The Art of Murder

The atmosphere in the room was tense. Pendragon looked at Hedridge as the man stared fixedly at the wall between the two policemen, and it was at that moment he first put the face and the name together. Norman Hedridge… of course, he thought. The MEP had been a contemporary of his at Oxford. Pendragon had known Hedridge then, or at least known of him. Hedridge had remained totally unaware of Pendragon's existence, for theirs had been very different Oxfords. Pendragon had gone up on a scholarship, which meant he had been at the bottom of the social pecking order, even in the early eighties when student life at the university was supposed to be cosily egalitarian.

The DCI had been born within half a mile of this station and had spent the first eighteen years of his life kicking around the local streets. When he had been noticed at school as exceptionally able academically, his headmaster at Stepney High had convinced Jack's parents to let him take the Oxbridge entrance exam. Hedridge, Pendragon knew, came from one of the wealthiest families in the country. His father owned vast tracts of land in Devon and Cornwall, and the Hedridges could trace their heritage back to a thirteenth-century baron who had stood beside King Henry III's son, Prince Edward, at the Battle of Evesham. Young Norman had been famous at Oxford for hosting flamboyant parties; leader of the in-crowd to which all the lesser aristos aspired to belong. Legend had it that after a summer ball at Christ Church, Norman had been found naked and unconscious in an inflatable dinghy circling the statue of Mercury, the centrepiece of the ornamental pond in Tom Quad. When one of the college Bulldogs, the university 'police', brought him round, they had fined him?50 on the spot. Apparently, his retort had been: 'I'll pay a hundred, my good man. It was worth every penny!' The Norman Hedridge now sitting before Pendragon was in nothing like so good a mood.

'DCI Jack Pendragon accompanied by Sergeant Jez Turner. Three-forty-two, Wednesday the twenty-first of January,' Pendragon intoned for the benefit of the digital recorder at the end of the table. 'Norman Hedridge MEP has volunteered his time to answer questions concerning the recent death of Kingsley Berrick. He is accompanied by his lawyer, Mr Maurice Strinner.' He paused for a moment, waiting for Hedridge to engage with him. After a long pause, the man looked away from the imaginary spot on the wall and turned an imperious gaze upon him.

'Mr Hedridge,' Pendragon began slowly, 'you knew the deceased?'

'Yes, I did.'

'How would you describe your relationship?'

'We were friends,' Hedridge replied, giving the DCI a hard look.

'Friends? As in intimate friends?'

Hedridge didn't miss a beat. He simply turned to Strinner. 'I don't have time for this.'

'Chief Inspector,' Strinner began, 'my client is here to help with your enquiries. As far as we are aware he has not been charged or even accused of any crime. I fail to see the relevance of the question.'

'As both of you are aware, this is a murder investigation. Mr Hedridge is a known associate of Kingsley Berrick, and, according to a witness, left the gallery with the victim shortly before the murder took place. Indeed, Mr Hedridge may be one of the last people to have seen the victim alive.'

'I object to the implication,' Hedridge said coldly.

'I'm not implying anything.'

There was silence for a few moments. 'Mr Hedridge,' Pendragon began again, 'I am only concerned with solving this murder. I have no interest in your private life. But I feel that your relationship with Mr Berrick is pertinent to this enquiry. Because of that, I must be blunt. Were you and Kingsley Berrick lovers?'

Strinner immediately began to protest, but Hedridge stopped him with a raised palm. Then the politician looked Pendragon straight in the eye. 'No, we were not. And if any such accusation is made public, Chief Inspector…'

Pendragon had his own hand up now. 'You'll have me hounded out of the force? Blah, blah, blah. Do you think I haven't heard it before?'

Hedridge froze and Pendragon fixed him with his hardest stare, watching the other man's expression subtly reflect a series of emotions. After a moment, the politician broke into a politician's smile, one that stopped at the corners of his mouth. 'Very well, Chief Inspector. Very well.' There was a barely audible edge of acceptance in his voice. It was as though Pendragon had passed a test. 'Let us agree to avoid any hint of sexual reference, and I will agree to answer any reasonable questions you may put to me.' He stared at Pendragon with a look that suggested the DCI was never going to receive a better offer in his life.

'Talk me through the events of the evening, please.'

Hedridge looked down at the table for a moment, gathering his thoughts. 'I arrived late, about ten. I'd been at Westminster. There was still quite a gathering at the gallery. I had a chat with a few people I knew; drank a glass or two of champagne. Kingsley introduced me to a couple of artist friends. It was rather a jolly affair actually, and I lost track of the time. It got to about one o'clock and there were only half a dozen of us left. I admit, I was a little tipsy.'

'And then you left with Kingsley Berrick?'

'Yes, I did. I'd sent my driver home an hour or so earlier. We called a cab from the gallery. Kingsley lives… lived in Bethnal Green. I dropped him there and the cab took me home.'

'I see. That was the last time you saw Mr Berrick?'

'It was.'

'Can you recall the name of the taxi firm?'

Hedridge paused for a moment. 'Silver Cabs.'

Pendragon turned to the sergeant beside him. Jez Turner had already scribbled down the name.

'How long have you known the deceased?'

Hedridge took a deep breath, leaned his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together. 'Let me see… perhaps ten years. I met him by chance when the gallery was at its old site in Shoreditch. I bought a painting there, a Gary Heathcote. I was very grateful to Kingsley for that tip, it's shot up in value.'

'Was Mr Kingsley a popular man?'

'Not sure what you mean.'

'Sociable? A big circle of friends?'

'Well, yes, I believe so. I think it goes with the territory.'

'Any special friends?'

'I have no idea, Chief Inspector.'

'Would you consider yourself to have been a special friend?'

'Where is this leading?' Strinner interceded.

Pendragon turned to him. 'I'm trying to build up a picture of the victim's social circle. Does your client have a problem with that?'

Strinner looked at Hedridge, who sat staring coldly at Pendragon.

The DCI turned back to the politician. 'Let's put it another way, Mr Hedridge. Did Kingsley Berrick have any enemies?'

Hedridge looked a little startled for a moment. 'Not so far as I'm aware, Chief Inspector. We were friends, but I had no inside information about how he ran his business. I can honestly say we rarely discussed the commercial aspects of the art world.'

Pendragon paused for a moment and the room sank into a heavy silence. He glanced at Turner and noted that he was still scribbling diligently in his pad.

'My source suggests that your… relationship with the deceased had recently soured. Do you have any comment to make about that?'

'No.'

'Mr Hedridge, please don't insult my intelligence. My source referred to you as Mr Berrick's "ex".'

Hedridge gave him a fierce look and Strinner started to raise a hand.

'His words, not mine,' Pendragon added.

'Jackson Price, or "your source" as you prefer to call him, knows nothing about it, Chief Inspector.'

'That may be so, but for now I have to assume he does. And if he is correct, and you and Mr Berrick were… intimately associated and had only recently become… disassociated, that would have a bearing upon my investigation. Wouldn't you agree, Mr Hedridge?'