The Art of Murder

The Art of Murder Read Free Page B

Book: The Art of Murder Read Free
Author: Michael White
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Crime
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Lutsenko exclaimed, her eyes wide and dark with worry.
    Pendragon found a brief smile from somewhere. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said gently. ‘We’re not accusing you of anything.’
    ‘But …’ she looked panic-stricken ‘… my job … have to finish …’
    Before Pendragon could say anything more, Roz Mackleby stepped in and placed her hand gently on Helena’s elbow.
    ‘Really … we won’t bite,’ Sergeant Mackleby insisted.
    Pendragon spun round as Sergeant Turner appeared in the doorway.
    ‘Lane’s closed off, guv,’ he said. ‘And Forensics just called to say they’re a few minutes away.’
    ‘Good. Sergeant, I need you to get a complete list of who was here last night from Mr Price, and take a detailed statement from him. I want a full background on the event plus names … who showed, who didn’t. Find out if anything unusual happened – everything you can get him to cough up. I’ll meet you back at the station.’
    ‘You’re walking?’
    ‘Need to clear my head.’
    Before leaving, Pendragon turned back into the reception area, walked past Jackson Price and nodded to a uniformed officer posted at the archway to the main room. A police photographer was setting up a tripod and a digital camera a few feet from the murder victim. Jones was kneeling down in front of the dead man, peering into the gruesome void in his head and studying the apple.
    ‘First impressions?’ Pendragon asked.
    There was an electronic whir from behind as the photographer ran off a couple of test shots.
    Jones stood up. ‘Well, it’s a Granny Smith, Inspector.’
    ‘Dr Jones …’
    ‘Okay, okay.’ Jones had his hands up. ‘What can I say? Male, early to mid-fifties, average height, bit on the plump side. It’s impossible even to guess at the cause of death before I get the body to the lab. I’d say he’s been dead eight to ten hours, no more. The body’s stiff from rigor mortis. No need for the truss. But obviously the body was put here when it was still relatively pliable.’
    ‘All right. Forensics are on their way. I’ll have the body released to you ASAP.’
    *
    Pendragon stepped out on to Durrell Place as Dr Colette Newman, Head of the Metropolitan Police Forensics Unit, emerged from a white van parked behind Mackleby and Grant’s squad car. She strode towards him carrying a big plastic box similar to Jones’s.
    ‘Chief Inspector,’ she said in her clipped, old-fashioned accent. Pendragon had first met Dr Newman the previous summer when they had worked together on a series of mysterious poisonings that had turned out to be the work of a crazed serial killer. She had been instrumental in piecing together some of the clues that had helped solve the crimes. A pretty blonde in her mid-thirties, Pendragon knew her to possess a keen intellect and a sharp wit. He had a lot of respect for her, and he liked her as well. ‘Dr Newman,’ he said. ‘Sorry to drag you from your warm lab, but, well …’ And he nodded back over his shoulder towards the gallery. ‘This one should certainly pique your professional interest.’
    ‘Oh, goody,’ she said with a smile, and hurried past him towards the gallery door.
    Pendragon had been only partially honest with Turner when he’d said he needed to clear his head. He needed to clear it of the horror, but he also needed to assimilate what he had just witnessed, to gather together his thoughts and begin to make some sense of it all.
    It never got easier, he knew that. He had seen dead kids being dragged from lakes and old people sliced up on the swirly-patterned carpets of their tiny flats. No, it never got easier. Somehow, though, he had learned to deal with it;to ‘compartmentalise’ as American psychotherapists would have it. But fancy words meant nothing unless he really could compartmentalise, and sometimes he could only just manage to keep it together in front of his junior officers.
    In his twenty-five years of police service, Kingsley Berrick’s was

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