finished by a eulogy from Jackson Price, in which he claimed his friend had been one of the most influential people in his field.
Pendragon mingled with the mourners as they slowly emerged from the church on to Clyde Street close to Whitechapel Road. Much of the snow of the previous week had turned to slush. But now, early on Monday afternoon, it had begun to snow again, huge, fluffy flakes tumbling gracefully from a leaden sky, settling on the tops of cars and the roofs of the surrounding buildings.
Pendragon was about to take the steps down to the street when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he was confronted by a tall woman wearing an ankle-length fake-fur coat and Russian-style fur hat. She had fine cheekbones and large brown eyes. Her lips were full and coloured crimson, slightly parted in a faint smile. Her gloved hand was extended towards him. He looked at the woman’s face then down at the hand and took it before he finally recognised her from the film of the private view at Berrick amp; Price, just before the first murder.
‘DCI Pendragon,’ she said.
‘Ms Locke.’
The woman’s smile broadened. ‘How polite. It’s Gemma. I saw you in the paper,’ she added as Pendragon gave her a puzzled look. ‘Quite a spectacular affair, isn’t it?’ She gazed around. ‘Typical Kingsley. Always the showman. Had to be the centre of attention … even in death.’
‘You knew him well?’
‘Oh, I had known him for a long time. But I wouldn’t say we were close buddies.’ She paused for a moment and looked around again. A middle-aged couple squeezed past and joined the other mourners on the pavement. ‘Inspector, I read the piece in the local rag. I took a lot of it as standard hyperbole, but it struck me you do have a nasty mystery on your hands, and clearly three murders linked by some bizarre artistic connection.’
Pendragon looked at her and it suddenly struck him that Gemma Locke was not simply striking in the way many women are at first sight. She was a rare beauty, almost too perfect for words, a face not merely crafted from a fortunate combination of genes but one that was animated and alive, expressing an inner radiance and energy. He had only seen a woman like her a handful of times before this, and in nearly every case it had been in a movie. The thought suddenly occurred to him that Gemma Locke bore a striking resemblance to Greta Garbo in her prime. He realised then he hadn’t said anything for a long time and that Gemma Locke was staring at him, a faint smile playing across her lips as though she found him inexplicably amusing.
‘Sorry,’ Pendragon said. ‘Yes, um, we do have a mystery. I haven’t read the piece, but I think hyperbole is pretty standard for that paper. We made an official statement yesterday providing as much detail as we care to divulge at this time. The
‘I’d be happy to assist if you have any questions of an artistic nature. Anything I can do to help catch the person who killed my friends.’
Pendragon felt surprised for a second, then glanced at his watch. ‘Would later this afternoon be okay?’ he asked. ‘Say two o’clock?’
At that moment the funeral carriage started to move off slowly towards the cemetery two hundred yards along the road.
‘Do you know Alberto’s on Pandora Lane, off Stepney Green?’
‘I’ll find it,’ Pendragon said, and watched the artist turn away into the throng and descend the stairs carefully.
‘I was terribly shocked,’ Gemma said, staring straight into Pendragon’s eyes as she lifted a coffee cup to her mouth. She took a sip and settled the cup back in its saucer. ‘We all were. Kingsley could be a pig … a tough negotiator. There were times I wished he represented me,’ she added with a laugh. ‘But, deep down, he was a nice man and absolutely committed to the cause of art.’
‘I’ve heard others say that,’ Pendragon replied. ‘But I’ve also heard the opposite.’
‘Oh, don’t tell me … Francis.’
Pendragon nodded and drank some coffee.
‘I imagine you have him high on your list of suspects.’
‘We did. Brought him in for questioning, as a matter of fact, but he has a water-tight alibi.’
‘He’s also a baby, Inspector. Hardly the type to kill anyone, especially in the way these people were killed.’
‘Can you help fill out some details about Berrick and Thursk?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Did you know Mr Berrick had underworld connections?’
Gemma Locke looked surprised and was about to say something when she seemed to change her mind. There was silence for a moment, then she said, ‘I didn’t know that. But actually, come to think of it, it’s not that unexpected.’
‘It isn’t?’
‘No. I think that on some level the world of the art dealer and that of the gangster are not so far apart. I think you’d be surprised just how seedy things can be on the art scene.’
‘Illuminate me.’
‘Argh! I don’t have precise facts and figures, Inspector,’ Gemma laughed, and took another sip of coffee. ‘I’m an artist. Oh, God! That sounds pretentious, doesn’t it?’
It was Pendragon’s turn to laugh. ‘Not really. You
‘I just hear stories. We all do. I think it takes a specific type of person to sell art. It’s a difficult business at the best of times — shark-infested waters.’
‘Yes, I can imagine.’ Pendragon nodded to her cup. ‘Another?’ He called the waitress over and ordered two more coffees.
‘What about Noel Thursk? Can you imagine any connections between him and Berrick, apart from the obvious?’
‘What would you call obvious, Inspector?’
‘Look, if I’m going to call you Gemma …’
‘You must be Jack?’ She laughed, and Pendragon nodded and found himself giving the woman a flirtatious smile. He only realised after he had done it and felt suddenly ridiculous. But then he concluded that Gemma Locke hadn’t noticed anyway.
‘Noel and Kingsley had known each other a long time. I think they were occasional lovers. But then, if I tried to work out the labyrinthine sexual relations between all the gay men I know, I would soon be lost. I know they had frequent fallings-out. But again, nothing unusual in that. They were on friendly terms when I saw them last …’ And her voice trailed off as though she had suddenly remembered that the two men were dead.
‘Did they clash over the book Thursk was supposed to be writing?’
Gemma looked up sharply. ‘What book?’
It was Pendragon’s turn to be surprised. He had assumed Thursk’s associates would have known about it. ‘His projected book about Juliette Kinnear?’
‘Oh, that!’ Gemma shook her head dismissively. ‘I’d forgotten about it. But then, I think Noel had too, bless him. It was a bit of a joke, wasn’t it?’
Pendragon shrugged. ‘You tell me.’
The coffees arrived and Gemma Locke leaned forward to blow gently across the foam on top of her latte. ‘He started it years ago,’ she went on. ‘Interviewed everyone. All very serious. He never stopped spouting off about his big book deal. But then everyone seemed to lose interest, Noel especially. I assumed the whole thing had been quietly dropped.’ She stirred the coffee and lifted the cup a few inches above the saucer. ‘Anyway, Jack, I thought you wanted to ask me some more technical questions.’
‘Yes,’ Pendragon said. ‘I’d love to pick your brain, learn some more about contemporary British art. But somehow I’m not convinced it will bring me any closer to the killer.’
‘But with the third murder, it’s obvious there’s a strong link.’
‘Well, yes, but that was already pretty clear after Thursk’s body was found. I don’t think there are any clues to the murderer’s identity in the choice of painting or even artist, other than the fact they’re all modern painters. I suppose you could vaguely label the three of them — Magritte, Dali and Bacon — Surrealist, couldn’t you?’
