Jack Pendragon - 02 - Borgia Ring

by Michael White

  Hughes sat with her fingers pressed against her chin. ‘No one in the frame?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Pam Ketteridge?’

  ‘You seem to be fixated on the woman,’ Pendragon replied coldly. ‘She’s a slightly demented housewife. I don’t really think she could have battered Amal Karim to death.’

  ‘But she could have poisoned the latest victims. She was right there at the scene for the murder of Tony Ketteridge. No alibi. And if she knew about her husband’s affair with the prostitute, she would have a motive.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, but there’s absolutely no evidence. And what about Karim? There has to be a link between the three murders …’

  There was a knock at the door then and a young constable appeared in the doorway. ‘Sorry, ma’am. I saw DCI Pendragon come in just now. There’s a fax for him, marked urgent.’ He took a few paces into the room and handed two sheets of fax paper to the DCI.

  ‘What is it?’ Hughes asked Pendragon as the constable closed the door.

  ‘The tox report for Ketteridge. An almost exact copy of the one for Middleton.’ He handed it to her.

  ‘Same four components: arsenic, cantharidin, abric acid, and oleander,’ she said. ‘Have you found out anything more about them?’

  ‘That’s one area that has opened up. At least a little. Dr Jones tells me cantharidin can be found easily on the internet even though it is legislated against. This afternoon I had a breakthrough with the arsenic. A one-hundred-gram bottle of arsenic trioxide was taken from a boutique glass-maker less than a mile from here. Enough poison to kill hundreds.’

  ‘It was never reported?’

  ‘Yes, to the local station, Limehouse.’

  ‘Could the thief be an employee? The owner?’

  ‘It’s possible, although the owner himself was out of the country when the theft happened. Turner’s checking it out. There was a bit of a cover-up at the glass foundry. The owner’s pretty obnoxious and not very popular with the staff. They closed ranks, said nothing about the break-in to protect the son of the receptionist, a young lad who works in the storeroom.’

  ‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really. If you’d met the characters involved, you’d see it makes perfect sense. The owner, Gregson, thinks he’s really something. The kid who would have been blamed, and no doubt sacked, is … vulnerable.’

  ‘Vulnerable?’

  ‘Mildly autistic, I think. Has an extremely bad stutter.’ As the words left Pendragon’s lips, he thought of his own son, Simon. How his incredible mathematical talents were counterbalanced by an inability to communicate easily with people.

  ‘All right. It may be worth Turner looking a little deeper into this glass company. Then we’re down to the other two chemicals in the poison, oleander and abric acid. You said in your report that these both came from exotic plants. You’ve obviously checked Kew?’

  ‘After we learned what killed Middleton. Turner’s been on to the people there – nothing. He’s also called Chelsea Physic Garden, and our local botanic garden, Queen’s Park. They all say nothing like that has gone missing. Although, to be honest, ma’am, it doesn’t help us much. It wouldn’t be too hard for someone to slip in and steal a few leaves or seeds. Jones tells me the poison needs only tiny amounts of those substances.’

  ‘And you’ve been to the Plant Biology Department at Queen Mary, of course?’

  Pendragon gave her a puzzled look.

  ‘You haven’t?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware …’

  ‘Well, now you are, Inspector,’ Hughes retorted coolly. Pendragon got up to go. As he reached the door, the Super announced: ‘You have forty-eight hours to get a result, DCI Pendragon. Then I’m taking you off the case.’

  Jack Pendragon felt numb as he left the station and began the short drive to his flat off Stepney Way. What bad luck, he mused, to be in a new job less than a week and be slapped with such a complex and intractable case. It started to rain as he parked. In the time it took for him to run from the car to the front door of the house, it had really begun to pelt down. He was about to take the stairs when he thought better of it.

  ‘Well, hello, stranger,’ Sue Latimer said, opening her door wide and beckoning him in.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so elusive,’ he replied. ‘It’s been … well …’

  She waved her hand. ‘Don’t worry. You’re here now. Fancy a glass of wine?’

  ‘I’d love one.’

  He walked inside her flat, peeling off his wet jacket and sat down on the sofa. Sue came over and handed him a glass of red.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  ‘So, how’s it going?’

  Pendragon sighed. ‘Not great, actually. Sue, the other evening, you were telling me about something you called transference. The idea that the murderer needs the ring. But then I had to dash off.’

  ‘Another murder?’

  ‘Yes. The MO was identical. But forensics can find nothing.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘You’re asking that as if you already know the answer.’

  ‘Trust me … I’m a psychologist.’

  Pendragon laughed and took a sip of wine. Then he said, ‘Sue, I have two requests.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Would you be willing to spare half an hour to come into the station to talk to the team – tell us your ideas about transference? That way, I can get the all-clear to let you have access to information about the investigation that lies outside the public domain – you’ll have an official role.’

  She looked surprised. ‘Well, okay. It’s not really my area of expertise, but …’

  ‘You sound to me like you know what you’re talking about. Besides, I thought I had to trust you.’

  ‘Touché. Okay, I’ll do whatever I can to help. And the second thing?’

  ‘Will you have dinner with me on Saturday night?’

  Stepney, Thursday 9 June, 9.05 p.m.

  Max Rainer closed the document he had been working on and logged out of the network. Standing up from his desk, he paced to the other side of the office where a tan leather four-seater sofa stood against the wall. Picking up his laptop from the sofa, he slipped it into a sleek, neoprene pouch and zipped it up. Taking one final glance around the office, he flicked off the lights then closed and locked the door.

  It was silent in the reception area. Along the corridor, three other smaller offices stood in darkness. The reception desk was empty. In the pale light, the words ‘Rainer and Partner’ could be seen on the wall behind the counter. Each letter was a foot tall and made from artfully distressed metal streaked randomly in fifty shades of iron oxide.

  The terrazzo floor echoed to the click of his heels as Rainer crossed reception and passed through a pair of large smoked-glass doors. Opposite the dimly lit lobby, a single flight of stairs led to the ground floor. He turned to lock the doors and felt a sharp pain at the base of his skull. The pain seemed to shimmer over the top of his head and down his spine. He was vaguely aware of a shape behind him, reflected in the glass door. He stumbled forward. Smashed his head hard against the doors and collapsed to the floor.

  Stepney, Friday 10 June, 8.45 a.m.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Hannah James exclaimed. ‘What the fuck do you want?’

  Jez Turner lowered his police ID. ‘Just a quick chat, Hannah.’

  ‘You do ’ave a warrant, I take it?’

  ‘What for? I said a chat. Of course, if you’d prefer to come down to the station …’

  ‘Okay, okay. Fuck! We are a little early bird, ain’t we? Bet you’re all nicely tucked up in bed by nine with a glass of milk.’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’ Turner grinned. ‘So, you going to let me in or do you want to chat here on the doorstep?’

  Number sixteen Mitchell Lane was a crumbling, detached Victorian building that had been converted into half a dozen tatty flats. Hannah James’s was at the back of the house, on the ground floor.
It was just a clutch of rooms off a dark hallway. She led Sergeant Turner through to the lounge. He caught a glimpse of a tiny kitchen, sink filled with dirty plates and saucepans, bin overflowing with McDonald’s cartons and Coke bottles. Next to that, the door to the bedroom stood open. A mirror hung over one end of the bed; a bedside table had a lamp with a red shade. One wall was plastered with pictures from hard-core porn mags, and on a rail hung a collection of frilly translucent garments in red and black. The air was heavy with the stink of cigarettes and bodily fluids. Hannah kicked shut the door as she passed.

  The lounge had an old TV in one corner. On the far wall there was a fireplace boarded up with slats of pine. A two-bar electric heater had been built into the panels, slightly off-centre, the thin plywood cut ineptly around it. On the mantelpiece stood a collection of cheap plaster animals: unicorns, puppies, an Ewok from Star Wars, and a set of Russian dolls descending in size from left to right. Above the mantelpiece hung a painting of a brown-skinned woman, naked but for skimpy leopardskin bikini bottoms. She lay along a branch, exotic ferns brushing her skin. She had huge brown eyes and ridiculously long lashes. It was the sort of painting you could pick up for two quid at the weekend market on Mile End Road, Jez thought, and about on a par with the photo of the tennis player scratching her arse. Surveying the room, he wondered what Hannah would have thought of Sophie Templer’s place, only a couple of miles away but light years distant in every other respect.

  Hannah threw herself into an old armchair with stuffing spilling from a gash along the top of one of the armrests. ‘You’re here because of Tony, of course.’ Hannah lit a cigarette and blew a plume of smoke into the stuffy room.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why do you think I can help?’

  ‘Because you knew him well. You had been “seeing each other” for a something like a year, he told us.’

  ‘Why do you say it like that?’ Hannah asked, fixing Jez with pale blue eyes.

  ‘Like what?’ he said.

  ‘With such contempt. I really liked Tony. He was a fuckin’ idiot, of course. Christ knows what he was doing here twice a week. But then I’ve known a few like him, but not so long-lasting … if you see what I mean.’

  For the first time, the sergeant studied her properly. She was twenty-three, maybe twenty-four, he thought, and pale to the point of looking ill. Her black hair had little sheen to it, and in the harsh morning light, with no make-up on, she looked really rough. Her skin was greasy from the fast food, Coke and fags, not to mention other stuff she was probably smoking or injecting. She was wearing a hideous beige needlecord dressing gown, frayed at the sleeves and stained. Not at all her usual attire when men came a-calling, he speculated.

  ‘Do you know if Tony was into anything he shouldn’t have been into?’

  ‘What? Apart from me, you mean … Sergeant?’

  Turner could tell there was pain behind her bravura. Hannah was genuinely cut up by what had happened to Tony, but she couldn’t admit it. ‘He was poisoned with arsenic,’ the sergeant said. ‘Did you know that?’

  She said nothing, but held his gaze.

  ‘A very painful death, apparently.’

  ‘You fucker!’ Hannah exclaimed, lighting another cigarette from the dying embers of the last one. ‘As I said, I really liked Tony. Yes, he was a fat, middle-aged dreamer, but he loved me. At least, he told me he did. He certainly didn’t love that fuckin’ lump of lard!’

  ‘Pam Ketteridge?’

  ‘Who else? The lovely Pam. No clit apparently. At least that’s what Tony told me.’

  Turner was shaking his head and grinning. ‘So,’ he said after a moment, ‘did he promise to take you away from all this?’

  ‘Of course,’ Hannah said, her voice rising angrily. ‘At least twice a night. As I said, a fuckin’ idiot.’

  ‘Hannah,’ Jez said, and waited for her to stop staring at the ceiling and meet his eye, ‘you could help us find Tony’s killer, you know?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. We think he was involved in the other murders.’

  ‘Tony was a teddy bear, Sergeant Turner. He couldn’t have killed anyone.’

  ‘I’m not saying he did. I said, involved. That CCTV footage of him close to the time Amal Karim was killed … it seems a bit of a coincidence he was coming to see you then.’

  ‘Why? Do you think he could just pop out for a quickie straight after his fish and chips?’

  ‘Two in the morning, though. It’s an odd time, Hannah.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re driving at. Whatever happened last Friday, it won’t tell you who killed Tony, will it?’

  ‘It might.’

  She stared at him for several seconds then started to consider the ceiling again. A tear ran down her cheek and dripped on to the floor. She wiped it away and looked at him. ‘He wasn’t here. I made it up. Tony begged me to. Said it was life or death.’ She laughed bitterly then and drew deeply on her cigarette.

  ‘Did he say what “life and death” meant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he say where he really was?’

  ‘NO!’ Hannah snubbed out her cigarette and stood up. The dressing gown fell open to reveal a long cotton night-dress covered with kittens and baby rabbits. She quickly pulled the robe back into place and tied the belt. ‘I want you to go now,’ she said, her voice suddenly brittle. At the door, she added, ‘I s’pose you’ll be doing me for falsifying my statement, wasting police time, the whole fuckin’ works, right?’

  Jez gave her a compassionate look. ‘Right now, we have bigger fish to fry, Hannah. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.’

  Stepney, Friday 10 June, 10.00 a.m.

  ‘This is Dr Sue Latimer,’ Pendragon told the team before introducing each of them in turn. ‘Sue is a psychology lecturer at Queen Mary. I’ve asked her in today because she has some ideas about criminal motivation that might help our thinking.’ He waved to her to take over and sat down on the edge of a desk.

  ‘The subject came up when I was talking to Jack … er, DCI Pendragon … about the idea of transference,’ she began. ‘I was describing it in the abstract really, but now that I’ve seen the case notes for this series of murders, I realise it may well be of relevance to the investigation.’ She looked at the faces of the people gathered in the briefing room. The whole team was there, including the Super.

  ‘Criminal transference is the idea that someone commits murder using some totemistic object …’

  ‘Sorry, Dr Latimer, could we have that in English, please?’ Inspector Towers interrupted.

  Sue smiled and looked at the floor for a second. ‘By “totemistic”, I mean that the killer places some special significance on an object. It might be anything, but it is directly related to the means by which they commit the crime. In the case of these recent homicides, the latest two have practically identical MOs. All three murders appear to be linked to Bridgeport Construction, and all have happened since the ancient skeleton was unearthed on the construction site.’

  ‘So you’re saying the skeleton is the totemistic object?’ Grant said.

  ‘Not the skeleton itself, the ring that was originally on its hand and has since vanished.’

  Grant raised his eyebrows and looked across at Pendragon. ‘But how can a ring be a murder weapon? Besides, Middleton and Ketteridge were poisoned.’

  Sue was unruffled by this scepticism. ‘I would suggest the poison is in the ring.’ A stunned silence fell over the room at this. ‘In fact, a ring is a perfect totem. It’s a personal object, a thing that is kept close to the body. But, most importantly, rings usually possess some form of emotional resonance. They are used in many rituals to “seal the deal” – just think of a wedding ring.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Towers commented, ‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me again. The ring that was originally on the skeleton was presumably at least as old as the skeleton itself. But you’re saying that somebody today, living and working somewhere near here, is using that an
cient ring to poison people? It sounds … well … far-fetched to say the least.’

  ‘I think it’s the best model we have to work on,’ announced Superintendent Hughes from the back of the room. All of them except Pendragon turned towards her. ‘It gives us a murder weapon, of sorts. It links in with the unearthing of the skeleton, and it’s at least a step along the road to a motive. It also suggests why Karim’s murder doesn’t fit the pattern of the later two homicides. It can’t be pure coincidence that he was killed the night the skeleton was unearthed. And if Dr Latimer’s theory is correct, then his murder at least was unplanned. He simply got in the way of our killer acquiring the ring.’

  ‘But how could our contemporary murderer first of all know about the ring being discovered and then so quickly learn what to do with it – acquire four poisons, the works?’ Turner asked. ‘Isn’t that too much of a coincidence?’

  ‘I can’t answer your question,’ Sue responded. ‘There’s not enough information as yet. I have no idea what the psychological connection between the ring and the murderer might be. I can, though, offer clues to the sort of mind that would be susceptible to criminal transference.’

  ‘Please do,’ Hughes told her.

  ‘The killer could be male or female. Indeed, women are more likely to be drawn to totems …’

  ‘But if our killer is a woman, how could she have overpowered Karim and bashed his skull in?’ Mackleby interrupted.

  ‘I’m just generalising,’ Sue responded. ‘Obviously, each situation has to be judged separately. It’s conceivable Karim was killed by a male accomplice, but I think that’s extremely unlikely. Totemistic murder is a very personal matter. Two people never share a totem. The only way the accomplice scenario could play out is if a woman, for the sake of argument, used a man to kill Karim but went on to commit the two poisonings herself.’

  ‘I think we’re getting off the point here,’ Hughes said. ‘Doctor, could you go back to your profile?’