‘Look at these, Jack. The two girls don’t look over twelve or thirteen years old, and the boy can’t be more than, what, fourteen?’
‘I know who and where he is,’ Jack said, pointing to the boy. Even with a black hoodie on, he recognised him as Jason Marks, aged 18. ‘He was arrested for carrying a machete and is still down in the cells.’
‘Bloody brilliant, thank you, does he have any previous?’
Jack smiled as he passed her the file. ‘He’s already lawyered up with the fragrant Sonia Billings. I’d get him brought up for more questioning.’
‘Will do. You heard anything further about Morrison’s arrest? Oh, I meant to tell you...’ She leaned in close. ‘After you left for the weekend, Cruella caught me in the loo, said she wanted a word. She almost pinned me up against the washbasin. Anyway, she said it was unethical for me to be at Fulham. I really saw red and told her it was none of her business, then she said she knew about my relationship with a married DCI.’
‘What, Morrison?’
‘Yeah. I was gobsmacked. Apparently, she found out before she dumped him. I’m regretting that quickie we had after the Italian. Never again, right? Always knew he was a shithead.’ Laura took the file, giving Jack the thumbs-up. She went over to the probationary officer she had been working alongside, to get Jason Marks brought from the cells and into an interview room.
Fulham station was under siege from the press. Kurt Neilson had been charged with murder and taken to the magistrates’ court. After giving his name, age and address, he shouted that he was guilty and became hysterical, foaming at the mouth as he banged his handcuffed wrists against the dock until they were bleeding. He screamed out that he had crucified his lover, Detmar Steinburg, and babbled about needing to be punished. He was remanded in custody, but before he was taken to prison, a doctor was called to give him a sedative and check his injured wrists. The doctor recommended Kurt be kept under medical supervision in prison while awaiting trial as he was a suicide risk.
The press now had a name to go along with the image of Kurt being walked from the courthouse, hands cuffed, his head beneath a blanket. By the time Neilson arrived at the prison, they had tracked down his doctor via the prescriptions found in his bedroom. He told them Neilson suffered with severe anxiety and had been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic with narcissistic traits for which he’d been on medication for several years. It was assumed he hadn’t taken his meds for a while.
Neilson was taken to the prison’s secure hospital facility, where he was put on ‘suicide watch’ in a single bare cell.
It was five o’clock and Jack was getting ready to head home as Laura returned from questioning Jason Marks, after arresting him on suspicion of the pub burglary. He had refused to name the two girls caught on CCTV, and his lawyer had asked for a break to discuss the situation with her client.
‘It really pissed me off,’ Laura said. ‘I told her, you can clearly see it’s him on CCTV smashing the fucking place up with a crowbar!’
Jack frowned, suddenly concerned by the ease with which he had identified Jason Marks from the pub’s CCTV footage. He was certain that Fulham would contact him any day now and he still hadn’t thought up a plausible reason for being at the gallery. He had a quick look around before Googling the latest news. The first article he saw had the headline: ‘Murdered Art Dealer’s Gallery Ablaze’.
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered. Jack could hardly believe it! Not that the article was very informative, just that the fire had started on the top floor and the damage was extensive, with dozens of valuable paintings destroyed. He leaned back in his chair reading on. There was no mention of how the fire had started or even whether it was suspected arson.
The situation at Fulham after Neilson’s uncontrollable behaviour at the magistrates’ court had, as they had been warned, created a media frenzy. Reporters and photographers were outside the station, and anyone entering or leaving felt harassed.
Morrison’s frustration gave his delivery a sarcastic edge as he confronted the team with details from the forensic lab.
‘Surprise, surprise, DNA testing on the bloodstained clothing found in the dog kennel at Norman O’Reilly’s address matches the blood sample taken from Detmar Steinburg’s body. His clothes were in a plastic bag, with a newspaper dated the Friday, the day before he was discovered.’ Morrison put his hands on his hips and glared at the twenty gathered officers. ‘He’s bloody asking to be nicked, so why the hell haven’t you found him yet?’ He shook his head in exasperation. ‘Talk to the girlfriend again. See if you can shake his alibi.’ He gestured to Collingwood, who had arrived late after visiting the gallery.
‘I’m sorry, Sir, but even as an officer on the murder case, I wasn’t allowed entry as the forensic officers were still examining the gutted top floor. I’d waited in order to acquire the CCTV footage but was told that Miss Langton was expected in around an hour and so I should return then.’ He didn’t mention that he had stopped off for breakfast first.
‘Bollocks to that,’ Morrison said. ‘Right, you and me are going back there now. We’ve got search warrants for the whole building, plus the yard, and I’m not taking any bullshit about not being allowed in.’
As Morrison and Collingwood drove to the gallery, Morrison asked about Ester Langton.
‘She’s been very strange from the off, Sir. Like agreeing to go to the mortuary to identify him; strange lack of emotion.’
Morrison got out of the patrol car and stood on the pavement, looking up at the four-storey art gallery. The windows had been blown out on the top floor and the entire frontage had been drenched with the hoses, so where it wasn’t blackened with smoke, the once pristine white stucco walls were grey and water stained. Morrison shook his head. ‘Reckon it’s gonna cost millions to clean this lot up.’
They entered through the double glass doors, to be greeted by a large sign stating the obvious: ‘Closed until further notice’. A uniformed officer was sitting on one of the velvet-covered benches with a mug of tea. He quickly got to his feet, explaining that he had been there since nine and it had been freezing cold as the building now had no windows. He gestured to the mug of tea, saying that one of Miss Langton’s security guards had made it for him. Morrison waved his hand dismissively.
‘Where’s Miss Langton now?’
‘Fourth-floor office, Sir, or what’s left of it.’
Morrison threw him a disparaging glance as he headed along the corridor, pausing at two large open doors to the reception gallery. He stood for a moment, looking into the room at the display of oil paintings along the walls. He then continued towards the staircase, pausing by the glass-walled lift, then headed up the stairs. Everywhere showed the damage from the water: sodden carpets and dripping walls.
On the second floor, Morrison walked into the gallery with Collingwood trailing in his wake. It was now devoid of any paintings, although the gilt-backed chairs were still lined up, some with sodden leaflets on them. There was a trestle table covered in a stained white cloth, half-empty crates of champagne and broken champagne flutes. He noticed a large reel of bubble wrap against a wall beside a thick roll of heavy-duty brown paper. The room itself looked comparatively undamaged, although the carpet on the stairs was waterlogged.
Collingwood had to hurry after Morrison who was quickly on the third floor, standing by the open door. ‘So, this is where Neilson had his art show, third-floor gallery, right?’ Morrison’s question was rhetorical. ‘Well, there’s fuck all in here now, just a stack of easels and what looks like smashed frames.’