back, a magnificent figure. But the repertoire was also brilliantly eclectic — versions of Mozart, Grieg, Miles Davis and Jimi Hendrix, which were all perfectly recognisable but cleverly altered.
Leaving the theatre, Jack said nothing. He waited for Gemma to break the silence, but she seemed to be lost in thought, only turning to him when he suggested a drink at a little wine bar he knew on Beech Street. Outside, it was freezing and they pulled their collars up against the biting wind and strode through the car park and on to the main road. The wine bar was busy, but they found a quiet corner away from the theatre crowds where they could at least hear each other speak.
‘So, what did you think, Jack?’
‘I have to confess, before it began I was sceptical, but I really enjoyed it.’
‘Good. It’s healthy to push yourself outside your comfort zone occasionally.’
Pendragon nodded and took a sip of his wine. ‘When you get to my age, it’s all too easy to play it safe.’
‘Listen to you! “When you get to my age”! You’re what? Early forties?’
‘Yes, Gemma,’ he mocked.
She looked at him, serious-faced.
‘Actually, it’ll be my birthday in a few days. I’ll be forty-seven … God!’
‘Well, you look very well preserved.’
He smiled and inclined his head in thanks.
‘As an artist, I’m all for people staying young — mentally, anyway.’
‘You live for art, body and soul, don’t you, Gemma?’
She looked a little surprised, but admitted, ‘Well, yes, I do.’ She drank some wine and added, ‘Quite simply, it’s the most important thing in the world.’
‘I once knew a painter,’ Pendragon said. ‘An old girlfriend actually … at Oxford. She said to me that if she could choose between a Titian or the invention of the wheel, she would pick the Titian.’
Gemma sipped her wine and placed the glass back on the table. ‘I’m right there with your old girlfriend on that,’ she said. ‘No question. The thing is, the wheel provides the world with a practical advance, but the Titian feeds the soul.’
‘Fair enough, but if you can’t eat, you can’t appreciate art. And if the wheel had not been invented, we wouldn’t have got far as a race, now would we?’
‘So what? It’s a chicken and egg situation with technology. Humans invent the wheel and so civilisation evolves. Life becomes more comfortable. Then more people come into the world needing food and transport. And so on it goes. Art is above all that.’
Pendragon looked at her thoughtfully and swirled the wine in his glass.
‘It’s all about Truth-seeking,’ she went on. ‘Whatever form of art we’re talking about, it only has value if the creator is trying to represent Truth. Ninety-nine per cent of what’s created is worthless because it is not honest, it’s just entertainment. Think of all the horrible pop songs you hear, with their fake sincerity and ersatz emotion. Art isn’t about painting cute kittens, nor is it about romantic stories in which the heroine is swept off her feet by a tall, dark stranger who treats her mean. None of that is Truth. Titian is Truth. Dylan is Truth. Dostoyevsky is Truth.’
‘All right,’ Jack responded. ‘But what about the ego of the artist? There’s always that to consider, is there not? There must always be that element of the individual putting themselves into what they create.’
‘Naturally, Jack. We’re talking about human beings. Artists are rarely anything else!’
He laughed. ‘Fair enough. But there’s a thornier problem. Truth can’t be pure because the way it is perceived by the artist or the creator is not necessarily faithfully represented by them, is it? Theirs may be a distorted vision of the Truth. Which means that, sometimes, the end result is pretentious rubbish, no matter how honest the artist is being.’
‘Sure,’ Gemma agreed. ‘But that’s because of the other imperative of the artist.’
He gave her a puzzled look.
‘The need to innovate. An artist has to seek Truth, but also represent it in a new way.’
‘Which is what the Surrealists were doing, for instance?’
‘What all real artists have done, down through the ages.’
‘Yes, but I was thinking specifically about the case I’m working on now and the artists who have been imitated.’ And he caught himself gazing into space. ‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘Talking shop … thinking out loud.’
Gemma smiled. ‘I think we need more wine.’ And she held up her empty glass.
Chapter 33
Brick Lane, Tuesday 27 January, 7.30 a.m.
Pendragon was sitting in silence watching Superintendent Hughes flick through his latest report on the investigation. After a few moments she lifted her head, placed her interlocked fingers over the pile of paper and let out a pained sigh.
‘So, we have a potential murderer who’s been dead for over fifteen years? Excellent. An arrest should be easy.’
Pendragon met the superintendent’s eyes, his face expressionless.
‘Theories?’ she enquired. ‘Anything at all?’
‘Oh plenty of theories, Super,’ Pendragon responded. ‘But they are just that — theories — unsubstantiated by anything like a single fact.’
Hughes looked at him, keeping her silence, forcing Pendragon to talk on.
‘There are three possibilities for us to consider. One: there was some mistake with the DNA. But Dr Newman assures me that is not an option. There are so many matching markers that it is a six billion to one chance the DNA does not belong to the deceased Juliette Kinnear. Two: the woman isn’t in fact dead. We got on to Riverwell in Essex straight away. They emailed over a single sheet of facts and dates. Turner did some additional checking. Juliette Kinnear drowned during a hospital excursion to Maldon. The incident was witnessed by a Riverwell nurse, Nicolas Compton. The body was found two days later and identified by a family member. The girl was cremated. Full police records are extant.’
‘All right,’ Hughes said wearily. ‘The third option better be good, Jack.’
Pendragon ran one palm over his forehead. ‘I wish it were, ma’am,’ he said. ‘The only conclusion we can draw is that the murderer planted the DNA.’
‘Planted it!’
‘To throw us off the scent. It wouldn’t be the first time it had been done.’
‘Yes, Jack, it’s been done once before — the Mettlin case in Manchester, right?’
He nodded.
‘But that was very different. The planted DNA was from another gangster, an erstwhile “friend” of the real culprit, a living person who might easily have committed the crime if he hadn’t been beaten to it by the real killer, Johnny Mettlin. That was also eight years ago when DNA analysis was not so sophisticated.’
‘I know the facts, ma’am,’ Pendragon responded. ‘But the two scenarios are not that different. Hair may easily be preserved.’
‘But the owner of this DNA has been dead for fifteen bloody years!’
It was Pendragon’s turn to stay silent.
‘Okay,’ Hughes said after an uncomfortable thirty seconds. ‘What does Newman think about this scenario?’
‘That it’s certainly possible the sample could have been planted.’
‘Can she not tell if the hair has been preserved in any way?’
‘No. That was the first thing I asked her when the first two options were written off.’
‘So, what now?’ The superintendent looked exasperated. ‘We have three murders in under a week. A possible perp who has been dead a long time. No witnesses to any of them. Little in the way of other forensics. We don’t have a lot to go on, Inspector.’
