The Art of Murder

Chapter 27

'DCI Pendragon, please.' The caller's plummy tones were immediately identifiable.

'Sammy,' Jack responded.

'Dear boy. I hope I find you in good health.'

Pendragon smiled to himself. 'Perishing cold, but that aside…'

'I have some information for you. Oh, blast it…'

Pendragon heard fumbling and the clink of coins.

'You're in a call box?'

'There… Yes. Don't believe in mobiles. What was I saying?'

'You had some information.' Pendragon glanced to left and right as he crossed Buckhurst Street and headed towards Mile End Road.

'May have found what you're after. Got the address here.'

A rustling of paper.

'What's suspect about it?' Pendragon asked after Sammy had read out the address.

'My source tells me it's been unused for years, but was rented out last week… for one week only.'

'One week?'

'Correct.'

'Names?'

'A paper chase with no satisfactory conclusion so far. The owner is Westbrick and Co. They have a representative in Docklands… Sunrise… listed in the book. The unit was rented in the name of Rembrandt Industries. That's all I have.'

'Okay. Thanks, Sammy. It's a warehouse, I take it?'

'Believe so. Down on West India Quay.'

'Right,' Pendragon responded. 'I know it.' Sergeant Turner was waiting for Pendragon at the reception desk of Sunrise Properties, the London representatives of Westbrick and Co. 'Hi, guv. Only got here a couple of minutes ago. The manager's in.' He glanced at his notebook. 'A Mr Derrickson.'

'Have you found anything on Rembrandt Industries?'

'A phone number, disconnected. An email address, also disconnected.'

'Banks? How were funds transferred?'

'Through third and fourth parties, an entity called Gouache and another called Cubist and Co.'

'Very amusing,' Pendragon retorted. 'I think our murderer's messing with us. Anything on these damn intermediaries?' he asked bitterly.

''Fraid not, sir. Their numbers and email addresses have also been disconnected. The financial transactions went through a branch of Lloyds in Reading. Accounts have been closed… of course.'

'And, naturally, no trace of the person who set up the accounts and closed them down?'

At that moment, a tall, bald man in his mid-thirties appeared from the corridor ahead of them. The receptionist nodded to the two policemen and the man walked over, right hand extended, a serious but not unfriendly expression on his face.

Derrickson's office was an ultra-modern, minimalist affair with a Mac, a phone and a notepad on an otherwise empty metal and glass desk.

'So, gentlemen. How may I help?'

'We would like access to one of your properties.'

'I see.'

'17A, Knox Lane, West India Quay. Apparently, it was let for one week only and we believe it may be useful to us in furthering a criminal investigation.'

'Okay,' said Derrickson, concerned. He tapped on his keyboard and looked up. 'Yes. Rembrandt Industries.'

'Is it unusual for companies to rent warehouse space for so short a time?'

'Yes, it is, Inspector. But the client offered to pay for three months. I'm amazed you know about it.' Derrickson looked straight into Pendragon's eyes.

Jack ignored him and glanced at Turner before returning Derrickson's gaze. 'All traces of the company who leased the warehouse have been erased,' he said. 'You were paid and then the account was closed.'

Derrickson looked surprised. 'Odd.'

'So, you see, we have grounds for suspicion.'

'What exactly are you investigating, Inspector?'

'I'm afraid the details are confidential, but it is a homicide matter.'

Derrickson nodded. 'Right. So what would you like from us?'

'We want to see inside the property.'

'Ah, that's delicate as the client has paid upfront.'

'But relinquished the lease.'

'Even so…'

'All right, Mr Derrickson. We can proceed in one of two ways. You can grant us unrestricted access and we go about our business quietly. Or I return in sixty minutes with a search warrant, lights flashing and sirens blaring, for all your neighbours to see. It's entirely up to you.'

Derrickson looked down at the shiny surface of his desk, his fingers interlaced on the glass. Then he spread his hands. 'Okay,' he said, and picked up the phone. The Victorian warehouse faced the water on West India Quay. It stood in the middle of a row of similar buildings. Each unit was used as a medium-term storage facility for importers. The blank facade was a windowless expanse of carefully restored brickwork. To one side was a wide roller door big enough to drive a bus through. On the other stood a smaller door with a security lock activated by a keypad.

Inside, Pendragon flicked a switch and a bright yellow light snapped on and off twice before staying on to illuminate a single, square high-roofed space. The floor was of bare concrete, the walls entirely unadorned. It was really just a gigantic storage box, with one incongruous feature: a cluster of heavy machinery in the centre of the room. Pendragon and Turner headed straight for this, their shoes echoing on the concrete.

'Fascinating,' Pendragon commented as they stopped two feet before a metal press. Beside it stood an electric roller. On the floor, in the harsh fluorescence, they could make out spots of blood and gobbets of grey matter.

They took separate tours around the machines. The metal press was about seven feet tall and three wide. It comprised a steel framework supported on three sturdy metal feet. In the centre of the framework was a two-foot-square opening. Poised above this was a punch about six inches in diameter. It was suspended about a foot from the base of the opening. Pendragon tilted his head to look at the underside of the cylindrical metal punch and noticed a streak of dried blood.

The roller was a very modern, high-tech version of a steamroller. It had three forward gears and a reverse, and consisted of a heavy steel drum and a sprung seat for the driver. On the floor nearby, between the metal press and the roller, stood a box of miscellaneous tools: a power drill, a hedge trimmer, an assortment of blades, lengths and coils of wire, clips and a roll of gaffer tape.

The two policemen met up on the far side of the roller and stood silently staring at the floor. A strip of red flecked with grey stretched ten feet from the roller towards the back wall of the warehouse. The strip was about two metres wide. Pendragon squatted down at one edge and looked closely at the stain. Up close, he could see small lumps of fleshy material. 'A veritable Chamber of Horrors,' he remarked, pulling himself upright. 'Dr Newman is going to have a field day, but I bet she won't find a fingerprint or a single trace of suspect DNA.'