'The obvious?'
'NT0658.'
'Initials, then month and year of his birth?'
'Correct. It was the second attempt because some people use the day of the birth month. Anyway… I've gone through the machine. Nothing. I've searched every disk and every USB drive in Thursk's flat. Nothing on those either. No notes, no rough drafts. The only thing on there is the original proposal, which the publisher has anyway – a ten-page outline that gives the bare bones of the book.' He brought it up on the computer. Pendragon read from the screen and scrolled down. It told him very little, merely making reference to Thursk's long and close association with key players in the London art world. As the publisher, Lewis Fanshaw, was an old friend of his, he would have needed little convincing of Thursk's credentials.
'Not a great help.'
'No, sir. But I dunno, I had a sense something wasn't quite right. Just an instinct, I s'pose. So I ran a piece of software through it called Re-Search. It scans the computer and can find traces of files that were once on the hard drive and have since been deleted. It's to do with binary markers that…'
'Yes, all right, Sergeant. Get to the point.'
'The point is, Thursk deleted a whole load of files from the hard drive very recently. You can see here.' He pointed towards the screen. A list of processor files appeared. Six of them had been greyed-out. 'I checked all the disks and external drives and found the same thing on one of the USBs.'
'Amazing. And you can retrieve them?'
''Fraid not, guv.'
Pendragon paused for a moment, lost in thought.
Turner surveyed the tiny apartment. He had been here on two previous occasions, but each time had barely stepped beyond the door.
'Okay, well, that's progress of a sort. It tells us three important things.' Pendragon counted them off on the fingers of his right hand. 'One: Thursk knew he had some pretty incendiary material – why else would he be so secretive? Two: he must have been worried someone was after him – why else would he erase the files just before whoever it was caught up with him? And three: he wouldn't have destroyed all traces of his work. He would have made a backup that he's hidden somewhere.'
Chapter 19
Stepney, Friday, 10 p.m. The killer was quoting aloud to no one while packing equipment into a shoulder bag: '"Before I start painting I have a slightly ambiguous feeling… happiness is a special excitement because unhappiness is always possible a moment later." Mmm… one of Francis Bacon's better comments, and very apt,' the killer said. 'And tonight… I shall be Mr Bacon.'
Mr Bacon duly left the building, pacing through the gloom and mist, face obscured by a hoodie and sunglasses. It was a long walk to the church, but the last thing Mr Bacon wanted was the attention of a CCTV camera offering up an incriminating registration plate for some clever copper to jump on. No, Mr Bacon had important work to do.
The church was open, of course; the Lord protects, no need for locks. It was dark, Evening Mass over. Mr Bacon walked slowly towards the altar, the only illumination coming from the street beyond the stained glass. The vague light picked out sharp lines of gold: a giant crucifix in the centre of the altar, orderly strands of glinting thread tumbling to the stone floor, one corner of a portrait of a gasping Christ.
At the door to the vestry, Mr Bacon paused, took several deep breaths and lowered the shoulder bag to the floor. Next to the door stood a fine wooden chair, a throne of dark wood trimmed with gold and mother-of-pearl inlay. It was a prized piece, donated by a wealthy benefactor years earlier. Mr Bacon smiled and turned away, then with a sudden burst of violence, he smashed open the door and charged in, Mace spray in hand. The elderly priest, Father Michael O'Leary, was folding the evening's vestments and turned just in time to receive a faceful of noxious, blinding vapour. Falling back in shock and pain, he stumbled over a stool and landed in a heap on the floor. Mr Bacon was on him in a second, ramming a knee up into the priest's groin with so much force his testicles became lodged in his abdomen. O'Leary screamed.
Mr Bacon bent down and twisted the man face round. It was pale and contorted in agony. His eyes were streaming. 'Do you really not recognise me, priest?' Mr Bacon said.
The injured man tried to focus, staring up uncomprehending, terror and pain overwhelming him. 'Look closer,' Mr Bacon spat, peering down at him. 'Ah, yes, you are beginning to remember…'
Father O'Leary went limp, his face now a white drooping thing, his eyes like coals dropped on snow. Trying to understand what was happening, he struggled to pull himself up, survival instinct overcoming his agony. But Mr Bacon moved a hand to the priest's throat and gripped it tight. O'Leary caught a glimpse of a hypodermic with a nine-inch needle. He began to kick and struggle, but Mr Bacon was fit and strong and the priest was old, his body a mess. Mr Bacon brought the needle round the back of O'Leary's skull. He tried to move his head, but the combination of shock, Mace and the pain raking his aged body made him no match for Mr Bacon.
The needle began to penetrate the soft flesh at the nape of the neck. 'An interesting fact…' Mr Bacon said matter-of-factly. 'According to some historians, the term "tenterhooks" comes from a form of execution popular in the fourteenth century. The condemned were left to hang on a metal hook passed through the nape of the neck. Very painful, apparently.'
Mr Bacon pushed the entire length of the needle through the priest's skull. Father O'Leary shuddered, and as the plunger was levered down, releasing heroin into his brain, began to shake violently. He froze, then died.
Lowering the body to the floor, Mr Bacon stepped out of the vestry, grabbed the arms of the ornate chair positioned against the wall and dragged it across the stone floor. Levering the door open and keeping it in place with one foot, it was just possible to manoeuvre the chair through the opening and into the vestry.
Inside the shoulder bag lay a bundle of clothing. Taking it out, Mr Bacon unrolled the fabric. Papal vestments: a white surplice, purple cope and purple hat. Placing these carefully over the back of a chair, the murderer stripped the dead man to his underwear, discarded his clothes and dressed him in the papal garments. When the body was ready, Mr Bacon heaved it on to the seat of the wooden and gold chair. It was a struggle, but empowerment came from the incredible thrill of the moment, the sweet nectar of cold, cold revenge, pure Schadenfreude.
Inside the shoulder bag was a folded steel rod. This Mr Bacon unravelled then placed inside the back of the papal cope to keep Father O'Leary's dead spine straight and upright. Rope was then removed from the bag and tied about the waist and chest, pinning the priest's corpse to the chair. More rope secured the arms, while the hands were draped over the throne's sides.
Now there was just the face to attend to. From the bag came two lengths of clear surgical tape. Peeling back the priest's eyelids, Mr Bacon applied the tape to the soft skin and stuck the other end to the man's forehead, pinning open his sightless eyes. Lastly, from a pocket in the hoodie, came a clear plastic sphere the size of a tennis ball. This was rammed into the priest's mouth, behind his teeth, forcing open O'Leary's mouth. Next the corpse's lifeless lips were folded back, exposing the teeth. The entire ensemble created the look of a man screaming and grasping the arms of the throne, as though he were being electrocuted.
Mr Bacon stood back to appraise the evening's work and nodded appreciatively, then stepped out through the door, locked it and pocketed the key.
Chapter 20
To Mrs Sonia Thomson 13 October 1888 So, when was it that I stopped searching for the thing that is not there, the thing Christians call a 'soul'? When was it that I started to treat human beings as playthings… materials for my work? I have one special individual to thank for that revelation, a most singular man, and I think, dear lady, I should explain how he crossed my path.