The Art of Murder

Chapter 3

Brick Lane Police Station, Stepney Detective Chief Inspector Jack Pendragon had just switched on the coffee-maker on a counter at the back of his office when he heard a rap on the door. He could tell by the outline at the other side of the opaque window that it was his sergeant, Jez Turner. He turned back to fill the water container of the coffee machine, calling: 'Come in, Sergeant.' As he pushed a button the machine started its repertoire of sounds with a high-pitched whir followed by the crunch of beans being pulverised. Pendragon turned round to see an expression of excitement on Jez's face. 'Okay, what's the big news, Turner?'

The detective sergeant was twenty-three, tall and slim, with a taste for designer suits he managed to find at dramatically reduced prices and paid for by moonlighting as a DJ at a local club. Today he was wearing a dark blue, double-breasted Emporio Armani, a light blue shirt and a yellow tie held down with a slender gold tie-clip. With his hair greased back over his ears, his high cheekbones and large dark eyes, he looked like a 1920s gangster. 'Sir, just had a bell from the Emergency Call Centre. A murder just down the road in Durrell Place… an art gallery.

'Berrick and Price?'

'Dunno, guv.'

'Must be. It's the only gallery there,' Pendragon said half to himself. He grabbed his coat and scarf from a hook to the side of the office door and pushed past Turner into the hall.

There was a commotion at the front desk; a young man in a donkey jacket and calf-high Doc Martens was being restrained by the duty sergeant, Jimmy Thatcher. Another sergeant, Terry Vickers, was running towards them from a room down the hall. The young man tried to twist away from Thatcher, but the sergeant, a powerfully built cop who spent four evenings a week pumping weights at the local gym, was having none of it. As the restrained figure turned, Pendragon saw him head on. He had a web tattooed over his face, two blue spiders at each temple. The man was snarling and filling the air with expletives.

Vickers took only a second to reach them and yanked the man's right arm up hard behind his back, making him yell in fury. Between them, the two policemen dragged the tattooed man down the corridor towards the holding cells.

'Welcome to Wednesday morning,' Pendragon said to Jez as they sidestepped the two sergeants and their bundle of joy. The DCI's long face broke into a cynical smile.

As they went through the main doors to the station they were hit by a blast of freezing wind. 'Jesus fucking Christ!' Sergeant Turner exclaimed. Pendragon ignored him and gripped the collar of his coat tight about his face as he sped towards the nearest squad car. From behind them they heard the doors to the station swing open and close again and caught a glimpse of two other officers, Inspector Rob Grant and his sergeant, Rosalind Mackleby, taking the steps down towards the parking bays.

Pendragon jumped into the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition. A voice filled the car, reading a news bulletin on Radio Four. 'Weather conditions around the country have deteriorated dramatically overnight. Four inches of snow have fallen in some parts of the South East, and some of the worst of the weather has been in London after a blizzard swept over the capital in the early hours. The weather has caused serious disruption. All major airports have been shut down and…' Pendragon switched it off as Turner clicked in his seatbelt. The DCI reversed out of the spot and turned carefully in the snow. The wheels struggled to gain purchase, then he gently squeezed the accelerator.

Brick Lane had been transformed. Its usual drab greys and browns were smothered in white. 'Positively Dickensian,' Pendragon said to Turner with an edge of sarcasm. Cars with their headlights on and wipers snapping back and forth were moving as though in slow motion, and along the pavement marched figures bundled up in heavy overcoats and hats, hands in pockets, heads bowed to the wind. The falling snow was almost horizontal, carried through the air in powerful gusts.

Pendragon pulled the police car into a gap in the traffic and crawled along. They had the heater on 'Max' and the wipers cutting two semi-circular swathes across the windscreen. The car ahead stopped abruptly, red brake lights blazing in the driving snow. Pendragon put his foot to the floor, but the car just kept going. He turned the wheel and they slid sideways, finally stopping a few inches short of the kerb. The engine stalled. Pendragon pulled on the handbrake and turned the key. Nothing.

'Okay, let's go,' he said resignedly, and snapped the key from the ignition.

'Go where?'

'To the gallery, where else?'

It was only a short walk, but by the time they reached Durrell Place, Pendragon had lost sensation in his fingers and toes. He and Turner dashed into the entrance to the gallery just as Inspector Grant and Sergeant Mackleby's squad car pulled into the narrow lane behind them, sliding around in the powdery snow.

Pendragon stamped his feet and chunks of frozen slush fell on to the wooden floorboards. He opened his collar and looked up to see a pale young man, tall and wiry, clutching a leather bag over his left shoulder. He was sitting on a metal chair. Pendragon could see that his face was smeared with sweat in spite of the freezing cold. He was wearing a suit and an open-necked shirt. On the floor at his feet was a rolled-up overcoat. Beside the young man stood a woman: short, dark-haired. Probably in her mid-twenties, Pendragon thought, but she looked at least a decade older. East European features. She was dressed in cheap jeans and a drab brown coat that was far too flimsy for this weather. The man stood up.

'Detective Chief Inspector Pendragon.' The DCI nodded towards Jez. 'Sergeant Turner.'

The young man offered his hand. 'Tom Seymour.'

Pendragon turned to the woman. She was nervous, looking at the floor, raising her eyes but keeping her head down. 'Helena Lutsenko,' she said.

'So you made the call?' Pendragon asked, turning back to Tom Seymour.

He nodded. 'I was on my way to the tube station and this lady… Helena… stopped me and asked for help.' He wiped sweat from his forehead and blew air through his mouth. 'She… ah… led me here.'

'I'm cleaner,' Helena interrupted. 'I find dead man.'

'Okay,' Pendragon said, and glanced towards Turner to make sure he was taking notes. The sergeant had a pad and pencil in his hands and was writing quickly. 'Where's the body?'

Tom Seymour flicked a look towards the archway. 'Through there, in the main gallery.'

Pendragon turned to see Roz Mackleby and Rob Grant appear in the doorway. 'Ah,' he said. 'Sergeant Mackleby. I think these people need a cup of tea,' and nodded towards a door at the end of the corridor through which they could just see a rudimentary kitchen. 'Inspector Grant, come with us.'

The three policemen walked through into the reception area, ignoring the mammoth canvases and the expensive furnishings. Pendragon led the way under the second arch and into the main gallery. Surveying the far wall, he turned to his left and walked slowly across the wooden floor. A man was seated in a chair, hands in his lap. A pole had been placed behind his spine, keeping his dead body upright. He was wearing a black suit, white shirt and a red tie. On his head was a black bowler hat. Just under the rim could be seen a thin cord wrapped around the top of the head and tied to the pole. It kept his dead weight from falling forward. A hole seven inches in diameter had been cut into the man's face. The hole was the depth of the head. Where his eyes, nose and mouth had once been was now a cylinder of air. It looked as if a massive cannonball had passed through the corpse's face. Placed at the base of the void was a polished green apple.