Body and Soul

by John Harvey

More applause.

  Elder made his way towards the other end of the gallery and turned into the foot of the L.

  A single canvas, bigger than the rest, hung spotlit on the far wall. At the centre, Katherine stood naked, her body twisted sharply at the waist; hands raised high above her head, her wrists tightly manacled, chains holding her arms aloft.

  Elder was finding it difficult to breathe.

  Kate’s face staring down at him, the pain alive in her eyes.

  He knew that look; recognised that pain.

  Turning quickly away, he pushed himself through the centre of the crowd.

  ‘Anthony Winter?’

  The artist was surrounded by a dozen or more people, women in their little black dresses, men with their sharp suits and beards.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The painting round the corner. In the spotlight. The girl in chains.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That’s my daughter, you sick fuck!’

  Winter glanced anxiously over his shoulder. Elder punched him in the solar plexus and then, when he doubled forward, punched him in the face, hard enough almost to break his nose.

  Blood spurted freely. Men shouted and women screamed. The security men muscled their way through the crowd. The camera flashes from a dozen or more mobile phones.

  Winter was crouching forward on his knees, one hand to his face, blood leaking between his fingers to the floor.

  Elder moved in to hit him again but hands hauled him roughly back and propelled him, feet scarcely touching the ground, towards the door and out on to the street. Off balance, a well-judged elbow struck him in the temple and he fell headlong. Two precise kicks in the ribs and he rolled into the gutter, the final swing of a boot opening a gash down one side of his face.

  ‘More’n your twenty pounds’ worth there,’ the young doorman said and laughed.

  Elder levered himself awkwardly to his feet and stumbled across to the other side of the road.

  Less than forty-five minutes later he was at Paddington station, waiting to board the sleeper train to Penzance. His ribs were sore and, despite the painkillers he’d taken, his face throbbed beneath the plaster on his cheek.

  He would have had difficulty, at that moment, remembering the last time he had felt quite as good.

  2

  15

  Hadley woke in the dark. The sound of Rachel’s breathing; a sliver of street light through the curtains; the cat curled in the space between their legs. Six, a little after. It had been late when they’d got back, the roads at that hour close to empty till they were inside the M25. It had been Rachel’s turn to drive, Hadley dozing fitfully alongside, blinking at the occasional oncoming headlight; the radio playing music, as the announcer said, long into the night.

  It had been a weekend away with friends, mates of Rachel’s from university, sand and shingle, the best part of two spring days on the Suffolk coast.

  ‘Stay till tomorrow, why don’t you? Leave after breakfast, first thing.’

  ‘Work, I’m afraid,’ Hadley had said. ‘Early start.’

  ‘And besides,’ Rachel added, ‘there’s the cat. Leave her too long, she’ll wander off.’

  ‘That cat of yours,’ the friend said with a laugh, ‘child substitute, you do realise that?’

  Yes, well, Hadley thought, we tried that, the child thing, didn’t work out. Sensing movement, the cat jumped down to the floor and began to purr.

  How was it, Hadley thought, marooned behind the wheel of the car halfway along Hornsey Lane, some mornings it seemed to take as long to travel the few miles from Crouch End to Kentish Town as it did to drive all the way back from Southwold? A major disadvantage of the part of London where they lived – and there were others – being the paucity of public transport. Though that, at least, had the effect of keeping property prices just the right side of affordable. Affordable now that Rachel had swallowed her principles sufficiently to start taking on private clients outside her work with the NHS.

  Seizing the opportunity, Hadley cut round a four-by-four delivering a child to school, accelerated through the lights and turned left past the church and down the hill.

  Dwindling resources and yet another reorganisation had already closed several police stations in the area and, according to all available rumours, Holmes Road’s days were numbered. But for now it was still home to one of the Met’s Major Investigation Teams, one of four in the north-west, and Hadley’s to command.

  The last incident they’d dealt with had been a multiple stabbing, the result of an argument that had started at the school gates and escalated rapidly, ending up outside Argos on the Holloway Road. One youth seriously wounded, another pronounced dead on arrival at hospital. More witnesses than you could shake a stick at, most of them unwilling to talk. Those that did, some of them, only too keen to lay blame in the wrong places. Settle old scores. Eventually, five arrests were made, charges ranging from possession of an offensive weapon in a public place up to and including murder. The case was still to come to trial.

  Since then it had been oddly quiet, two of the team being temporarily seconded to burglary, one transferred permanently south of the river, a fourth quitting to retrain as a paramedic.

  Hadley riffled through the latest batch of Home Office directives, initialling where necessary. Chris Phillips, recently promoted to detective sergeant, had been first in as usual: direct line, lucky bastard, from Walthamstow and then a brisk walk from Gospel Oak.

  The call came at 8.37, one of the officers in the Homicide Assessment Team, Brian O’Connor, Hadley recognised the voice. MIT presence required. A matter of minutes away, local. Phillips drove. The scene was already cordoned off, the building itself and the area immediately surrounding. Hadley ducked under the tape as the HAT officer approached.

  ‘Ma’am.’

  Hadley nodded acknowledgement. ‘Brian, what’ve we got?’

  The body lay in the middle of what was obviously an artist’s studio, curled on its side; severe damage to one side of the face and the back of the head. The floorboards close around were stained with what could be paint, could be blood. The woman who’d found him and contacted the police had identified him as Anthony Winter: even allowing for his injuries, verifiable by a quick search on Google.

  ‘Medical examiner’s on his way,’ O’Connor said. ‘Stuck in traffic.’

  ‘SOCO?’

  ‘Likewise.’

  Hadley shook her head. ‘Anything interesting meanwhile?’

  ‘Like a murder weapon, you mean?’

  ‘Something like that would be nice, yes. Acceptable.’

  O’Connor grinned. ‘Pair of old-fashioned rigid handcuffs – real collectors’ item – manacles, I suppose you might call ’em, kind they used to shackle those poor bastards they shipped off to Botany Bay. Over in the far corner, chain attached. Like they’d been hurled there. Might be what you’re after.’

  ‘Chris,’ Hadley said, ‘take a look.’

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘Whoever it was,’ O’Connor said, turning back towards the body, ‘went at him with a vengeance and no mistake.’

  The blood had long clotted, the wounds deep and thickly scabbed, darkening at the edges. Twenty-four hours? Hadley wondered. More? She nodded in the direction of the woman sitting off to one side, the other HAT officer finishing taking a provisional statement. ‘Friend? Relative?’

  ‘Some kind of business associate. Johnson. Rebecca Johnson.’

  ‘I’ll talk to her when your colleague’s through.’

  Chris Phillips was back at her shoulder. ‘SOCOs’re here, boss.’

  ‘The words fine, tooth and comb come to mind.’

  ‘Understood.’

  The Italian café set back from the main road was open for breakfast. They sat at one of the tables outside, their conversation less likely to be overheard. They’d been there a while, coffees starting to grow cold.

  Rebecca Johnson, Hadley thought, was in her early forties, around the same age as
herself. But whereas after several years of trying to hold it at bay, she’d decided to hell with it and allowed the encroaching grey to show through, Johnson had a full head of dark hair, nicely shaped and cut and, doubtless, dyed. Everything about her, save for the redness of her eyes where she’d been crying, the mascara rubbed away and not yet replaced, suggested smart, fashionable, businesslike.

  ‘So, just to be clear,’ Hadley said, ‘your relationship with Winter? You’re his agent, is that the term?’

  ‘Consultant might be more accurate.’

  ‘You advised him where to show his work, helped arrange the sale of his paintings, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’d been doing this for how long?’

  ‘For Anthony? Three, almost four years.’

  ‘You knew him well, then?’

  ‘Professionally, yes.’

  ‘And otherwise?’

  ‘Anthony?’ Something showed in her eyes, difficult to read. ‘Perhaps I knew him as well as most people, I don’t know.’

  ‘He was private, then? A private person, is that what you’d say?’

  ‘Yes, I …’ She stopped abruptly, face angled away.

  Hadley waited, happy for now to let things take their own time.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just … talking about him like this, when’s he only just … It’s hard.’

  ‘Of course. We can stop, take a break. Maybe you could come into the station this afternoon?’

  ‘No, no. It’s … it’s fine.’

  ‘Another coffee perhaps?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘I think I will if you don’t mind.’ She signalled to the waiter, hovering by the door.

  ‘The thing to understand about Anthony,’ Johnson said, ‘the most important thing in his life was the work. It’s what he did, what he …’ She shook her head. ‘I was about to say, what he lived for.’

  ‘So, no relationships? Significant others?’

  ‘He was married, a long time ago. Two children? I’m really not sure. I don’t think there was much contact between them, if any.’

  ‘And more recently?’

  Johnson moved her head a little to one side, non-committal. ‘I think there were relationships from time to time, but as far as I know, nothing long-lasting or particularly serious. Not since I’ve known him, anyway.’

  ‘And sexually, again as far as you know, he was …’

  ‘He wasn’t gay, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

  Hadley reined in a smile. ‘I didn’t think I was.’

  ‘There’s this assumption, isn’t there?’

  ‘Which assumption’s that?’

  ‘Artists, being gay.’

  ‘They say the same about police officers,’ Hadley said, straight-faced. ‘Female ones, that is. And I’m sorry if it seemed I was reaching for the stereotype. It’s just that sometimes it helps to get these thing clear from the off.’

  ‘Well,’ Johnson said, ‘if only they were. Clear, I mean.’ She smiled. ‘I think I’ll have that coffee now.’

  Hadley sat back and sipped her espresso. A small covey of students went past on their way to the girls’ school: headscarves, headphones, rucksacks, skirts trailing the ground.

  ‘I’d just like to recap,’ Hadley said, flipping through her notebook. ‘The reason you came round this morning, to the studio, you were concerned because you hadn’t heard from Winter in a couple of days?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘And that was unusual?’

  Johnson nodded. ‘The one thing Anthony was good at, even if he’d shut himself away, working on something he felt wouldn’t come right, he’d always get back to me by the end of the day. Now especially, with the show opening, buyers interested, collectors. It’s one of those times we’d keep closely in touch.’

  ‘And, to be more precise, the last time you’d heard from him was when?’

  ‘That would have been Friday. Friday afternoon. I wanted to make sure he was okay. After, you know, the incident I told you about at the gallery. The private view, the day before. I’d been with him at A & E that evening. What an experience that was! But Anthony, they patched him up, took some X-rays – there was some concern his nose might have been broken. I don’t suppose we left there until, oh, half past two in the morning. Maybe later. Three.’

  ‘And from there he went home?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘You didn’t feel the need to go with him?’

  ‘No. I mean, I offered, of course, but he assured me he’d be fine. I ordered a taxi for him – for both of us – we live in opposite directions. Made sure he got into it okay and that was that.’

  ‘His house … flat, I think you said …’

  ‘It’s in Camden. Well, Chalk Farm really. Not so far from the studio. Walkable. Thirty minutes or so. A little more. He did it most days. Thinking time, that’s what he called it.’

  The waiter arrived with Johnson’s cappuccino; looked questioningly at Hadley, who shook her head. Caffeine enough for one morning already.

  ‘The incident, as you called it, in the gallery …’

  ‘Extraordinary. I’ve never known anything like it.’

  ‘The man who attacked Winter …’

  ‘Drunk, I imagine.’

  ‘He was shouting something, you said.’

  ‘Something about his daughter. And one of the paintings. I didn’t hear it all clearly. Apart from anything else, it all happened so fast.’

  ‘This was one particular painting?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘And the daughter? She was involved how?’

  ‘I assume she was the model. I can’t think what else …’

  ‘Is there any chance I can see it? The painting?’

  Johnson took her iPad from her bag. Found a connection, clicked on to the image and swivelled the screen.

  Hadley looked closely. The face. The pose. The girl’s hands cuffed together, arms stretched awkwardly high above her head. Pain in her eyes.

  ‘And that’s the daughter?’ Hadley said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know her name?’

  ‘Katherine, I think. I’m pretty sure. Katherine what, I don’t know.’

  Hadley looked closer. The heavy manacles around the girl’s wrists, perhaps not surprisingly, looked very much like the ones that had been found on the studio floor. For a moment, she had a vision of the chain to which they were attached being swung through the air, taking on force and speed before striking home. Then swung again.

  16

  By the time Hadley had the team assembled she had spoken briefly to Alistair McKeon, the detective superintendent with overall responsibility for the north-west unit of Homicide Command, and he had left two messages on her phone, as yet unanswered. All, Hadley thought, in good time. First, let’s get the ducks in a row.

  The room was stuffy, windows closed, tables and desks at odd angles. A large whiteboard, currently blank save for Anthony Winter’s name, stood alongside a large-screen television, also blank but for reflecting the faces of the assembled team. Half a dozen of them, mostly familiar, only one, Mark Foster, a young DC recently transferred in from uniform, still pretty much an unknown quantity.

  Howard Dean and Terry Mitchell, heads together, arguing, no doubt, the respective merits and demerits of Spurs and Arsenal, the old north London rivalry. Alice Atkins, some fifteen years Hadley’s junior and seeing her as a role model, keen and conscientious almost to a fault. Richard Cresswell, the oldest of the group, much of his career, before he resigned early, spent in uniform; after an unsuccessful attempt to set up a landscape-gardening business with his brother, he’d rejoined the force relatively recently.

  With Chris Phillips occasionally chipping in, Hadley laid out the facts as they were then known. The victim, Anthony Winter, a fifty-one-year-old artist, had been found dead in his Kentish Town studio early that morning; an artist with, apparently, something of a repu
tation, so they could expect more media attention than usual. Cause of death, awaiting confirmation, most likely blunt-force trauma to the head; the potential murder weapon, a pair of old-fashioned handcuffs – manacles – which had been found near the body attached to a length of chain and were currently undergoing tests. Time of death, at a best guess, anywhere between Saturday night and Sunday morning.

  ‘There are no obvious signs,’ Hadley said, ‘of a break-in at the studio, so the assumption for now is whoever was responsible was known to Winter in some way or other – which could mean known well, as in mother or lover, could mean someone from Deliveroo.’

  A brief smile, there and then gone.

  Chris Phillips got to his feet.

  ‘We’re waiting on the usual RIPA authorisations before starting the process of retrieving call data and email records from the laptop and mobile phone found in the studio, along with compiling an Internet search history. As well as the studio where he worked, Winter had a flat in a mansion block between Gospel Oak and Chalk Farm. We’ll see what a search turns up there, but, my guess, at least one more computer, in all probability a landline phone. More to add to the mix.’

  ‘Okay, Chris, thanks. Richard, keep an eye on how that’s progressing. Give CIU a nudge if needs be.’

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘And Chris, you’ll liaise with the Coroner’s Office. Postmortem results.’

  ‘Right, boss.’

  ‘Mitch, chase up SOCO, the forensics. Anything potentially useful, prints, whatever, check it through HOLMES, keep me informed.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Howie, there’s some CCTV out there, traffic cameras on the main road certainly, ANPR, I’m not sure what else. But it would be nice to think, the heaviest surveillance in Western Europe, we’ve got something covering exits and entrances.’

  ‘Right, boss. I’ll get to it.’

  ‘One more thing worth noting,’ Hadley said, ‘might be relevant, maybe not, but last Thursday evening Winter was victim of an attack at a gallery in Shoreditch showing his work. Punched and knocked to the ground. There are bits and pieces of this on social media. Some video. The man responsible seems to have had some kind of grievance about Winter using his daughter as a model in his paintings. And, having seen one of them, I’m not too surprised. So, Alice, get yourself down there, find out what you can. Trace him, the assailant, and it could be that’s all we need, look no further.’