The Art of Murder

Chapter 52

Brick Lane, Stepney, Thursday 29 January, 2.05 p.m. Pendragon sat in the swivel chair at the back of the darkened Media Room, the monitor casting a pallid blue haze all around. Apart from a scattering of red power lights, this was the only illumination. He sat back, resting his head against the back of the leather chair, and for a few moments ran through in his mind the first section of The Inner Mounting Flame, one of his favourite pieces of music.

An incongruous thought came to him. He was transported back twenty-six years into his rented flat in Oxford. He had graduated that summer. Now it was late autumn and he still had not decided what he was going to do with his life, but he had just suffered the greatest trauma he had yet known. He had discovered that Cheryl, his girlfriend of two years, had been sleeping with his best friend at college, Gareth.

It was 7 a.m. when Cheryl turned up at the flat they had shared. He had been up half the night waiting for her. He had opened the front door, saying nothing. When she tried to speak, he put a finger to his lips and pointed to a chair in the living-room. Then, with his mind in a numb, nowhere land, he had paced over to the record player, put on The Inner Mounting Flame, sat in another chair directly facing Cheryl, and insisted they both stay and sit and listen to the whole side of the LP. The moment the last notes died away, he had stood up, put the record in its sleeve and ignored Cheryl when she called his name. Still silent, he had walked into the bedroom, placed the record in his case of albums and picked up his two bags. Reappearing in the lounge with the sum of his possessions, he walked past her, through the door and out on to the pavement.

Now he sat up, lifted his head and saw the light from the blue monitor dominating the room. A single word had popped into his head – Eberswalde. Eberswalde… the town a few miles from Berlin. He had heard that name years ago. Yes, it was all coming back. Eberswalde… His uncle Sid had been a corporal in the 1st Armoured Division. He had been stationed in Germany in the late 1950s. Uncle Sid was always regaling Jack with stories from his halcyon days in the army. One of his favourites had been about the time he almost went AWOL because of a debauched weekend spent in the town of Eberswalde. There was never an army base in Eberswalde.

A cold chill ran down Pendragon's spine. He jumped up from the chair, yanked open the door of the Media Room and dashed into the hall. He strode towards his office. He could see it was empty and ran on to the Briefing Room. That too was empty. Retracing his steps, he went over to the main desk where Rosalind Mackleby was on duty. 'Sergeant, have you seen Turner?'

'Here, sir.'

Pendragon spun round to see Jez walking towards him munching a ham sandwich. 'Spot of late lunch,' he added, holding up the other half still in the packet.

'Turner… the film from the party at Berrick and Price? Can you get it – right now?'

'Sure. But…'

'Now!'

Pendragon was in one of the two chairs in front of the monitors in the Media Room staring anxiously at the machines when Turner came in with the DVD in his hand, his mouth crammed with bread and meat. He sat down and slid the disk into a slot in the front of one of the machines, on a rack perpendicular with the control desk. 'Give us a sec,' he said, and tapped at a couple of buttons. 'So, what's this about then, guv?' he asked, swivelling round to face the monitors.

'Take it to about ten minutes in,' Pendragon replied, grim-faced.

Turner touched the 'Fast-forward' button and the images on the monitor became a blur. He pushed 'Stop' then 'Play', and on the screen they could both see the gathering at the gallery over a week earlier, just before the first murder. The camera moved around the room.

'Go forward about sixty seconds.'

The sergeant depressed the control and the film rolled on, slower than the first time. When he pressed 'Stop' the picture froze, showing a small group of people talking. There were Kingsley Berrick and Noel Thursk, side-on to the camera. Between them, with her back to the camera, was Gemma Locke in her low-cut, black cocktail dress.

'Okay,' Pendragon said. 'Can you zoom in?'

'Yeah. Which bit of the picture?'

'Gemma Locke.'

Turner nudged a control and the image on the screen slowly expanded. He moved a toggle and the image shifted to the left as it grew bigger.

'Stop!' Pendragon said.

The entire screen was now taken up with the head and shoulders of Gemma Locke.

'Okay, Turner, nudge the film forward. She's starting to look to her left.' The film moved on a few frames at a time.

'Stop! Can you enhance that image?'

'Yes.'

A horizontal line shimmied down the screen and in its wake left a picture that was twice as clear as the original. Pendragon moved his face close to the monitor. He could just about see a dark mark on Gemma Locke's neck. 'Close in there,' he said, pointing to a spot on the screen. 'And can you make it any clearer?'

'I'll try.'

The picture shifted once more. The horizontal line again moved down the screen, leaving an enhanced still image of Gemma Locke's neck. In the centre of the image was a faint scar approximating a circle and a narrow vertical line of scar tissue leading downward. It was clearly the faint remnants of a tattoo removed by laser.

'That's the best I can…' Turner froze and then slowly looked round at Pendragon. 'Fucking hell!' he said.