traces of his work. He would have made a backup that he’s hidden somewhere.’
Chapter 19
Stepney, Friday, 10 p.m.
The killer was quoting aloud to no one while packing equipment into a shoulder bag: ‘“Before I start painting I have a slightly ambiguous feeling … happiness is a special excitement because unhappiness is always possible a moment later.” Mmm … one of Francis Bacon’s better comments, and very apt,’ the killer said. ‘And tonight … I shall
Mr Bacon duly left the building, pacing through the gloom and mist, face obscured by a hoodie and sunglasses. It was a long walk to the church, but the last thing Mr Bacon wanted was the attention of a CCTV camera offering up an incriminating registration plate for some clever copper to jump on. No, Mr Bacon had important work to do.
The church was open, of course; the Lord protects, no need for locks. It was dark, Evening Mass over. Mr Bacon walked slowly towards the altar, the only illumination coming from the street beyond the stained glass. The vague light picked out sharp lines of gold: a giant crucifix in the centre of the altar, orderly strands of glinting thread tumbling to the stone floor, one corner of a portrait of a gasping Christ.
At the door to the vestry, Mr Bacon paused, took several deep breaths and lowered the shoulder bag to the floor. Next to the door stood a fine wooden chair, a throne of dark wood trimmed with gold and mother-of-pearl inlay. It was a prized piece, donated by a wealthy benefactor years earlier. Mr Bacon smiled and turned away, then with a sudden burst of violence, he smashed open the door and charged in, Mace spray in hand. The elderly priest, Father Michael O’Leary, was folding the evening’s vestments and turned just in time to receive a faceful of noxious, blinding vapour. Falling back in shock and pain, he stumbled over a stool and landed in a heap on the floor. Mr Bacon was on him in a second, ramming a knee up into the priest’s groin with so much force his testicles became lodged in his abdomen. O’Leary screamed.
Mr Bacon bent down and twisted the man face round. It was pale and contorted in agony. His eyes were streaming. ‘Do you really not recognise me, priest?’ Mr Bacon said.
The injured man tried to focus, staring up uncomprehending, terror and pain overwhelming him. ‘Look closer,’ Mr Bacon spat, peering down at him. ‘Ah, yes, you are beginning to remember …’
Father O’Leary went limp, his face now a white drooping thing, his eyes like coals dropped on snow. Trying to understand what was happening, he struggled to pull himself up, survival instinct overcoming his agony. But Mr Bacon moved a hand to the priest’s throat and gripped it tight. O’Leary caught a glimpse of a hypodermic with a nine-inch needle. He began to kick and struggle, but Mr Bacon was fit and strong and the priest was old, his body a
