The Art of Murder

Chapter 11

Stepney, Thursday 22 January, 7.38 a.m. Pendragon and Turner drew to a halt on Stepney High Street. The DCI flicked on the hazards, jumped out and led the way along the path as the sun started to come up. It cast a fiery red glaze over the gravestones. Shards of light were reflected in the east-facing stained-glass windows of St Dunstan's. As they rounded the side of the church they saw two men at the foot of an oak tree. Looking up, they could see the flat grey object draped over one of its lower branches.

'Fuck me!' Turner said under his breath as they approached. 'It's not until you actually see it, you can believe it.'

Pendragon averted his eyes from the monstrous thing in the tree and walked on, head down. Inspector Ken Towers was positioning a ladder under the tree, but it was proving difficult because the ground there was uneven. Beside him stood a man in a long black robe and clerical collar. He was in his early sixties, Pendragon guessed. He had a lined face and neatly cut white hair; bushy eyebrows, grey with a few flecks of black remaining. The DCI and Turner stopped beside the others, and for a few moments Pendragon silently studied the flattened shape hanging above them.

'Sir, this is the vicar… Reverend Partridge,' Towers said, nodding towards the other man.

Pendragon broke away from the weirdly fascinating sight and shook the cleric's hand.

'I don't understand this,' Partridge said, his face scrunched up like a cabbage patch doll.

'No,' Pendragon said soothingly and looked away for a second. 'Towers, who found the body?'

'A woman out jogging.' The inspector pointed to his left. An ambulance had pulled on to the path near the edge of the graveyard. Two women sat on its tailgate. One of them was a tall blonde, wearing knee-length Lycra pants and trainers, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was sipping from a white porcelain mug, a blanket wrapped about her shoulders, the corners hanging loosely over her front. Sergeant Roz Mackleby sat next to her, speaking softly.

Pendragon turned back to the scene under the tree. 'What exactly are you doing, Towers?'

'I brought out the ladder, Chief Inspector,' Reverend Partridge interrupted. 'I thought the poor soul should be brought down.'

Pendragon placed a hand on the cleric's upper arm 'That's very thoughtful of you, Reverend, but the Police Pathologist will be here soon. We should let him deal with it.' And he encouraged Reverend Partridge to turn away.

'Quite right. I understand,' the vicar replied woodenly as Pendragon walked across the grass, still with his hand on the older man's shoulder. The vicar was clearly in shock. 'I'll, em… I'll be in the vestry. Don't hesitate…'

'Thank you,' Pendragon said, and watched the man walk slowly towards the sanctuary of his church.

A small crowd had gathered at the other side of the railings to the churchyard, twenty yards away from the crime-scene. As Pendragon watched them, a patrol car pulled up next to the ambulance, and behind that came a grey four-wheel drive with Dr Jones at the wheel.

Pendragon called Turner over and they strode across the grass towards the new arrivals. The DCI waved to Jones as the pathologist clambered from his car and started to make his way between a couple of gravestones towards the tree. Pendragon and Turner waited for two uniformed officers to emerge from the back of the squad car and for Inspector Grant to come round from the driver's side. 'You two, get that crowd cleared,' the DCI told the uniforms, and indicated the gathering with a brief inclination of the head. 'Grant, I want this place sealed off. I want a screen around that tree. I don't want anyone without a valid reason for being there within a hundred yards of it. Turner, you come with me.'

They headed towards the ambulance. Sergeant Mackleby looked up as they approached and hopped down from the tailgate, her back straight.

'Relax, Sergeant,' Pendragon told her, and looked down at the young woman nursing her drink. She was staring at the ground. He glanced at Roz Mackleby, who raised her eyebrows. 'Sally Burnside,' she said quietly. 'Found the… er… body on her morning run.'

Pendragon sat down beside the young woman. 'Ms Burnside,' he said.

'Sally,' the woman replied, looking up suddenly. She brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face and took a deep breath. 'I'm okay now.'

'Look, I think anyone would…'

'No, really, I'm good.'

Pendragon paused for a beat and looked up at Turner who had his notebook out. 'I'm DCI Jack Pendragon. I'm in charge of this case. This is Sergeant Turner.'

The woman glanced briefly at Jez and took another sip of her drink.

'Do you feel up to re-telling us what happened?'

'I told you, Chief Inspector, I'm fine.' Then she burst into tears.

The police officers were silent, letting the young woman cry it out. After a few moments, Roz Mackleby leaned in with a tissue. Sally Burnside took it and blew her nose. 'I'm sorry…' she began.

'There's absolutely no need to apologise,' Pendragon said, and waited for her to gather her thoughts.

'I was on my usual morning run. I almost always take the path through the churchyard.'

'What time was this?'

'Just before seven. I was a bit late this morning. I came round from there.' She pointed back along the path to where it curved close to one corner of the church. 'I saw this odd thing hanging in the tree. I couldn't make it out. As I came closer, I still had no idea what it was. It looked like a tarpaulin to me.' She paused for a second and took another couple of deep breaths. 'Then I realised what it was.'

'And you called 999 straight away?'

'Yes, I had my mobile.'

'The call was logged at four minutes past seven, sir,' Turner commented.

'Did you see anyone else in the vicinity?'

'No, no one at all.'

'Was that from the moment you ran into the churchyard? Think about it carefully, Sally.'

She shook her head. 'No one. There were people out on the street, around Stepney Way.' And she inclined her head in the direction of the main road. 'A couple of cars, but I can't remember anything about them.'

'No, that's okay.'

'But inside the churchyard, no. After I called the police, I went and sat on the bench over there. I couldn't see the… er… tree from there. I must have been in a state of shock because the next thing I knew two policemen were standing beside the bench.'

'All right, thanks, Ms Burnside,' Pendragon said, getting up and flicking a glance at Sergeant Mackleby, who resumed her place on the tailgate.

Pendragon and Turner walked back towards the tree. A screen was being erected and they could see Inspector Grant and two constables moving in on the rubbernecks.

Beneath the tree, Jones was staring up at the hideous corpse and shaking his head. 'Now I've seen it all, Pendragon,' he said, without taking his eyes from the object above his head. 'God only knows what you expect me to do with this.' Then he glanced round. 'You know that song, "Strange Fruit?"'

The chief inspector gazed into the branches. 'Yes, of course I do, Jones. Billie Holiday, based on a poem by Abel Meeropol, about the lynching of two black men by the Klu Klux Klan.'

Jones was nodding sagely. 'Looks like someone's taken the idea a few steps further,' he said, his tone unusually serious.