The Art of Murder

Chapter 29

Stepney, Monday 26 January, 12.10 p.m. Pendragon had heard of the grand old tradition of East End funerals, but had never before experienced one. When he was a child growing up in Stepney he had been too young to attend such events. His uncle Stanley had died when Jack was seven, but he had been kept at home, watched over by a distant cousin from the other side of the family. He could still remember the sense of pantomime surrounding the occasion, the buzz of something grandiose happening which he did not quite understand and from which he was shielded by the mourning grown-ups.

Uncle Stanley had been a pillar of the community and much loved locally. Pearly King of 1953, no less. It all seemed to have happened a long time ago and in a very different East End, Pendragon thought as he arrived at the service for Kingsley Berrick. Today's big show for the art dealer seemed completely incongruous. Berrick had certainly been a flamboyant character: a man who loved to party, loved to make money; a man who, according to some, loved art. But, most of all, he seemed to have loved his own image, and this was never clearer than in the way he had planned his own farewell to the world.

But Berrick, the record made clear, had been born in Surrey and had only arrived in the East End after setting up his gallery in the late-1980s, first in Shoreditch and then in Whitechapel. He was no more cockney than Liberace, but now here he was, lying in a ridiculously ornate coffin surrounded by flowers spelling out his name. Outside the church, a carriage drawn by two black mares in black feather headdresses stood waiting with an escort of no fewer than six professional pallbearers in black top hats and tails.

The service was long and drawn-out with speeches from a host of luminaries of the British art scene. It was finished by a eulogy from Jackson Price, in which he claimed his friend had been one of the most influential people in his field.

Pendragon mingled with the mourners as they slowly emerged from the church on to Clyde Street close to Whitechapel Road. Much of the snow of the previous week had turned to slush. But now, early on Monday afternoon, it had begun to snow again, huge, fluffy flakes tumbling gracefully from a leaden sky, settling on the tops of cars and the roofs of the surrounding buildings.

Pendragon was about to take the steps down to the street when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he was confronted by a tall woman wearing an ankle-length fake-fur coat and Russian-style fur hat. She had fine cheekbones and large brown eyes. Her lips were full and coloured crimson, slightly parted in a faint smile. Her gloved hand was extended towards him. He looked at the woman's face then down at the hand and took it before he finally recognised her from the film of the private view at Berrick amp; Price, just before the first murder.

'DCI Pendragon,' she said.

'Ms Locke.'

The woman's smile broadened. 'How polite. It's Gemma. I saw you in the paper,' she added as Pendragon gave her a puzzled look. 'Quite a spectacular affair, isn't it?' She gazed around. 'Typical Kingsley. Always the showman. Had to be the centre of attention… even in death.'

'You knew him well?'

'Oh, I had known him for a long time. But I wouldn't say we were close buddies.' She paused for a moment and looked around again. A middle-aged couple squeezed past and joined the other mourners on the pavement. 'Inspector, I read the piece in the local rag. I took a lot of it as standard hyperbole, but it struck me you do have a nasty mystery on your hands, and clearly three murders linked by some bizarre artistic connection.'

Pendragon looked at her and it suddenly struck him that Gemma Locke was not simply striking in the way many women are at first sight. She was a rare beauty, almost too perfect for words, a face not merely crafted from a fortunate combination of genes but one that was animated and alive, expressing an inner radiance and energy. He had only seen a woman like her a handful of times before this, and in nearly every case it had been in a movie. The thought suddenly occurred to him that Gemma Locke bore a striking resemblance to Greta Garbo in her prime. He realised then he hadn't said anything for a long time and that Gemma Locke was staring at him, a faint smile playing across her lips as though she found him inexplicably amusing.

'Sorry,' Pendragon said. 'Yes, um, we do have a mystery. I haven't read the piece, but I think hyperbole is pretty standard for that paper. We made an official statement yesterday providing as much detail as we care to divulge at this time. The Gazette obviously used that, especially the information about the most recent death – the murder of the priest.'

'I'd be happy to assist if you have any questions of an artistic nature. Anything I can do to help catch the person who killed my friends.'

Pendragon felt surprised for a second, then glanced at his watch. 'Would later this afternoon be okay?' he asked. 'Say two o'clock?'

At that moment the funeral carriage started to move off slowly towards the cemetery two hundred yards along the road.

'Do you know Alberto's on Pandora Lane, off Stepney Green?'

'I'll find it,' Pendragon said, and watched the artist turn away into the throng and descend the stairs carefully. 'I was terribly shocked,' Gemma said, staring straight into Pendragon's eyes as she lifted a coffee cup to her mouth. She took a sip and settled the cup back in its saucer. 'We all were. Kingsley could be a pig… a tough negotiator. There were times I wished he represented me,' she added with a laugh. 'But, deep down, he was a nice man and absolutely committed to the cause of art.'

'I've heard others say that,' Pendragon replied. 'But I've also heard the opposite.'

'Oh, don't tell me… Francis.'

Pendragon nodded and drank some coffee.

'I imagine you have him high on your list of suspects.'

'We did. Brought him in for questioning, as a matter of fact, but he has a water-tight alibi.'

'He's also a baby, Inspector. Hardly the type to kill anyone, especially in the way these people were killed.'

'Can you help fill out some details about Berrick and Thursk?'

'I'll try.'

'Did you know Mr Berrick had underworld connections?'

Gemma Locke looked surprised and was about to say something when she seemed to change her mind. There was silence for a moment, then she said, 'I didn't know that. But actually, come to think of it, it's not that unexpected.'

'It isn't?'

'No. I think that on some level the world of the art dealer and that of the gangster are not so far apart. I think you'd be surprised just how seedy things can be on the art scene.'

'Illuminate me.'

'Argh! I don't have precise facts and figures, Inspector,' Gemma laughed, and took another sip of coffee. 'I'm an artist. Oh, God! That sounds pretentious, doesn't it?'

It was Pendragon's turn to laugh. 'Not really. You are an artist.' And he drained his cup.

'I just hear stories. We all do. I think it takes a specific type of person to sell art. It's a difficult business at the best of times – shark-infested waters.'

'Yes, I can imagine.' Pendragon nodded to her cup. 'Another?' He called the waitress over and ordered two more coffees.

'What about Noel Thursk? Can you imagine any connections between him and Berrick, apart from the obvious?'

'What would you call obvious, Inspector?'

'Look, if I'm going to call you Gemma…'

'You must be Jack?' She laughed, and Pendragon nodded and found himself giving the woman a flirtatious smile. He only realised after he had done it and felt suddenly ridiculous. But then he concluded that Gemma Locke hadn't noticed anyway.

'Noel and Kingsley had known each other a long time. I think they were occasional lovers. But then, if I tried to work out the labyrinthine sexual relations between all the gay men I know, I would soon be lost. I know they had frequent fallings-out. But again, nothing unusual in that. They were on friendly terms when I saw them last…' And her voice trailed off as though she had suddenly remembered that the two men were dead.

'Did they clash over the book Thursk was supposed to be writing?'

Gemma looked up sharply. 'What book?'

It was Pendragon's turn to be surprised. He had assumed Thursk's associates would have known about it. 'His projected book about Juliette Kinnear?'

'Oh, that!' Gemma shook her head dismissively. 'I'd forgotten about it. But then, I think Noel had too, bless him. It was a bit of a joke, wasn't it?'

Pendragon shrugged. 'You tell me.'

The coffees arrived and Gemma Locke leaned forward to blow gently across the foam on top of her latte. 'He started it years ago,' she went on. 'Interviewed everyone. All very serious. He never stopped spouting off about his big book deal. But then everyone seemed to lose interest, Noel especially. I assumed the whole thing had been quietly dropped.' She stirred the coffee and lifted the cup a few inches above the saucer. 'Anyway, Jack, I thought you wanted to ask me some more technical questions.'

'Yes,' Pendragon said. 'I'd love to pick your brain, learn some more about contemporary British art. But somehow I'm not convinced it will bring me any closer to the killer.'

'But with the third murder, it's obvious there's a strong link.'

'Well, yes, but that was already pretty clear after Thursk's body was found. I don't think there are any clues to the murderer's identity in the choice of painting or even artist, other than the fact they're all modern painters. I suppose you could vaguely label the three of them – Magritte, Dali and Bacon – Surrealist, couldn't you?'

'Yes, but those tableaux were all particularly gory examples, weren't they? Not all modern artists paint such striking themes. There are plenty of calmer, more peaceful images.'

'But they would not be so readily adaptable by our murderer.'

'It might still be early days.'

'Oh Lord! Don't say that!' Pendragon exclaimed.

'I'm sorry. That was insensitive of me. It's just…'

'Just what?'

'Well, the sheer violence of this killer. I get the feeling that whoever they are, they're motivated by some deep-rooted fury. It must have taken an awful lot of effort to create the tableaux described in the newspaper. The murderer is either driven by a manic sense of revenge and hatred, or else they want to make a big point with the killings.'

'Showing off?'

'I guess so.'

'And your suggestion is that, either way, it doesn't look like they've finished the job just yet,' Pendragon concluded grimly, drinking down his coffee and pushing away the empty cup. He beckoned the waitress so he could get the bill, and started to rummage in his pocket.

'Let me,' Gemma said.

'Certainly not. You've been offering useful information to the police – definitely my shout!'

She laughed. 'Well, if you put it like that.' Then she paused for a second, clearly weighing up whether or not to say something.

'What?'

'How about I return the favour?'

Pendragon gave her a questioning look.

'I have two tickets to a concert – tonight, at the Barbican.'

Pendragon could not disguise his surprise. 'Well, yes…' he stumbled.

'Don't you want to know what's on first?' Gemma laughed.

'No… well, yes.'

'It's a theremin performance.'

'Oh… interesting.'

She gave him a sceptical look, tilting her head to one side.

'No, really,' Pendragon said quickly. 'I like all sorts of music. And the theremin is… unusual.'

Gemma clapped her hands together. 'I never know when to believe you,' she said. 'I quite like that. Okay, how does seven-thirty sound? I'll pick you up at your place if you give me the address?'

'Sounds good to me.'