The Art of Murder

Chapter 2

Helena took Tom's arm. Trish remained where she was, shaking her head, unsure what to do. In the end she simply said, 'I'll see you at the office,' and walked away.

Tom turned back just in time to avoid colliding into another commuter. He and Helena dodged to the right. He pulled his arm free. 'Where're we going?'

She looked round at him, but said nothing.

They turned a corner, right, off Mile End Road, down Vallance Road. Fifty yards further on, they swung another right into a narrow lane, Durrell Place. For the first time, Tom began to worry, began to wonder whether he had done the right thing after all. Then he saw a sign up ahead: Berrick amp; Price Fine Art Gallery. He recognised the name from an article in GQ.

Helena ran ahead. Tom caught up with her at the door to the gallery. The front windows stretched for about twenty-five feet. They were blacked out, with the name of the gallery printed in silver lettering across the glass in an eccentric font, a cross between Bank Gothic and Marlett, all block letters and narrow serifs. The door stood ajar. From inside came the faint smell of stale alcohol and incense.

'So, what's this all about?' Tom asked, dropping his shoulder bag to the ground at the gallery's entrance.

Helena simply pointed through the open door.

'Who are you?' he said.

Helena looked puzzled for a second, then tapped her chest. 'Me? Cleaner.' Then she pointed again. 'Man dead.'

'Dead? You sure?'

She nodded.

He thought about calling the police, but curiosity had already got the better of him. He had come this far, he thought to himself, why back out now? Some part of him was suddenly excited.

'Where?' Tom asked.

Helena just nodded towards the door.

Tom took a deep breath. 'Okay. You wait here.'

It was dark in the corridor, but an archway to his right led into a small room immediately behind the blacked-out windows. Bright halogen spots hung down in a cluster from the ceiling. Two walls were covered with vast canvases, blocks of pure colour, one a dark green, the other a deep purple. Under each stood a black leather and chrome sofa, original George Nelsons. Ahead was another archway that led into a much larger room, the display space.

Tom walked over to the second archway, hesitated for a moment and then stepped inside. This room was also brightly lit from rows of powerful halogens in the ceiling. In the centre of it stood some sort of installation, a tangle of plastic and steel, indistinct angular shapes bursting through a matrix of metal. Tom turned to his left and saw what he took to be another installation. He stepped towards it and froze. He felt the hairs rise on the nape of his neck. His mouth suddenly felt very dry and fear began to ripple through the pit of his stomach. For several moments Tom Seymour could not fit what he was seeing into his image of the universe. It made no sense, it was a set of contradictions, what he was seeing clashed with the model of 'normal life' he had in his head. Then, as acceptance came, he felt his guts heave. Dashing back to the archway, he vomited as he ran, the spew landing on the expensive parquet flooring and slithering down his exquisite Yohji Yamamoto coat.