His phone rang. ‘Yes, yes, yes. I’ll call the Home Secretary now.’
Chapter Twelve
Pringle and Fortune had neither siblings nor living parents and with the media in full cry, a swift identification was necessary, so rather than put Allegra through it, Pooley sent for Thomas, the porter from Pringle’s apartment block. ‘It’s not that I mind dead bodies,’ he said as Pooley escorted him to the morgue. ‘What with being in the St. John’s Ambulance and all that I’m well used to it. But I don’t like my routine being disturbed.’
‘It won’t take long, I promise. We’ll have you back at work very soon.’
The sheets were whipped off and Thomas gazed with interest at what was revealed. ‘It’s Mr. Pringle and Sir Henry all right,’ he said, ‘but I never saw them wearing make-up before. Or wigs. Or gold suits. Or sitting on each other’s laps.’
Being a man who liked to follow a thought all the way through, he added, ‘Or dead, for that matter.’
***
‘There’s no evidence of any prisoners anywhere on his properties, Ellis. His domestic staff think he’s still abroad. He was always very secretive about his arrangements. The warrant for his arrest has just come through so I’ve put out a press statement saying we urgently want him to help with our enquiries and that all information on his whereabouts would be welcome. That stupid bastard Pilsworth. We’re too damn late with this.’ Milton ran his hands through his hair.
‘I didn’t have time to tell you earlier, Jim, but we’ve got another lead. Robert and Rachel and Mary Lou were together last night and while talking everything over, Robert remembered a throw-away line of Jack’s about Sarkovsky employing Albanians. Apparently he and Jack were talking about the characteristics of various peoples of the old Soviet Union and Sarkovsky said Ukrainian security guards were so useless he’d replaced his with Albanians. And that reminded Mary Lou that in some recent rant of Jack’s she’d speculated on how long it would be before the art establishment would embrace snuff performance art. Her example was an Albanian sticking a screwdriver through his victim’s cranium. I’ve checked this out and apparently it’s their signature form of murder.’
‘And?’
‘And yes, Special Branch are chasing their Albanian contacts as we speak. And they’re liaising with the security services too and will have the surveillance underway asap.’
Milton sighed the relieved sigh of a man who never failed to appreciate his luck in having a colleague he could rely on. From bitter experience he had developed the theory that in any institutional hierarchy you were doing well if two out of three in the line of command were competent. Just once in his career both his immediate superior and subordinate had been excellent at their jobs.
It was a halcyon period when no time was wasted on trying to motivate the lazy, clear up after others’ mistakes or—as now with AC Pilsworth —wheedle the blindly stubborn into doing the obvious. Pending trays were cleared and moribund cases reopened. He had time for a life outside work and his marriage flourished. In his self-pitying moments, he could measure the later slow decline in his relationship with Ann by remembering a series of colleagues whose general uselessness caused him to have to work early and late.
‘Thanks, Ellis. Call me when the pathologist is ready for us.’
***
‘I rang Mike as per your instructions,’ said Mary Lou, ‘and I told him everything Ellis has told me about what the Yard are doing.’
‘Well done. I know how difficult this is for you.’
‘I never thought I’d end up playing Mata-bloody-Hari to my own husband. But I know I’ve no choice.’
‘What did Mike say?’
‘That Myles is back, that they’re all working flat out and that if they get any kind of decent lead they’ll be ready to move. I hope that means what it sounds as if it means.’
‘I’d have more faith in the effectiveness of Myles and his superannuated comrades than in the pride of the armed wing of Scotland Yard these days. Between the press and the human rights lawyers, the poor bastards are terrified of making a mistake.’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Mary Lou. ‘I’ve a day of ghastly meetings and the phone will be silent, but it’ll be on and I’ll keep checking for texts. What are you going to do?’
‘For now, I suppose I’ll keep reading the fucking papers and hoping for a miracle.’
***
‘This is a weird one,’ said the pathologist. ‘Not that the others weren’t weird too. They were smothered and then put into position on a slab until rigor mortis set in and they could be moved. It must have been hard work to keep them from slumping over during the first few hours.’
‘I think our murderer probably isn’t short of help,’ said Pooley.
‘And there’s a really peculiar thing about them. There are traces of paint on the thin one’s penis and the fat one’s stomach. I can’t think of a rational explanation for that unless it’s a sexual perversion. But from my cursory look, they haven’t been having sex.’ He paused and thought. ‘Well, penetrative sex.’ He shook his head. ‘Sometimes I think it’s time for me to retire, Ellis. It was bad enough when it was ferrets up the bum and then when strangling yourself for kicks became all the rage, but every week there seems to some new sexual perversion. This is a young man’s game.’ He shook his head gloomily. ‘What’s been going on here anyway? Who are they supposed to be?’
‘It’s a pastiche of Jeff Koons’ sculpture of Michael Jackson and his chimpanzee Bubbles,’ said Pooley. ‘The original was made out of porcelain. These two were intimate friends, and the thin one used to call the fat one Bubbles.’
‘Blimey, Ellis. You’ve got a right one there and no mistake. Murderers aren’t usually so imaginative. Any guesses as to what he’s likely to do next? Or where?’
As Pooley shook his head, the pathologist laughed. ‘Do you know what all this reminds me of? Those painted elephants that were all over London a couple of years ago. There were hundreds of those. It’s a good thing for you this guy only kidnapped ten.’
***
News of the Koons hommage caused an uproar in the European and American press. While the general public didn’t much care about art, they loved imaginative murders and the connection with Michael Jackson was a gift for the chroniclers of celebrity as well as the culture brigade. Amiss tried to keep his brain from exploding by reading obituaries of Hortense Wilde, which mostly listed impenetrable titles of obviously dreadful essays buried in journals no normal person had ever heard of. Almost all had been written by her cultural tribe.
Hortense was agreed to have been a cutting edge influence in 1973 in achieving acclaim for radical artist Mary Kelly when she displayed her son’s dirty nappies in the London Institute of Contemporary Arts. For this, she had been ridiculed by reactionaries. There were those, however, who felt that much more important was the erudition as a cultural analyst that she had brought to the demolition of false gods who had been worshipped just because they could paint. Without theory, as she had explained to generations of students, there could be no understanding of art. Indeed, nothing qualified as a work of art unless it could be interpreted as such by esteemed cultural commentators.
Accused of helping foment hostility towards cultural achievement, Hortense had countered that since art was a cultural construct, no one could measure cultural achievement unless it was firmly rooted in cultural theory and had cognisance of it. Among those wrongly thought to have been persons of some cultural achievement, it turned out, were pretty well every male artist who had ever painted a woman (sexist), or anything foreign (colonialist). Indeed any Western male artist who had ever painted anything was off bounds, owing to being a masculinist, and if they made any money, a capitalist. Hortense Wilde, thought Amiss, was clearly even more of a pill than he had realised, since what was bad she automatically called good and
what was good she called bad. But that didn’t mean she deserved to be murdered.
Having wrung all they could out of relatives and friends of Throrogood and Hortense, broadcasters were in seventh heaven at having those of Fortune and Pringle to go after. Having concluded quickly that voices from the art establishment lamenting the deaths of luminaries and the wickedness of subverting art to murder were becoming a bit old hat, they went after Thomas, the porter, as well as Allegra and Serafina, who were still doggedly running the Pringle gallery. Having been besieged by the press for some days, the women had become veterans. Together they fashioned a few sound bites mourning the loss to them and to art of their wonderful boss and his inspirational partner and delivered them soulfully on request to microphone and cameras and down telephones.
‘Don’t you wish we could say what we really thought of them, Ally?’ asked Serafina of Allegra.
‘It’d get us a global reputation in no time, Fina, but I guess it’d put us in the shit in the job market. Tell you what, let’s just get through today, and tonight we’ll buy some fizz and go to my place and get completely hammered.’
***
Fortune’s heir was Pringle and Pringle was Fortune’s, which initially made it difficult to get permission to investigate their finances, but they turned out to share an accountant who, after Pooley’s strong-arming, decided to be helpful. ‘Fortune’s affairs were pretty straightforward,’ he said. ‘He had a substantial income, generous expenses and earned quite a bit on the side. It was different with Pringle. He made some very lucrative deals in the second half of the noughties, but invested most of his profits in shares that have dropped way down since then. The gallery’s ticking over, but only just. Then there was a big sale recently that’s ended up with his lawyers. He got the money, spent it, and then couldn’t deliver what he’d sold. You’ll need to talk to his lawyers to get more information.’
‘I don’t think it matters for now to find out any more about the victims, sir,’ said Milton to the assistant commissioner. ‘We can, I think, guarantee that they have all annoyed Sarkovsky one way or another. May I suggest that we concentrate resources on finding him?’
***
‘Robert. It’s Myles.’
‘Thank God you’re back.’
‘Hope to Christ I’m not too late. Now, there’s bad news. Mike’s followed up the tip about the Albanians and it’s not good, I’m afraid. The cops will get nowhere with the Zekas. They’re very very bad people.’
‘Who the hell are the Zekas?’
‘Albanian über-thugs. They’ve been providing security for Sarkovsky for some time. If he’s keeping these people hostage and killing them, the Zekas are right for the job.’
Amiss despairingly leaned his head on his hands and inadvertently his elbow on Plutarch’s tail. The result, as he complained later to Rachel, was the transformation of his desk into Armageddon. It was a testimony to his concern for the baroness that he barely noticed the upended desk-lamp, the water spewing from the knocked-over glass, and the hundreds of pages of typescript kicked into confusion on the floor. ‘Sorry, Myles. I was interrupted. Tell me more.’
‘They’re a dreadful family, even by Albanian standards. Albanians don’t do gangs. If they did, we might get somewhere taking out the main guy and turning over the others. But they do families. They’re not like the Mafia. They don’t do godfathers. They’re more democratic. And they don’t talk or betray each other. To neutralise them we’d have to take them all out. Except for the women and children. But frankly, they’re such a big family, we wouldn’t know where to start.’
Amiss’ liberal conscience suggested protesting. He killed it. ‘Why are they so dreadful?’
‘Robert, in London, the Albanian thugs are the worst. As an Albanian friend remarked to me, it’s that the competition is so weak. Well, when you consider that in London we’ve got Triads, Somalis, Islamists, IRA throwbacks, and dozens of others groups of reprobates, that means trouble. Among Albanian gangsters, the Zekas are the tops.’
‘And not at market gardening, I assume.’
‘No. More at torture and murder to order.’
Amiss tried to keep his voice steady. ‘So what’s the strategy?’
‘We know who they are. We know where some of them live. We’re keeping an eye to see who might turn up at their mothers’. But we also know they’re randy, drunken, and girl-traffickers, so that gives us another line of enquiry.’
***
‘Why both of them, Big Brother?’
‘You say two together. Anyway, I plan execute together.’
‘Because…?
‘Because they cheats and liars and homosexualists and frauds and bastards and Pringle dirty Jew.’
‘Did they get a lot of money off you?’ asked the baroness, trying to sound as if the conversation were normal.
‘Not beeg money. It same conspiracy with Thorogood about Banksy. They think they can make Oleg Sarkovsky appeer stupid. But Pringle do bad things with Briggs additionally.’
‘Like what?’
‘Bidding when I bidding so I pay too beeg money. Dirty crook bastard Pringle secret talking with people and getting commissions.’
‘Briggs wasn’t trying to cheat you, though.’
‘He plot with Pringle. He laugh behind my back. I say you, nobody make Oleg Sarkovsky appeeer stupid man.’
‘What about Anastasia?’
‘Pringle try trick me about her. He say me she next beeg one, but she crap rubbish con trick.’
‘She’s just a girl trying to earn a living, surely. She wasn’t trying to trick you.’
‘Hah! She same all this crap rubbish artists. They all trying cheat rich people. She example, same like Pringle for dealers, Fortune for curators, and stupid bitch whore Wilde for art history person.’
‘And Truss?’
‘You say me all crap begeeen with teacher. He teach students all crap good enough. He example of big rubbish teacher. All trick people.’
The baroness thought of capitalising on his unusual loquacity by asking what she had done to deserve a sentence of execution, but she knew the answer already. ‘So what did you do with Henry and Jason?’
He sniggered the snigger that so grated now on the baroness that she had to exert all her will-power not to flinch. ‘Joke execute. Clever. I curate. Hommage Jeff Koons Jackson and Bubbles.’
‘That wasn’t my idea,’ said the baroness.
‘No. My idea. I clever man. Now, you got idea make me laugh today or maybe I execute all now.’
***
‘For today’s game,’ said the baroness, ‘we are to divide up into three teams and sculpt each other.’
‘But we can’t sculpt,’ said Pringle.
‘This is indeed true,’ said the baroness. ‘For a group of people with a keen interest in art—and many of whom make a good living out of it—we are singularly short of any ability to produce anything I would call art, even if many of you might say otherwise. However, nonetheless, Big Brother wants us to have a go.’
‘Are we to sculpt the head or whole body?’ asked Briggs.
‘The whole body.’ She paused.
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Anastasia. ‘In the nuddy.’
‘Oh, no. Not again. I won’t do it,’ said Marilyn. ‘Not again.’
‘Food?’ said the baroness. ‘If just one of us doesn’t obey, there’ll be no food.’
‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘There are worse things than going hungry.’
‘Or drink.’
She wilted. ‘Oh, all right. In what medium are we to sculpt?’
‘Play-Doh.’
‘What is Play-Doh?’ asked Chester Herblock.
‘It’s squidgy stuff kids use to make shapes with,’ said Anastasia. ‘It’s good because it’s ea
sy to clear up afterwards. I’ve often helped my little sister make things with it.’
‘Indignity piled upon indignity,’ said Herblock. ‘I need a drink.’
‘So do we all,’ said the baroness. ‘Get a few bottles out, Charlie.’
Naked, they clustered around the vast bucket and each plucked out one of the balls of pastel and began moulding it.
‘What size are these sculptures supposed to be?’ asked Truss. ‘We’d need a few tons of it to do life-size.’
‘The idea is to do miniatures,’ said the baroness. ‘But Big Brother wants us to do the full body.’
‘Don’t know that that’s possible,’ said Marilyn. ‘The weight of the head will squash the body unless it’s fat.’
‘So it would work for me,’ said the baroness, ‘but not for you. Let’s think laterally, though. We can make the bits separately and put them together lying on their backs on the floor.’
Anastasia was generous with advice, and the group soon got the knack of squeezing the compound into shape and began to develop a sense of achievement. Watching her work on a likeness of the baroness’ head, they managed with their own tasks to make a shot even at eyes, noses, and mouths. From time to time, someone refilled glasses, and, gradually, there was even the occasional drunken giggle. Briggs made a commendable attempt with long yellow slivers of dough to give his bust of Anastasia long blonde locks. The baroness attempted to adorn Truss’ face with a halo of black curls. After a couple of hours, they had six reasonably complete small pink corpses stretched out on the floor. Remarking that they might be able to flog the results when they got out, the baroness licensed everyone to wash and dress.
Killing the Emperors Page 18
