Killing the Emperors

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘Banksy? That graffiti artist who stencils rats and monkeys onto buildings? How can you sell them?’

  ‘It’s complicated. Pringle sold Sarkovsky a seaside hut with a stencilled dangling man that was supposed to be a Banksy, but though Thorogood said he agreed with Pringle that it was the genuine article, other critics thought it was a fake and, anyway, it turned out to be a protected hut that couldn’t be removed from its location. Sarkovsky wanted his money back, but Pringle was dragging it out and trying to make him take payment in kind. Apparently, he was offering other less well-known graffiti artists, but Sarkovsky was having none of it. It was the big brand names or nothing for him. Allegra said Sarkovsky was very fierce and shouted a lot over the phone.

  ‘Then I talked to Thorogood’s girlfriend. She’s relatively new, but she remembered he’d been a bit shaken by some Russian threatening to have him shot. Obviously, Thorogood didn’t think he meant it, but he was a bit scared.’

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Milton.

  ‘No. I talked to Sir Henry Fortune’s PA as well. She said rather loftily that while he had never heard of Sarkovsky, Sir Henry was a very famous man who would have been known and respected by everyone in the art world.’

  Pooley looked at his watch. ‘I need to go. I’m on my way now to see Charlie Briggs’ sister and then Gavin Truss’ wife.’

  ‘And I’ve got a number for Marilyn Falucci Lamont’s next-of-kin. The AC’s out this afternoon but I’m to see him at six. Maybe by then we’ll have enough connections made to force the stubborn bastard to take Sarkovsky seriously.’

  ***

  It was Charlie Briggs’ sister Brenda, who’d been staying with him for a few days, who’d reported him missing. Pooley went to the Docklands penthouse to interview her.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ she said in a strong Yorkshire accent, as she ushered him towards a sofa. ‘It’s a bit depressing.’

  Pooley looked around curiously. The room had magnificent views across the Thames, but inside was cheerlessly minimalist. ‘It needed a woman’s touch,’ she said. ‘All Charlie did was buy whatever ’e were told to buy by whoever were ordering him round. You wouldn’t believe the rubbish ’e came home with. Look at that.’ She pointed at a canvas leaning against a wall.

  ‘May I look at it?’ asked Pooley and went over and turned it round.

  ‘That looks like a vandalised canvas to me,’ she said. ‘But having seen some of the stuff ’e’s paid a fortune for, it’s probably worth a bomb so I’d better not throw it out.’

  ‘It’s by a famous artist called Lucio Fantona, Ms Briggs, and I think it’s worth a few million.’

  ‘Not to me it isn’t. Bluddy rubbish.’ She sat down on a nearby sofa and he joined her. ’For fuck’s sake,’ she said, ‘what does our Charlie know about art? ’E’s only showing off because he thinks ’e has to. ’E don’t know nothin’ about culture. We never had no money and we wasn’t educated neither. ’E’s out of his depth, poor lamb.’

  ‘He’s been buying a lot of art, M. Briggs,’ said Pooley.

  ‘Stop this Ms. Briggs rubbish, will yah? I’m Bren. Brenda Briggs. Known to everyone as Bren. I’m the thick one. Charlie’s the brains.’

  She stopped and considered that statement. ‘Well, the brains when it comes to making money. Charlie’s a bit short of brains when it comes to spending it, if you ask me. Krug and girls and now stupid art by people who can’t draw or paint.’ She looked Pooley in the eyes. ’E’ll be OK, Charlie, won’t ’e?’

  ‘I very much hope so, Ms. Briggs.’ He caught her glare. ‘Sorry, Bren. But we need all the information we can get. I know nothing about your brother except that he makes a fortune in financial services and that he collects art. And, as I’ve explained, it’s the art that seems to be linking the people who’ve disappeared. Please tell me anything you know. What, for instance, was...is…Charlie like with money?’

  ‘I noticed that “was” turning into “is,”, Inspector Pooley. Or can I call you something ’uman?’

  ‘Ellis.’

  ‘Ellis? Never ’eard of Ellis. Sounds as posh as your accent.’

  Pooley, who had put long hours into trying to modify his Etonian vowels, winced. ‘It’s a family name from way back. Sort of religious. A bit Welsh.’

  ‘OK. Like Charlie’s named after Granddad. Now why did you say “was”?’

  ‘No reason. It’s just that we’re a bit frantic trying to find out what all these people were doing before they disappeared so I put them in the past tense. I think they’ve been kidnapped. I’ve no reason to think anything worse.’

  She put her head on one side, circled her thumbs around each other and said, ‘OK. I hope you mean that.

  ‘Now you asked about money, and I can see why, because we’d never ’ave thought Charlie would be rich. ’E were crap at everything at school apart from the maths, where ’e were brilliant, so ’e managed to get to uni. A first for our family.’

  ‘He sounds like one of those geniuses who set up Google or Facebook.’

  ‘You’ve got it. One of those…what do they call them these days? Sort of autistic lite?’

  ‘Aspergers?’

  ‘That’s it. Charlie weren’t too good at understanding people, but he certainly understood…’ She looked fearfully at Pooley. ‘Now you’ve got me talking about him like he were dead.’

  ‘It’s OK, Bren. We’re talking about his life before now.’

  ‘OK, Ellis. Charlie understood figures and then ’e understood computers and they and ’im were supposed to understand how the world worked. And the world were all about money, and Charlie did things on the computer and ’is firm turned them into money. And ’e got huge money. And ’uge bonuses. And then ’e were given a bit of the company and ’e made even more.’

  ‘What did he do with it?’

  ‘’E hadn’t no interest in money. ’E’d have given it all away. Our parents wouldn’t move, but ’e bought their council ’ouse for them and gave them as much as they’d take. Same with me. Bought me a nice ’ouse and my nail business and I’m doing fine. Me and my ’usband, we don’t want nothing more.

  ‘Charlie would have given most of it to charity but ’e had to do the flashy things that made the crazies ’e worked with respect him. Otherwise they’d have bullied ’im even more like they did when ’e was at school. It’s all big dick stuff in that world.’ She adopted a child’s voice: ‘“Yah, boo, sucks. I wasted more money than you did.”’

  From further questioning it emerged that Briggs had no steady girlfriend, few friends, and that left to himself his idea of relaxation was to play computer games. But being emotionally reliant on a few of his colleagues who were conspicuous consumers he went out with them for extravagant evenings with expensive girls. Not having any desire for fast cars or yachts or travel, buying art seemed to be the easiest and quickest way to placate his self-appointed advisers.

  ‘Did he know a Russian called Oleg Sarkovsky?’

  ‘Never heard of ’im.’

  ‘Or a favourite art dealer? Or did ’e go to auctions?’

  ‘There was someone advised him. What was his name? Jason summat.’

  ‘Pringle.’

  ‘That’s it. ’E said ’e were very learned. And I know they went to auctions, because Charlie said ’e enjoyed bidding. Said it gave ’im a buzz.’

  ‘Thank you, Bren. I was going to ask if I could send in a team to search the apartment for anything that might be useful, but seeing there’s so little here, if it’s OK with you I’ll do it myself now. Won’t take long.’

  ‘Anything that’ll help get Charlie back.’

  All that Pooley could find that was remotely of interest were a few sale catalogues from major London auction houses with scribbles on them. He said goodbye to Bren Briggs and took them away with him.

 
***

  Mrs. Gavin Truss was pretty, but dishevelled, weary, and depressed. Her toddlers were getting her down. In her chaotic house in Acton, with two small boys running wildly from room to room in screaming pursuit of each other, she explained that she hadn’t got alarmed until Friday morning, since Gavin often stayed out without telling her. ‘Why would anyone kidnap him? He’s probably gone off with someone for the weekend.’

  Then, in response to Pooley’s sympathetic but probing questioning, she burst into tears and said Truss was ’a serial shagger,’ she was his third wife, he was thirty-four years older than her, she’d been his awestruck student, and she’d been a moron to fall for him.

  She’d never heard of Sarkovsky, she’d known Fortune and Pringle vaguely from the days when Truss used to take her out, and she’d had a few dreary incomprehensible lectures from Hortense Wilde. ‘Stuck-up bitch,’ she said. ‘Always trashing everything I liked.’

  There were thudding sounds and roars from the next room. She ran out, separated the combatants, calmed them down, and switched on the cartoon channel for them. ‘Would you like coffee?’ she asked when she came back.

  ‘No thanks. I’m fine.’

  He could see her relief.

  ‘What did you think of your husband’s college, Mrs. Truss?’

  ‘I was a nineteen-year-old from Hartlepool and easily impressed in the beginning. Gavin spotted me and took me to exciting events and I was ever so flattered. But it was all pretty crappy, really, when I think back. They didn’t teach you anything except how to sneer at old art and drool over the new stuff. I was secretly relieved to drop out at the end of the first year when I fell pregnant with the twins. I thought it would be romantic to be with Gavin and our babies but it hasn’t turned out like that. We bore him, and I’m lonely.’

  She waved at the scribbles that defaced the lower section of the walls. ‘My boys are conceptual artists,’ she said. ‘I’ve named these Dying Very Very Slowly from a Loveless Marriage.’

  ***

  ‘I haven’t fully got to grips with Gavin Truss and Hortense Wilde, Jim, but I’ve see Mrs. Truss and talked to Gervase Wilde over the phone and neither has heard of Sarkovsky. Neither had Truss’ deputy. Truss and Wilde are old pals, though, and Wilde’s been a professor at Truss’ college for years. I read the lists of the missing out to them and it’s clear they knew several of them. I’ve ticked them off: here’s a copy.’

  ‘Thanks, Ellis,’ said Milton. ‘I didn’t do much better with finding out about the Lamont woman. Her daughter was cagey, and said she knew she was friends with Herblock but had no information at all about her London contacts. But then she added that considering Mom spent half her life gadding about Europe at art fairs and auctions, she probably knew anyone worth knowing. “It’s like the fashion world,” she said. “The same people turn up everywhere deciding what everyone else should think.” I don’t think she’s that fond of her mother.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to have another press conference now. You’d better get home. You’ve had hardly any sleep for days.’

  ‘Neither have you.’

  ‘True. But I can’t get away until I’ve seen the AC and you’ve got a wife who needs to see you.’

  ‘Mary Lou’s working tonight. I’ve an invitation to eat with Robert and Rachel. Will you call when you’ve seen the AC?’

  ‘Will do. Tell Robert I’m sure Jack’s all right.’ He picked up his jacket. ‘Why did I say that? I’m not, so don’t.’

  ***

  An hour later, as Milton was pleading with the AC to be allowed to put a surveillance team on to Sarkovsky, the baroness heard his voice: ‘You go out room now.’

  ‘Oh, good. I’m going home, am I?’

  ‘You think that you stupid. You meet others.’

  The baroness quashed a momentary dread that Sarkovsky might have kidnapped the staff of St. Martha’s or her close friends, and said nothing. She put on the jacket of her suit of heathery tweed over her grubby purple shirt and followed instructions, first, to wait in the bathroom, and second to leave it, put on the blindfold now waiting for her on her bed, then turn and face the inner wall. She tried to work out why—since she knew Sarkovsky was the kidnapper—it mattered to him that she didn’t see where she was going, but there seemed no logical explanation except that he wanted her further disorientated. The door opened, Sarkovsky barked an order, and a rather sweaty hand grasped her arm and the voice of her regular captor said, ‘Come with me.’

  She followed obediently, irritated that she had failed in her attempt to rig the blindfold so she could see something. She was in the open air, it was cold, and she was on rough ground. A door was opened, she was pushed through it, and the voice said, ‘Take it off in two minutes and walk down the stairs. There’s no way out here.’

  The lights were so bright when she took the blindfold off that she was initially completely disorientated. She blinked steadily until she was able to take in properly the bizarre grandeur that surrounded her. The curved staircase was carpeted in red, the walls were mirrored, and four enormous chandeliers dangled from the gilded ceiling. ‘Crikey,’ said the baroness, as she put her hand on the gilt balustrade and began the descent. At the bottom of the stairs there was a large, red door, which required so much strength to open that she had to hurl herself at it.

  The enormous room that was revealed was lined with large glass tanks and steel, glass-fronted cabinets. There was a noxious smell of rotten meat. To her right, beside the door, was a glass tank about fourteen feet long and six feet high. In one half was a rotting cow’s head and an electric insect killer; along with maggots, flies were feeding on the one and dying on the other. The other half contained a large white box from which flies emerged and found their way through holes in the partition.

  She walked down the centre of the room and saw that the cabinets lining the walls to the left contained an eclectic and gruesome array of objects that included pliers, an axe, saw, noose, club and spear, crucifixes, bandages, and rosaries—some of them spattered with what looked like blood. The same substance was spattered over the outside of the cabinet, and emanated a cloying smell which was only slightly less disgusting that that by the door. To the right were several identical large black canvases. She went over and inspected one of them and saw that the canvas had been blackened by tens of thousands of dead flies: the title was Cancer Chronicle (Smallpox).

  At the end of the room was the pièce de resistance, a huge perspex box containing five white plastic chairs surrounding a matching table with the remains of a meal on it. In the corner was a barbecue laden with meat. Everything was covered in live flies that entered via a small hole from the other part of the exhibit, where maggots were hatched, and perished on another fly killer.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ said the baroness. ‘I’m in hell with Damien Hirst.’

  She explored further. There were three locked doors—red, black, and violet—and a doorless kitchen scribbled over with graffiti and images mainly of rats. A white door led to a bathroom, on the far wall of which was a sketch of a complex piece of machinery, and a shelf on which were a small irregularly-shaped, gold-covered object and a tin. Closer scrutiny revealed that the sketch was called Cloaca and the curved object had a tag saying ‘Koh?’ The label on the tin was in four languages. The baroness passed on the French, German, and Italian and read the English text:

  ‘Artist’s Shit

  Contents 30 gr net

  Freshly preserved

  Produced and tinned

  in May 1961’

  She groaned and left the bathroom.

  Having searched high and low, the baroness had to admit to herself that there was no food, but there was champagne in the refrigerator and she found glasses in a cupboard. She opened a bottle, poured herself a generous amount, and returned to the main room and sat on one of the four large pink sofas
shaped like a woman’s lips. It was very uncomfortable.

  After a few minutes, there was a crashing sound at the door. When it opened, it revealed a plump, dishevelled middle-aged, bald man in a dinner jacket. The baroness stood up and crossed to him, holding her hand out. ‘Jack Troutbeck.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ He gave her a perfunctory handshake. ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘Search me. I don’t know why I’m here either. Who are you?’

  ‘I am Sir Henry Fortune, the international curator.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ She sat down again. ‘So you are!’

  He looked around him and blenched. ‘Is this a museum?’

  ‘I have no idea. I’ve been here only a few minutes.’

  ‘Disgusting smell.’ His tone implied it was her fault. ‘Is there anything to eat? I’m starving.’

  ‘’Fraid not. But there’s champagne.’

  ‘What good is that? I tell you I’m starving.’

  The baroness shrugged. ‘There are calories in wine. Do you want some or not?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  The baroness fetched two bottles from the kitchen along with a few glasses and put them on one of the two low tables that sat between the sofas. Both tables consisted of glass tops supported by the form of a woman. Each wore a basque and long black gloves: one was on her hands and knees; the other was on her back but had cunningly bent her body into a shape than supported the table on her bottom. The baroness had already named them Joleen and Trixie.

  Fortune poured himself a glass and sat down opposite her. ‘So who are you?’

  ‘I’m a member of the House of Lords and Mistress of St. Martha’s.’

  ‘Oh, my God. I know who you are. You’re that dreadful philistine.’

  ‘Do you think we know each other well enough to exchange insults yet, Sir Henry?’ she enquired icily. ‘I think I’d rather be in solitary, but I don’t suppose I have an option. Maybe we should make an effort to be civil.’ She got up, refilled her glass, and sat down again. ‘Have you been here long?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe a few days. I’ve been imprisoned in a nasty cell and I’ve had nothing to eat.’