Hickle nodded. ‘Yes. Is that a crime now?’
Pendragon looked at Turner. ‘Sergeant. You’ve done a lot of the leg-work. Perhaps you would like to continue the story.’
Turner cleared his throat, looked down at the information in front of him, intertwined his fingers over the papers and looked Hickle straight in the eye. ‘Your family have been strict Catholics since your great-grandfather’s time, and through the Church you met the local priest, one Father Michael O’Leary. Now, Father O’Leary is a … sorry, was … a very strange character. A priest, who was interested in little boys … Nothing very unusual there. But he also liked his recreational drugs. Somehow, and we haven’t worked this out yet, he became very fond of cocaine. And cocaine, as you would know, Dr Hickle, is expensive. So, to finance his habit, our friend Michael O’Leary did a little dealing on the quiet. And when he met you … well, it was a marriage made in Heaven. If you’ll excuse the pun.’
‘Look,’ Hickle said, turning from the sergeant to Pendragon, ‘okay, I put my hands up for the crimes I committed … What? Almost twenty years ago? Press charges … ruin me if that gives you a kick. But it won’t bring Chrissy back, and it won’t find you your killer.’
Pendragon looked down at the file. ‘Dr Hickle, this is the situation. You knew all the victims. You must have discovered that Noel Thursk was writing a book about your old girlfriend, Juliette. You were concerned … no, very concerned, and justifiably so, that Thursk would destroy your medical career. It then occurred to you that there were others who knew all about your past and that they would back up Thursk’s sordid little story. But the piece of information that really nails it is this.’ And he passed a sheet of paper across the table to Hickle. ‘As a man of science, you’ll know what this is and you’ll be able to interpret it.’
‘It’s a DNA analysis.’
‘Correct. More precisely, it’s a DNA analysis of hairs found on some machinery used to create your murder-scene tableaux. The DNA comes from Juliette Kinnear.’
‘What?’
‘Your old girlfriend, Juliette Kinnear.’
‘But she died a very long time ago.’ Hickle looked utterly lost, and for a second both Pendragon and Turner felt a twinge of uncertainty.
‘But you were together for two years, were you not? A long time in which to acquire hair. What was it? Did she cut her hair on a whim and you preserved a clipping? Or did you swap locks as a romantic gesture?’
Hickle’s face was grey. ‘This is insane,’ he managed to say. ‘What sort of crazy story is this?’
‘Do you deny knowing O’Leary?’
‘No.’
‘Do you deny knowing Berrick and Thursk?’
‘No.’
‘Do you deny having a relationship with Juliette Kinnear? Do you deny selling drugs to the artists you knew in the nineties? Do you deny being terrified by the prospect of Noel Thursk’s book?’
‘No … No … Yes!’
‘Oh, come on, Geoff. Or should I call you Jerome?’
‘Look, okay. I knew those people. But I had no idea this Noel Thursk guy was writing a book. And as for Juliette … it’s absurd. Yes, we dated for a while, but … DNA, hair … oh, come on, Inspector.’ Then, suddenly, Hickle seemed to bring his emotions under control again. ‘You have nothing on me. This is all circumstantial.’ He glared at Pendragon, studiously ignoring Turner.
Pendragon took a deep breath and looked at the papers in front of him. ‘You’re absolutely right, Dr Hickle. But it’s enough to force you to give prints and agree to a DNA swab. And it’s enough to keep you in custody while we find irrefutable evidence that you have killed four innocent people. Then we will most definitely have something on you.’
Chapter 44
‘Jack, it sounds to me as though you’re just dashing from one idea to another.’ Superintendent Hughes was staring at him from behind her spotless desk. In front of her on the polished walnut top was a pad of paper positioned squarely with a black Mont Blanc pen placed precisely in the middle of the top edge of the pad. Her hands were clasped and resting on the desk.
Pendragon protested, ‘I don’t think that’s entirely fair.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
Hughes folded her arms across her chest. ‘Okay. So, what do we have? A dead girl’s DNA planted as a decoy. A doctor who, over fifteen years ago, knew the victims and earned some pin money dealing ecstasy and cocaine.’
‘He cannot prove where he was at the time of any of the murders.’
‘Not enough, Jack.’
Pendragon stared off towards the blinds drawn over the window and the row of perfectly manicured cactus plants on the sill.
‘Dr Geoff Hickle might once have been a student with a dodgy business plan, but he’s now a stalwart member of the community,’ Hughes went on. ‘He is on two government advisory boards that I know of, chairs a very important charity, and he’s an internationally recognised burns specialist.’
‘All the more reason he would want to protect his reputation. He’s worked hard to get where he is. How could he face losing it all if the truth about his past got out?’
‘But you have no evidence.’
‘I know.’ Pendragon looked straight into his boss’s eyes. ‘Give me twelve hours and I’ll have it. We’ll nail the man.’
Hughes was shaking her head. ‘I can’t do it.’
Pendragon ran a hand over his forehead and looked up at the ceiling. ‘We need to keep him in overnight. We can do that, surely?’
‘He’ll lawyer up and be out of here within an hour, no matter what we say or do,’ Hughes replied. ‘No, I’m sorry. Get me some real evidence and I’ll move Heaven and Earth to help. But not until then.’
‘Look, guv,’ Turner said, meeting Pendragon’s furious gaze. ‘You can bang your head against the wall if you like, but all you’ll get is a sore head.’
‘Is that another example of your home-grown wisdom, Turner? Something your mum told you?’
The sergeant fell silent and looked away.
‘I’m sorry,’ Pendragon said quietly. ‘That was uncalled for.’
‘It’s all right, sir.’
They were in Pendragon’s office with the door closed. It was 9.15. The night shift had started two hours earlier and for the moment the station was relatively quiet. The troublemakers who would be in later were busy getting drunk in local pubs.
‘At the risk of being snapped at again, it might be an idea to get some shut-eye, sir. I dunno about you, but I’m sick of the bloody sight of this place.’ Turner sighed. ‘The teams have drawn a complete blank trying to find any links between the friends and acquaintances of the victims. I know Jimmy alone has interviewed fourteen of Chrissy Chapman’s buddies.’
‘What about the units Sammy found?’
‘Jimmy’s getting on to those tomorrow.’
Pendragon sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘Yes, you’re probably right, Sergeant. I think I should have a change of scene.’ He stood up and they both saw Superintendent Hughes leading Dr Hickle past the office door along the corridor towards the main desk. He did not notice the two policemen watching him. ‘Turner, I want someone outside that man’s house all night. You take the first shift. I’ll arrange for Vickers to relieve you in two hours.’
It took three rings before Pendragon surfaced from a deep sleep, and even then a couple of moments passed before he realised what the sound was. He reached for his mobile lying on the bedside cabinet and squinted at the number, noted the time — 2.02 a.m. — and opened the cover.
‘Grant,’ he said wearily. ‘What’s happened?’
‘The nutter’s struck again. We’re on our way to the scene, a warehouse off Commercial Road.’ Pendragon could hear the sound of rain and the beating of the squad-car wipers, then the tick of an indicator.
‘Whereabouts exactly?’
‘Thyme Street. There’s a small industrial estate there. It’s a warehouse Number 415b.’
‘I’m on my wa
y.’
Pendragon was out in under three minutes and pulling away from the kerb. The snow had vanished to be replaced by sleety rain. The pavements were clear, but soaked. It was a moonless night lit only by neon, and as he pulled away towards the end of his street he had a sudden stab of deja vu. It was a similar call that had initiated him into the Brick Lane team just over six months earlier. He had just arrived from Oxford and was staying in a hotel for a couple of nights. The morning he was due to start work he had received a call from Inspector Grant at 3.05 a.m. telling him he was on his way to a crime scene on Mile End Road. It had been a rude awakening: a murdered labourer had been pushed through an air vent and crashed through the ceiling of an underground illegal dance club. That had been the start of a particularly intense investigation involving a cross-dressing psycho-killer and the discovery of a mysterious and ancient ring that had once belonged to Lucrezia Borgia.
Pendragon turned left and put his foot down hard on the accelerator. Just after two on a Wednesday morning, the streets were just about as quiet as they would ever be. He jumped the lights and turned left into New Road, pushing the accelerator to the floor. He slowed to turn into Commercial Road and then sped up again. Six minutes after leaving his flat, Pendragon was pulling into the industrial estate. He raced through a pair of opened gates, slowed, then pulled over to check the list of addresses on a huge metal sign. Turning back to the road, he saw an ambulance career around the next bend towards him. Its lights were flashing and the driver was just starting up the siren. Pendragon paused to let the ambulance pass. It churned up a deep puddle of murky water that splashed as high as the nearside windows of the squad car. Pendragon shot away again. A uniformed officer flagged him down as he approached the flashing blue lights of two police cars and a motorcycle parked outside a warehouse on the left.
The uniform held the car door open as Pendragon got out. A shutter door was positioned in the centre of the front wall of the warehouse, and displayed beside this, in artful chrome, was the number of the building. Inside, the large open space was lit by bright fluorescent strips hanging from a high ceiling. It took the DCI a second for his eyes to adjust, and then he saw Turner pacing towards him.
‘That was quick, guv.’
‘What’s the situation? I just saw an ambulance.’
‘Yeah, I think we might have saved this one.’
‘What?’ Pendragon stared past his sergeant at the scene in the warehouse. The front half was empty, nothing more visible than a painted concrete floor with a few pieces of newspaper blowing around it. Filling the back half were dozens of columns of wooden crates. They were stacked five high and in two groups, to right and left of the warehouse. A passage about three metres wide ran between them. Pendragon could hear voices coming from behind the crates and someone had set up a powerful floodlight creating shadows that played across the ceiling.
Turner led the way. ‘We got a call about one-forty. A woman on her mobile. She’s over there. Name’s Vanessa French. She was hysterical, saying that her boyfriend, Gary Townsend, was being tortured. I got here first with Thatcher and Mackleby and saw Ms French outside the building. She was a complete mess … trying to keep quiet, but falling apart. Mackleby stayed with her and Jim and I went in. We could hear this horrible whimpering. We got to about here,’ … and Turner pointed to the floor. ‘… I heard this scrambling sound.’ We rushed forward. I caught a glimpse of someone in a protective plastic suit. You know, like the ones they use in bio-labs. We saw the vic on the floor. He was spread-eagled, tied down with ropes. I ran after the geezer in the suit.’
‘I assume you didn’t get a better look at him?’
‘No, guv. They obviously knew their way around the place, had an escape route planned. A door at the back was open when I reached it, but no sign of anyone.’
They had reached the other side of the crates. It was a space about three metres square. In the middle of the floor there were four metal rings in the concrete. Lengths of cut rope were tied around these. There was a puddle of liquid at one end of the arrangement. Around the edge of the liquid, the concrete had started to dissolve. The puddle had been cordoned off with police tape. To one side stood two plastic barrels. Pendragon noted the stickers reading ‘Corrosive’ on one of them. Two uniforms stood to the right of the scene with Jimmy Thatcher and Inspector Rob Grant. To the left stood two spindly wooden chairs. Sergeant Roz Mackleby was in one, a young woman wrapped in an ambulance blanket was seated in the other.
Pendragon’s mind automatically flashed back to the scene on Stepney Green six days earlier: Sergeant Mackleby comforting another woman in the back of an ambulance while close by a hideously mutilated body hung in a tree.
Jack walked over to the two women. ‘Ms French, I’m DCI Pendragon.’
Vanessa French looked up, meeting his gaze. She was in her mid-twenties. Clearly undernourished, but pretty. Her shoulder-length hair hung loose. Her make-up was smudged and tear-streaked. She had a strong, intelligent face.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘DCI Pendragon, I really want to be with Gary right now.’
‘I understand. But the medics will do everything they can for him and we can take you straight to the hospital from here.’
She looked at the concrete and then back at Pendragon. ‘Okay. I’ve tried to describe what happened already. I imagine you would like to ask me to again.’
Pendragon found a faint comforting smile from somewhere. ‘If you’ll indulge me.’
‘Where do I start? At the point where I crumpled into hysterical tears or before that?’
Pendragon said nothing, just waved a hand in front of her as if to say, You decide.
‘God! I feel so utterly bloody useless … I should have stopped them.’
‘No. You did the right thing.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I thought Gary — that’s my boyfriend, Gary Townsend — was having an affair. He’s been going out late at night recently. He’s Arts Editor for the Daily Telegraph — and, yes, I know getting out and about is par for the course in his job, but I was growing suspicious. So I followed him here.’ She looked slightly embarrassed for a moment. ‘Anyway, I got here about one-thirty, I suppose. The shutters were closed, but the side door was unlocked. I crept in. I could hear some weird sounds coming from around here at the back of the warehouse.
‘I made my way between the boxes and hid just over there.’ She pointed to the spot. ‘And then I saw it.’ She gasped suddenly and put a hand to her mouth. Mackleby leaned forward, but Vanessa French pushed her hand away gently.
‘I’m okay,’ she said and took a deep breath. ‘Gary was bound, tied down. It was shadowy. I couldn’t see properly. There was a figure in some sort of plastic suit and visor. He leaned forward with a plastic container, opened the top and peered down at Gary. Gary started to struggle. He was gagged, but I could hear him trying to shout, trying to scream. It was horrible.’ She paused again then shook herself, trying physically to dispel the terror. ‘The figure in the suit started talking, but his voice was distorted — like those voices you get on songs sometimes — do you know what I mean?’
Pendragon glanced at Mackleby, but she was concentrating her gaze on Vanessa French and did not see him.
‘He said something like, “Now, my Edvard Munch …”’ Then he just poured the contents of the plastic container all over Gary’s face.’
Vanessa stopped and looked appealingly at Pendragon, then she pressed her hands to her face and dragged them slowly down her cheeks. Pendragon felt a cold chill run along his spine.
‘Gary … Gary screamed. He screamed and he screamed.’ Vanessa took a couple of very deep breaths. ‘I was frozen to the spot … literally. I know it sounds like something out of a bad detective novel, but I did. I felt the world fall apart around me. I felt sick. Then … I ran.’
She stopped again and Pendragon searched her face. She was trying valiantly to keep control of her emotions.
‘I got outside. I threw up. I was crying. My
eyes were streaming — it must have been the fumes … Oh God!’ She gasped and brought both hands to her mouth. ‘Imagine … just imagine what Gary must have ….’
There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of a camera shutter. Pendragon glanced round and saw that the police photographer had arrived.
‘That’s when I called you …’
‘Thank you, Vanessa,’ Pendragon said, and leaned forward to take her hand. She jerked a little as he touched her, then looked up from the concrete to stare into his eyes again.
‘Please get the fucking bastard, Inspector,’ she hissed, and withdrew her hand.
‘So you saw nothing on your shift outside Hickle’s flat?’ Pendragon said as he and Turner jumped into the car.
‘No, nothing. Vickers rocked up about midnight. About an hour later we got the call to come here. I phoned Vickers on my way to the warehouse. He reckoned no one had left Hickle’s building.’
Pendragon negotiated the narrow road past the industrial units and out onto the main street. ‘Hickle could have slipped out,’ he said.
‘It’s possible I suppose, but not likely.’
‘Well, then, if Hickle is involved he must have an accomplice.’
‘Unless the guy is completely innocent, guv,’ Turner said.
Chapter 45
To Mrs Sonia Thomson
17 October 1888
‘So it was you!’ Archibald exclaimed, his face pale as winter snow.
‘It very much looks like it, old fellow,’ I replied, throwing the bag containing my materials on to the bed.
‘You killed those women.’ He stared at me like a wax figure, so shocked, his eyes expressed no emotion. Just the corner of his mouth twitched. A nervous tic, I assumed. I had never seen Archibald nervous or even worried, not even during those dramatic times in the opium dens. He was always level-headed, self-confident.
‘So now you know, Archibald,’ I said quietly; and suddenly, he was rushing towards me, his fists balled.
As you know, he was a chunky fellow and strong. But he was at least fifteen years my senior and all that good living was hardly to his advantage. He threw a punch that went wildly awry. I extended my foot and he tripped, landing heavily on the floor close to the dining table where I had recently written my letters and planned my masterpiece. In an instant, I was on him. One hard punch to the back of his neck and Archibald was out cold.
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