The Art of Murder

Chapter 4

Pendragon turned away and saw that Turner was as pale as death and Grant was doing his best to keep his stomach from embarrassing him. 'All right,' he said, his own face expressionless, only his dark blue eyes showing emotion. 'I want the building sealed off. And I do not… Sergeant? Are you with us?'

Jez Turner was transfixed by the sight in front of him, his face a blend of confusion and creeping revulsion.

'Sergeant!' Pendragon waved a hand in front of Jez's face.

'Sorry. Sorry, guv. It's just…'

'Put a call through to the station, inform Superintendent Hughes. Get outside! I want the whole lane cordoned off. No one in, especially the press. I want the media kept out of this for as long as possible, understand?'

Turner nodded and headed for the exit. Pendragon glanced at Inspector Grant and ran a hand over his forehead and through his short salt-and-pepper hair. 'We need Forensics here on the double. Put a call through to Dr Newman. And get Sergeant Mackleby to escort Seymour and Lutsenko to the station. We need statements ASAP.'

Inspector Grant stared fixedly at Pendragon and then left without a word. The DCI watched him cross the room and was about to turn back to the macabre sight when he saw Dr Neil Jones, the police pathologist, turn the corner under the arch and walk straight towards him across the wooden floor. Jones was short, pot-bellied and bearded. He was dressed in green plastic overalls to protect his suit and carried a grey plastic case in one latex-gloved hand. When Pendragon had first met him six months earlier, soon after the DCI had moved to his current job at Brick Lane, he'd thought Jones bore a striking resemblance to Gimli the dwarf from The Lord of the Rings, though he had never mentioned it.

Jones nodded to Pendragon and moved the Chief Inspector gently to one side so he could take a good look at the disfigured corpse.

'My goodness,' he said, as though regarding the football scores in the Sunday paper. 'How very unusual.' He ran a latex-covered finger around the inside of the huge hole where most of the man's face had once been. 'Well, he's definitely dead, Pendragon,' Jones remarked without looking up.

Pendragon ignored him. He was used to the pathologist's unconventional sense of humour and knew the best reaction was no reaction at all, just let the man get on with his job.

'I suggest you leave us two alone to get acquainted,' Jones added, nodding towards the corpse. Pendragon got the message and walked away towards the reception area. As he emerged from the gallery, he saw Inspector Grant trying to restrain a tall black man in an ankle-length oyster-coloured cashmere overcoat who was attempting to enter the reception area from the hall. 'Look, officer, it's my gallery, for Christ's sake!' the newcomer was saying. His voice was refined, educated. He towered over Grant by at least six inches.

'Inspector,' Pendragon said. Grant turned and, seeing his boss's expression, let the man pass. The DCI took a step towards the tall black man. 'I'm Detective Chief Inspector Pendragon. You're the gallery owner?'

The man stood rigid before Pendragon, searching his face intently. 'Jackson Price,' he said. 'I'm co-owner with Kingsley Berrick. What the hell's going on here?'

'Would you like to take a seat, sir?'

'No. Why?'

'I'm afraid there's some rather bad…'

'What's happened?' Price moved forward and, before Pendragon could stop him, passed under the arch and into the gallery.

'Sir. If you would…' Price was now three steps into the room and staring at the horrific sight close to the far wall. Then he simply sank to his knees, buried his head in his hands and started to rock to and fro.