The Art of Murder

Chapter 13

Pendragon's phone started ringing as he reached the door to his office.

He put the receiver to his ear and heard Dr Newman's voice.

'Chief Inspector, I have some news for you.'

'Good news, I hope.'

'I've got a DNA match for our second victim.'

Pendragon pulled over a pad from the top of a pile of paper at one side of his desk. 'Fire away.'

'A man named Noel Thursk. Had a record. Suspected of fraud five years ago. The case went to court. He was acquitted. Address recorded as number seventeen Trummety Street, Whitechapel.'

'I'm most grateful,' Pendragon replied. 'Good work, Doctor.'

'Glad to help.' Pendragon was staring at the wall as Jez Turner tapped on the office door and popped his head into the room. The sergeant had to clear his throat before the DCI broke out of his reverie. Turner stepped in and threw himself into a chair facing the desk.

'Forensics have a match on the DNA from the body in the churchyard,' Pendragon told him.

'Wow! That was quick.'

'A man named Noel Thursk. Ring any bells?'

Turner was silent for a moment, looking vacantly at the mess on Pendragon's desk. 'It does actually,' he said. 'Can't think, though… hang on.' He came round the desk and started tapping at the computer keyboard. He soon had a list of names on the screen. 'I emailed this to you earlier. It's the guest list from the private view at Berrick's gallery.' Turner ran the cursor down the screen and stopped about three-quarters of the way through, over the name Noel Thursk.

'Well, I never,' Pendragon said. 'Time we had Mr Jackson Price pay us a visit, don't you think, Turner?' Jackson Price sat stiff-backed in the chair in Interview Room 1, hands in his lap. 'Look, Chief Inspector,' he said earnestly, 'I want to help you, I really do. I just don't know how.'

'Well, look at the facts, Mr Price. During the past thirty-six hours there have been two murders. Both victims were linked to you and the gallery. Both were at the event two nights ago. We need to establish any further links that we can. Did you know Noel Thursk well?'

'I've been acquainted with him for a long time, but I couldn't say I knew him well. I don't know whether anyone did.'

'Why do you say that?'

'He was something of a loner. A rather private man.'

'He was a writer, yes?'

'He was originally a painter. Still dabbles, so I understand, but he decided, oh… at least a decade ago, that he couldn't keep going and started to write about Art instead. Had a column in the Evening Standard for a long time, but parted company with the paper. I remember there was some big row and he was shown the door.'

'When was this?'

'A couple of years ago. He freelances now. Or, at least, he used to,' Price added grimly. 'And I heard he was writing a book.'

Pendragon looked up from where he had been contemplating a blank notepad in front of him. 'A book?'

Price shrugged. 'Isn't that what journalists do if they hit the skids?'

'Any idea what the book was about?'

'None whatsoever, Chief Inspector. As I said, Noel was rather a private man and I didn't know him well.'

'You said he was a loner. Did he have any close friends?'

'Not that I know of.'

'What about Kingsley Berrick? Was he not a friend?'

'Oh, he knew him, of course. Thursk had made himself a fixture within the Art community. Part of the job description really, isn't it?' Price gave the policeman a blank look.

Pendragon was about to respond when his mobile rang. He recognised the number. 'Turner,' he said.

'Guv, you have Jackson Price there?'

'Yes.'

'I've just interviewed Selina Carthage. She was one of the last to leave the party on Tuesday evening. You know, one of the guests who stayed a while with Berrick, Price and Hedridge?'

'Yes.'

'She confirms that Hedridge and Berrick left together. She then went home. She lives in one of those posh places in Moorgate with a doorman downstairs. He confirms she came in around one-forty-five. Anyway, Ms Carthage reckons there was a bit of scene at the private view.'

'Can you be a little more specific, Sergeant?'

'There was a gatecrasher. A guy called Francis Arcade, would you believe?' Turner sniggered. 'A bit of a lad, apparently. Well known as a trouble maker.'

'Okay, thanks, Sergeant. Where are you now?'

'Off to see the last geezer who hung back at the gallery, a bloke called Chester Gerachi. Why is it all these arty types have such weird names?'

Pendragon ignored the question and closed his phone. 'That was my sergeant,' he said, turning a hard gaze on Jackson Price. 'Tells me there was a gatecrasher at the private view. You failed to mention that.'

Price showed little reaction, simply shrugged. 'I hardly thought it was important,' he said evenly. 'It was just Arcade. He is never welcome, but almost de rigueur, Chief Inspector. A private view would hardly be up to scratch if he didn't stick his nose in.'

Pendragon gave him a puzzled look.

'Francis Arcade's a joke,' Price went on. 'I'm surprised he doesn't hire himself out as a party entertainer, a performance artist.'

'So, what happened?'

'What happened? Mr Arcade showed up about ten-thirty. He hadn't been invited, naturally. He was turned away, but wouldn't take no for an answer and forced his way into the room. It was dreadfully dull. He should change the script a little.'

'What happened then?'

'Oh, he grabbed a drink, threw it over someone. Standard stuff. I was all for letting him stay. In a way, that's the last thing he would have wanted. Would have defused things. But…'

'But?'

'Kingsley wouldn't have any of it.' Price's voice dropped almost to a whisper.

'Mr Berrick intervened?'

'Well…'

'Either he did or he didn't, Mr Price.'

'Yes, he intervened. He and Arcade traded insults and then Kingsley took his arm. It looked for a moment as though it might turn really nasty, but then someone else took Arcade's other arm and the stupid kid just went limp… sort of gave up. Made his point, I suppose. They led him outside, and that was that.'

'Who was the other person?'

Price stared at the floor unable to look Pendragon in the face. 'I think you know, Chief Inspector.'