Crucified

Chapter 29

Jack arrived at the station after a frustrating journey, as the tube had been delayed and the bus was not even running. The canteen was not that busy, so he grabbed a tray and was passing along the line when Laura walked in.

‘Jack, can you grab me some brown toast? I’ll get us coffee.’

He ordered two more rounds of brown toast before his order of scrambled eggs and bacon was served.

‘Did you hear the news?’ she asked excitedly as he sat down with the tray.

‘It’s been a busy weekend; we had to take the family to meet the vicar for Charlie’s christening.’

‘For goodness’ sake, don’t tell me you haven’t seen it in this morning’s papers.’ Laura started spreading butter on her toast. ‘DCI Morrison identified the victim, the one from Portobello Road that you were asking about; turns out he’s a famous art dealer. And his boyfriend was arrested for the murder. It’s all over the news this morning and Morrison was on TV yesterday speaking from Scotland Yard.’

‘He must be creaming himself,’ Jack smiled. ‘That’s a big arrest.’

‘I know. And...’ She rooted around in her bag. ‘You’ll probably get one as well.’ Laura handed Jack a postcard. ‘It’s from Josh. He’s retired to Florida.’

Jack looked at the postcard, turning it over to read Josh’s message. This was the second thing in as many minutes Jack had to feign ignorance about.

‘He deserves it. I owe him a lot.’

‘So have you got a date for the christening?’ she asked, munching her toast.

‘A couple of months’ time. Maybe there’s a rehearsal too? We do one of those, don’t we? I wasn’t really listening. I guess you’ll be at that. And we’ll probably hire out a restaurant for a party afterwards. I think that’s what Maggie has in mind.’ Jack had eaten his large breakfast in the same time it had taken for Laura to eat her small one and he now had indigestion. He burped, apologised, then picked up his coffee. He really didn’t want to talk about the Detmar Steinburg murder anymore.

‘See you up there,’ he said, moving off.

Laura picked up the bacon fat he had left and folded a slice of brown toast around it. She thought about Jack’s interest in the man she now knew to be Detmar Steinburg. She knew something didn’t quite add up, but then, hardly anything did if Jack Warr was involved.

In the incident room, Jack, along with several other officers, was soon dealing with social services and legal aid for two teenage boys they were holding, while knives found in their son’s bedrooms were still being brought in by concerned parents. Each item had to be logged, dated and confiscated safely. Armani had been in DCI Clarke’s office for forty minutes, and Jack assumed they were discussing the possible repercussions from the death of the teenage gang member who had been questioned and released.

Laura was assigned a burglary that had occurred at a local pub early on Sunday morning. Thieves had broken in and attempted to smash open the till but the pub had very good CCTV cameras and, as the pub closed at eleven, it was quite an easy process to forward the footage to the right point, as the alarm had been activated at 2.15 a.m. It was late afternoon when Laura returned from the viewing room. By now, she had numerous photographs of the burglars which she was pinning up on the big noticeboard as Jack passed her desk on his way to the cells.

‘Look at these, Jack. The two girls don’t look over twelve or thirteen years old, and the boy can’t be more than, what, fourteen?’

‘I know who and where he is,’ Jack said, pointing to the boy. Even with a black hoodie on, he recognised him as Jason Marks, aged 18. ‘He was arrested for carrying a machete and is still down in the cells.’

‘Bloody brilliant, thank you, does he have any previous?’

Jack smiled as he passed her the file. ‘He’s already lawyered up with the fragrant Sonia Billings. I’d get him brought up for more questioning.’

‘Will do. You heard anything further about Morrison’s arrest? Oh, I meant to tell you...’ She leaned in close. ‘After you left for the weekend, Cruella caught me in the loo, said she wanted a word. She almost pinned me up against the washbasin. Anyway, she said it was unethical for me to be at Fulham. I really saw red and told her it was none of her business, then she said she knew about my relationship with a married DCI.’

‘What, Morrison?’

‘Yeah. I was gobsmacked. Apparently, she found out before she dumped him. I’m regretting that quickie we had after the Italian. Never again, right? Always knew he was a shithead.’ Laura took the file, giving Jack the thumbs-up. She went over to the probationary officer she had been working alongside, to get Jason Marks brought from the cells and into an interview room.

Fulham station was under siege from the press. Kurt Neilson had been charged with murder and taken to the magistrates’ court. After giving his name, age and address, he shouted that he was guilty and became hysterical, foaming at the mouth as he banged his handcuffed wrists against the dock until they were bleeding. He screamed out that he had crucified his lover, Detmar Steinburg, and babbled about needing to be punished. He was remanded in custody, but before he was taken to prison, a doctor was called to give him a sedative and check his injured wrists. The doctor recommended Kurt be kept under medical supervision in prison while awaiting trial as he was a suicide risk.

The press now had a name to go along with the image of Kurt being walked from the courthouse, hands cuffed, his head beneath a blanket. By the time Neilson arrived at the prison, they had tracked down his doctor via the prescriptions found in his bedroom. He told them Neilson suffered with severe anxiety and had been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic with narcissistic traits for which he’d been on medication for several years. It was assumed he hadn’t taken his meds for a while.

Neilson was taken to the prison’s secure hospital facility, where he was put on ‘suicide watch’ in a single bare cell.

It was five o’clock and Jack was getting ready to head home as Laura returned from questioning Jason Marks, after arresting him on suspicion of the pub burglary. He had refused to name the two girls caught on CCTV, and his lawyer had asked for a break to discuss the situation with her client.

‘It really pissed me off,’ Laura said. ‘I told her, you can clearly see it’s him on CCTV smashing the fucking place up with a crowbar!’

Jack frowned, suddenly concerned by the ease with which he had identified Jason Marks from the pub’s CCTV footage. He was certain that Fulham would contact him any day now and he still hadn’t thought up a plausible reason for being at the gallery. He had a quick look around before Googling the latest news. The first article he saw had the headline: ‘Murdered Art Dealer’s Gallery Ablaze’.

‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered. Jack could hardly believe it! Not that the article was very informative, just that the fire had started on the top floor and the damage was extensive, with dozens of valuable paintings destroyed. He leaned back in his chair reading on. There was no mention of how the fire had started or even whether it was suspected arson.

The situation at Fulham after Neilson’s uncontrollable behaviour at the magistrates’ court had, as they had been warned, created a media frenzy. Reporters and photographers were outside the station, and anyone entering or leaving felt harassed.

Morrison’s frustration gave his delivery a sarcastic edge as he confronted the team with details from the forensic lab.

‘Surprise, surprise, DNA testing on the bloodstained clothing found in the dog kennel at Norman O’Reilly’s address matches the blood sample taken from Detmar Steinburg’s body. His clothes were in a plastic bag, with a newspaper dated the Friday, the day before he was discovered.’ Morrison put his hands on his hips and glared at the twenty gathered officers. ‘He’s bloody asking to be nicked, so why the hell haven’t you found him yet?’ He shook his head in exasperation. ‘Talk to the girlfriend again. See if you can shake his alibi.’ He gestured to Collingwood, who had arrived late after visiting the gallery.

‘I’m sorry, Sir, but even as an officer on the murder case, I wasn’t allowed entry as the forensic officers were still examining the gutted top floor. I’d waited in order to acquire the CCTV footage but was told that Miss Langton was expected in around an hour and so I should return then.’ He didn’t mention that he had stopped off for breakfast first.

‘Bollocks to that,’ Morrison said. ‘Right, you and me are going back there now. We’ve got search warrants for the whole building, plus the yard, and I’m not taking any bullshit about not being allowed in.’

As Morrison and Collingwood drove to the gallery, Morrison asked about Ester Langton.

‘She’s been very strange from the off, Sir. Like agreeing to go to the mortuary to identify him; strange lack of emotion.’

Morrison got out of the patrol car and stood on the pavement, looking up at the four-storey art gallery. The windows had been blown out on the top floor and the entire frontage had been drenched with the hoses, so where it wasn’t blackened with smoke, the once pristine white stucco walls were grey and water stained. Morrison shook his head. ‘Reckon it’s gonna cost millions to clean this lot up.’

They entered through the double glass doors, to be greeted by a large sign stating the obvious: ‘Closed until further notice’. A uniformed officer was sitting on one of the velvet-covered benches with a mug of tea. He quickly got to his feet, explaining that he had been there since nine and it had been freezing cold as the building now had no windows. He gestured to the mug of tea, saying that one of Miss Langton’s security guards had made it for him. Morrison waved his hand dismissively.

‘Where’s Miss Langton now?’

‘Fourth-floor office, Sir, or what’s left of it.’

Morrison threw him a disparaging glance as he headed along the corridor, pausing at two large open doors to the reception gallery. He stood for a moment, looking into the room at the display of oil paintings along the walls. He then continued towards the staircase, pausing by the glass-walled lift, then headed up the stairs. Everywhere showed the damage from the water: sodden carpets and dripping walls.

On the second floor, Morrison walked into the gallery with Collingwood trailing in his wake. It was now devoid of any paintings, although the gilt-backed chairs were still lined up, some with sodden leaflets on them. There was a trestle table covered in a stained white cloth, half-empty crates of champagne and broken champagne flutes. He noticed a large reel of bubble wrap against a wall beside a thick roll of heavy-duty brown paper. The room itself looked comparatively undamaged, although the carpet on the stairs was waterlogged.

Collingwood had to hurry after Morrison who was quickly on the third floor, standing by the open door. ‘So, this is where Neilson had his art show, third-floor gallery, right?’ Morrison’s question was rhetorical. ‘Well, there’s fuck all in here now, just a stack of easels and what looks like smashed frames.’

‘I removed Neilson’s paintings,’ Collingwood told him. ‘They’re wrapped and ready to be taken away. And, of course, the main event painting is already at the station.’

Ester Langton was at the top of the next set of stairs, wearing a tight-fitting black cashmere dress and high-heeled black boots with plastic rain covers. Her black hair was drawn into an elaborate coil at the nape of her slender neck. She wore a string of pearls with matching pearl earrings, and her thick makeup disguised not only the bruise on her forehead but any sign of the trauma she had been through.

She stood patiently waiting as they squelched along the sodden carpet towards her. They could now see the extent of the damage: some of the carpets had been rolled up, exposing the bare boards, and what remained of the burnt doors were stacked to one side. The whole area smelt of acrid smoke, with blackened walls, broken furniture and charred door frames.

‘Be careful,’ she warned. ‘The floors are quite uneven. You can look into what was the office, and you’ll see, the private bedroom is completely trashed.’

Morrison was not prepared to risk entering what was left of the office, although Collingwood edged towards what had been the staff storage area. It now had ‘danger’ tape where the door had been. The only area that had not been affected was the toilets, but the door was burnt and hanging loose.

Morrison had seen enough, unable to stop coughing as the acrid stench burnt his throat. They all went back down the stairs, into the room where the large paintings were still intact with little sign of damage from the fire.

Ester stood back to allow them to enter first. ‘Please do sit down. Can I offer you refreshments?’ She moved around a trestle table indicating a silver tray with a thermos of coffee and a jug of cream, a bowl of sugar cubes and a plate filled with pastries. There was a neat file of documents beside the tray. Collingwood stood to one side as Morrison drew up a velvet-covered hard-backed chair to sit down on. He noticed that although Ester looked perfectly turned out, as she gestured to the tray, her nails were chipped and broken.

‘I have, as my lawyer instructed, compiled a list of all the guests,’ Ester told them. ‘We also had a young girl checking off their names as they arrived, so we know who turned up and who didn’t. The invitations were printed before Detmar left for Europe; he was already planning the exhibition and was hoping to acquire new pieces to show. Kurt must have taken them and sent them out himself because I know Detmar would not have considered exhibiting his work. But as I said in my statement, Kurt had taken over the gallery whether I liked it or not.’

‘Had he ever done that before?’

‘No, he would not have dared. Our clients have been carefully selected over many years; discerning buyers and dealers and art critics. I noticed from the list of attendants that there was not the usual number of guests.’

Morrison reached out to take a pastry, and she passed him a small napkin. ‘Miss Langton, I noticed you have a number of CCTV cameras. I will require the footage from Saturday night.’

She leaned forward, holding both hands out in a helpless gesture. ‘I knew you would want them, and I can’t tell you how horrified I was when I discovered they had all been muted, turned to the wall or damaged, and that the main electrical hub in the basement was smashed. Obviously, Kurt had done all this as he knew what was going to happen. I have called the company, and they are going to send an engineer to check if there is any salvageable footage. I understand its importance.’

Morrison nodded. ‘It’s vital. We haven’t yet had the report from the forensic fire team. Do you have any indication of how the fire started?’

‘Not really. I know the fire started on the top floor, possibly in the storage room. It could have been a stray cigarette I suppose. I don’t know. There was such panic, and it was such a terrible night.’

Morrison nodded his understanding. ‘I’m afraid I would like you to take me through the events of Saturday evening. I’m sorry to make you repeat everything.’

They both listened intently as Ester explained again how she was assaulted by the man she later identified as Norman O’Reilly; he had been demanding money and said he had kept hold of some bloodied clothing that he would hand to the police if Neilson didn’t come good. She then explained how she was rescued from O’Reilly by one of the guests who had witnessed the assault. Collingwood strongly suspected this man was Jack.

‘Tell me more about Kurt Neilson,’ Morrison said.

‘I can only tell you that he was in a long, often violent relationship with Detmar. I think I was told he had once been a boxer, but I never socialised with him. I disliked his hold over Detmar, who took him around the world and gave him whatever he wanted.’

‘But he refused to exhibit his paintings?’

‘Detective Morrison, if you saw them, you would understand why — they were pitiful. He had no talent whatsoever.’

‘What about your relationship with Mr Steinburg?’

She sat upright in her chair. ‘I was his secretary to begin with and then became his personal assistant. He was a wonderful man. I have been with him for ten years.’

‘Did you ever have a sexual relationship with him?’

‘I find that insulting. I was inordinately fond of him, but not in that way.’

Morrison nodded. ‘Going back to Kurt Neilson. As you’ve told us, it sounds as if he was pampered by Mr Steinburg, with a luxurious lifestyle.’

She shook her head emphatically. ‘I would say that was all about to fall apart because Detmar was quite a promiscuous man, and Kurt was a very jealous one. I have something that I think will be of interest to you, detectives.’ She sifted through the neat stack of notes she had prepared for them and withdrew a single receipt. ‘This is from a theatrical prop department, paid for by Kurt Neilson. It was used in an epic film about the Nativity and was delivered to one of the shops Detmar used.’

She held up the receipt between thumb and forefinger. It was for a giant wooden cross, to be delivered to the framer’s where O’Reilly worked. It had cost one thousand four hundred pounds, with an extra two hundred for the delivery, which included chains and hooks. As Morrison and Collingwood looked over the receipt, she filled a large manila envelope with all the papers.

‘You have been very accommodating, Miss Langton, and I appreciate your assistance. I just have one more thing to ask. Would you help confirm something we are still looking into?’

She smiled and gave the same open-handed gesture. ‘Of course.’

‘We have found a considerable amount of cash in various currencies in Detmar’s apartment.’

She shrugged. ‘Detmar always liked to have money on hand, and I can obviously provide you with all his bank statements should that be legally requested. These would have been in my files, but of course due to fire...’

Morrison rubbed his hands together, crumpled the little napkin he had used into a ball and tossed it onto the desk. ‘You see, all that cash makes me wonder if Mr Steinburg was engaged in another kind of business. Dealing in forgeries to be precise.’

She stood up quickly, her eyes blazing. ‘How dare you even suggest that... let me tell you, if ever I discovered that we had acquired a fake artwork, I would not only report it to the authorities but ensure the artist was arrested. We employ renowned art experts to ensure the authenticity of every one of our paintings. Detmar does not ever...’ She stopped, heaving for breath, having spoken about him as if he was still alive. As the tears came, she snatched a paper napkin from the table. ‘I think you should leave. If you want any further information from me, I will insist my lawyer be present.’

Morrison stood, picking up the envelope. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Langton. We have a search warrant,’ he added, holding it out to her, ‘and I’d like to go down to the basement before we go.’

‘As you wish,’ she said curtly. ‘I’ll call one of the security guards to take you down there.’ She led the way out into the reception area.

Ester gestured to a security guard carrying a ring of keys. ‘This is Eric. He’ll take you into the basement. If you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal to sort out.’ She turned and walked away.

Morrison reached out for the keys. ‘I think we can handle it from here, thanks, Eric.’ He noticed large sweat stains on the security guard’s shirt. Morrison took the keys and the black rubber torch from Eric’s belt. ‘A couple of questions before we go,’ Morrison said, pausing. ‘I understand you were not on the third floor and didn’t witness the incident.’

‘That’s right,’ Eric nodded.

‘Did you see anything unusual before that?’

‘Yeah, this guy, one of the guests, he was shouting orders, taking control of things. Then he legged it when the police arrived.’

Morrison sucked his teeth. ‘Interesting. That’s all. Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ Eric gestured to a door. ‘Basement’s through there.’

The basement smelt strongly of damp. The ceiling light, once they found the switch, gave only a faint glimmer. Morrison clicked his fingers for the torch, and Collingwood handed it over. Slowly moving the beam around the vast space, they could see tangled cables leading to what was left of a box with rows of switches. The box had been smashed to pieces.

‘That’ll be the CCTV,’ Morrison sighed. ‘Kurt was certainly busy down here. Get one of our tech specialists down asap to see if they can retrieve anything.’

Frames of every shape and size were stacked along the walls, along with dozens of narrow wooden crates. Most were damaged. Morrison shone the torch around the walls and then the stone floor; it was evident that, at some point, something heavy had been pushed along it. There were distinct scrapes about six feet apart, leading to a double warehouse-style door which had an unlocked padlock hanging by a chain. He wrenched it open a few inches and peered out into the backyard.

Collingwood started looking through the bins. ‘You won’t find anything in there,’ Morrison told him. ‘Anything that was there will be gone by now. But that backyard could have been a way to get in if it was arson. With just two officers covering the place I’d put money on them not checking out the backyard.’

Back in the car, he asked Collingwood for his thoughts. ‘I’m not sure, Sir. But I think you are right about whatever they had in that cellar being shipped out fast. I noticed Ester’s hands were in a rough state, and the security guard was sweating like a pig.’

Morrison nodded. ‘Yeah, she only really started to lose it when I mentioned the forgeries. I mean, we have fuck all on that, I was just trying it on, but it looks like we hit a nerve. I reckon our Mr Steinburg was definitely running some sort of scam; with all of his properties, skipping around the world buying and selling. I don’t know and, to be honest, I can’t at this stage bring myself to give a fuck. More important we got the receipt for the cross, indicating premeditation; that was a good result.’

Collingwood nodded. His mobile gave multiple pings as Morrison continued. ‘And we need the fingerprint blokes down in that cellar to check the damaged CCTV unit. When you get back to the station, double-check if any dumpsters were hired either Sunday or today at the gallery. Something heavy-duty was parked in that backyard, must have shifted a lot of gear out of there.’

‘Yes, Sir. I just got a text. They’re bringing in Norman O’Reilly’s girlfriend first thing in the morning. Maybe she’ll give us something.’

Morrison nodded, then frowned as another loose end popped into his head. ‘I’d like to know who that anonymous caller was that tipped you off about what was about to go down.’

‘Yeah... right,’ Collingwood murmured his agreement. His anxiety levels were going up again. As well as the text about O’Reilly’s girlfriend being brought in, he’d also been told that the station was receiving streams of mobile phone film footage from people present at the gallery. What were the chances at least one had caught Jack?