The Art of Murder

Chapter 32

London, Monday 26 January, evening The theremin concert was held in one of the smaller halls of the Barbican. It was sold out. Pendragon had been secretly sceptical before the event, but after a few minutes he found himself enjoying it. He had heard of the theremin, though he knew very little about it. He remembered reading once that it was the only instrument played without any physical contact being made between the musician and the instrument itself. Instead, the performer moved their hands close to a pair of antennae, which modulated both sound and volume. But, not wishing to seem ignorant, he had done his homework in a spare five minutes at the station, reading what Wikipedia had to say about the instrument – how it had been a spin-off from a Russian government-funded experiment into proximity sensors. The instrument had become quite popular in the 1930s then fallen out of fashion, though Robert Moog, inventor of the synthesiser, had attributed his youthful fascination with the theremin as a key influence on his own innovation.

Tonight's theremin player was the leading proponent of the art, a French woman named Francoise Guillaume. It helped that she was strikingly beautiful with long blonde locks and what was obviously, even from eight rows back, a magnificent figure. But the repertoire was also brilliantly eclectic – versions of Mozart, Grieg, Miles Davis and Jimi Hendrix, which were all perfectly recognisable but cleverly altered.

Leaving the theatre, Jack said nothing. He waited for Gemma to break the silence, but she seemed to be lost in thought, only turning to him when he suggested a drink at a little wine bar he knew on Beech Street. Outside, it was freezing and they pulled their collars up against the biting wind and strode through the car park and on to the main road. The wine bar was busy, but they found a quiet corner away from the theatre crowds where they could at least hear each other speak.

'So, what did you think, Jack?'

'I have to confess, before it began I was sceptical, but I really enjoyed it.'

'Good. It's healthy to push yourself outside your comfort zone occasionally.'

Pendragon nodded and took a sip of his wine. 'When you get to my age, it's all too easy to play it safe.'

'Listen to you! "When you get to my age"! You're what? Early forties?'

'Yes, Gemma,' he mocked.

She looked at him, serious-faced.

'Actually, it'll be my birthday in a few days. I'll be forty-seven… God!'

'Well, you look very well preserved.'

He smiled and inclined his head in thanks.

'As an artist, I'm all for people staying young – mentally, anyway.'

'You live for art, body and soul, don't you, Gemma?'

She looked a little surprised, but admitted, 'Well, yes, I do.' She drank some wine and added, 'Quite simply, it's the most important thing in the world.'

'I once knew a painter,' Pendragon said. 'An old girlfriend actually… at Oxford. She said to me that if she could choose between a Titian or the invention of the wheel, she would pick the Titian.'

Gemma sipped her wine and placed the glass back on the table. 'I'm right there with your old girlfriend on that,' she said. 'No question. The thing is, the wheel provides the world with a practical advance, but the Titian feeds the soul.'

'Fair enough, but if you can't eat, you can't appreciate art. And if the wheel had not been invented, we wouldn't have got far as a race, now would we?'

'So what? It's a chicken and egg situation with technology. Humans invent the wheel and so civilisation evolves. Life becomes more comfortable. Then more people come into the world needing food and transport. And so on it goes. Art is above all that.'

Pendragon looked at her thoughtfully and swirled the wine in his glass.

'It's all about Truth-seeking,' she went on. 'Whatever form of art we're talking about, it only has value if the creator is trying to represent Truth. Ninety-nine per cent of what's created is worthless because it is not honest, it's just entertainment. Think of all the horrible pop songs you hear, with their fake sincerity and ersatz emotion. Art isn't about painting cute kittens, nor is it about romantic stories in which the heroine is swept off her feet by a tall, dark stranger who treats her mean. None of that is Truth. Titian is Truth. Dylan is Truth. Dostoyevsky is Truth.'

'All right,' Jack responded. 'But what about the ego of the artist? There's always that to consider, is there not? There must always be that element of the individual putting themselves into what they create.'

'Naturally, Jack. We're talking about human beings. Artists are rarely anything else!'

He laughed. 'Fair enough. But there's a thornier problem. Truth can't be pure because the way it is perceived by the artist or the creator is not necessarily faithfully represented by them, is it? Theirs may be a distorted vision of the Truth. Which means that, sometimes, the end result is pretentious rubbish, no matter how honest the artist is being.'

'Sure,' Gemma agreed. 'But that's because of the other imperative of the artist.'

He gave her a puzzled look.

'The need to innovate. An artist has to seek Truth, but also represent it in a new way.'

'Which is what the Surrealists were doing, for instance?'

'What all real artists have done, down through the ages.'

'Yes, but I was thinking specifically about the case I'm working on now and the artists who have been imitated.' And he caught himself gazing into space. 'I'm sorry.' He shook his head. 'Talking shop… thinking out loud.'

Gemma smiled. 'I think we need more wine.' And she held up her empty glass.