'Naturally, Jack. We're talking about human beings. Artists are rarely anything else!'
He laughed. 'Fair enough. But there's a thornier problem. Truth can't be pure because the way it is perceived by the artist or the creator is not necessarily faithfully represented by them, is it? Theirs may be a distorted vision of the Truth. Which means that, sometimes, the end result is pretentious rubbish, no matter how honest the artist is being.'
'Sure,' Gemma agreed. 'But that's because of the other imperative of the artist.'
He gave her a puzzled look.
'The need to innovate. An artist has to seek Truth, but also represent it in a new way.'
'Which is what the Surrealists were doing, for instance?'
'What all real artists have done, down through the ages.'
'Yes, but I was thinking specifically about the case I'm working on now and the artists who have been imitated.' And he caught himself gazing into space. 'I'm sorry.' He shook his head. 'Talking shop… thinking out loud.'
Gemma smiled. 'I think we need more wine.' And she held up her empty glass.
Chapter 33
Brick Lane, Tuesday 27 January, 7.30 a.m. Pendragon was sitting in silence watching Superintendent Hughes flick through his latest report on the investigation. After a few moments she lifted her head, placed her interlocked fingers over the pile of paper and let out a pained sigh.
'So, we have a potential murderer who's been dead for over fifteen years? Excellent. An arrest should be easy.'
Pendragon met the superintendent's eyes, his face expressionless.
'Theories?' she enquired. 'Anything at all?'
'Oh plenty of theories, Super,' Pendragon responded. 'But they are just that – theories – unsubstantiated by anything like a single fact.'
Hughes looked at him, keeping her silence, forcing Pendragon to talk on.
'There are three possibilities for us to consider. One: there was some mistake with the DNA. But Dr Newman assures me that is not an option. There are so many matching markers that it is a six billion to one chance the DNA does not belong to the deceased Juliette Kinnear. Two: the woman isn't in fact dead. We got on to Riverwell in Essex straight away. They emailed over a single sheet of facts and dates. Turner did some additional checking. Juliette Kinnear drowned during a hospital excursion to Maldon. The incident was witnessed by a Riverwell nurse, Nicolas Compton. The body was found two days later and identified by a family member. The girl was cremated. Full police records are extant.'
'All right,' Hughes said wearily. 'The third option better be good, Jack.'
Pendragon ran one palm over his forehead. 'I wish it were, ma'am,' he said. 'The only conclusion we can draw is that the murderer planted the DNA.'
'Planted it!'
'To throw us off the scent. It wouldn't be the first time it had been done.'
'Yes, Jack, it's been done once before – the Mettlin case in Manchester, right?'
He nodded.
'But that was very different. The planted DNA was from another gangster, an erstwhile "friend" of the real culprit, a living person who might easily have committed the crime if he hadn't been beaten to it by the real killer, Johnny Mettlin. That was also eight years ago when DNA analysis was not so sophisticated.'
'I know the facts, ma'am,' Pendragon responded. 'But the two scenarios are not that different. Hair may easily be preserved.'
'But the owner of this DNA has been dead for fifteen bloody years!'
It was Pendragon's turn to stay silent.
'Okay,' Hughes said after an uncomfortable thirty seconds. 'What does Newman think about this scenario?'
'That it's certainly possible the sample could have been planted.'
'Can she not tell if the hair has been preserved in any way?'
'No. That was the first thing I asked her when the first two options were written off.'
'So, what now?' The superintendent looked exasperated. 'We have three murders in under a week. A possible perp who has been dead a long time. No witnesses to any of them. Little in the way of other forensics. We don't have a lot to go on, Inspector.'
'I've contacted Riverwell. Turner and I have an appointment with the Chief Administrator there, a Professor Martins, at two o'clock. We need to get some more detailed background on Ms Kinnear.'
'What about nearer to home?'
'Inspector Towers and Sergeant Vickers are trying to find out as much as they can about the cherry-picker used in the second murder as well as ascertaining where the murderer set up shop after vacating the warehouse on West India Quay. Grant is following up on the background to the murdered priest. We're particularly interested in trying to find any link at all between him and the first two victims.'
Hughes was looking down at her desk and nodding.
'And I've got Sammy Samson sniffing around.'
She looked up. 'God help us.'
'He led us to the warehouse, and from there to the DNA,' Pendragon reminded her.
'Yes, I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies, shouldn't we?' Hughes said coldly. 'All right. Report to me the moment you get back from Essex.'
Pendragon stood up and walked to the door. As he turned the handle, the super added, 'And, Inspector, come back with some good news, okay?'
Chapter 34
The Riverwell Psychiatric Hospital was a small, private establishment three miles inland from the coastal town of Maldon. At any one time it accommodated no more than thirty-four patients, and according to the hospital's website offered exclusive pastoral care for those with chronic conditions.
Jez Turner was reading through the hospital's glossy brochure as Pendragon pulled the car up before a guarded gate set in ten-foot-high ornate iron railings enclosing the hospital grounds. Turner whistled suddenly, making Pendragon glance away from the uniformed gateman who was examining his ID through the open window.
'Get this, guv,' the sergeant said. 'Riverwell is world renowned as a centre of excellence for the care and comfort of patients with medium to severe conditions. Annual full board and treatment fees come in at just under seventy-two grand.'
Pendragon raised an eyebrow. 'More than I earn in a week,' he responded dryly, nodding to the guard and driving forward as the barrier was raised.
The building ahead of them looked more like a boutique hotel than a psychiatric hospital. It was brick-built with high gables in a steeply sloping roof, topped off with a stocky chimney placed roughly in the centre of the roof. Pendragon guessed the original building had gone up in the first decade of the twentieth century, but he noticed that there had been many newer additions over the years and it had been extended so much these now made up the majority of the floor space. The grounds were pristine, and white with a hard frost.
They were met at the main door by a rotund man in his mid-fifties. He was wearing a pin-stripe suit, waistcoat and grey tie. He had a neatly trimmed white beard, small dark eyes and narrow lips. At first glance he looked like Santa after a make-over. 'Welcome,' he said in a rich baritone. 'I'm Professor Martins… Nigel Martins.' He stepped forward to offer his hand first to Pendragon and then to Turner. 'Good journey, I hope. It's not too far from the sound of Bow Bells, is it, Inspector?' His face creased into a smile.
He led them through a reception area where a pretty blonde at a flat-screen Mac ignored the new arrivals. They followed the professor along a wide corridor. It was softly lit, the floor covered with a sumptuous, pale green carpet. The walls were hung with what looked like expensive paper. A cream dado rail ran along them at waist-height, and there was elaborate ceiling cornicing overhead. They passed an open door and saw half a dozen patients sitting bunched together on a pair of sofas, facing a bulky old TV set high up on a shelf on the far side of the room. At the end of the corridor, they took a right, then a left, and Martins stopped before a heavy oak door with an engraved brass plaque bearing his name. The professor removed a bunch of keys from his jacket pocket, unlocked the door and held it open, gesturing to the two policemen to enter. Martins bustled in after them and indicated a pair of leather chairs. 'Gentlemen, please.' He turned as an elderly lady in a black skirt and white frilly blouse appeared in the doorway.