Turners
They found me looking at the Turners in the Tate.
I was sitting in front of a canvas that seemed to be painted in a thousand shades of red. ‘The Burning of the Houses of Parliament’, it said on the little brass plaque. ‘Joseph Mallord William Turner. c. 1834–5’.
In the painting the buildings all looked like phantoms, like the ghosts of buildings, or buildings glimpsed in a dream, and they were totally consumed by flames. Tiny figures huddled beneath the fire, jammed close together, and it looked like a vision of hell until you realised that there were rays of bright light aimed at the flames.
They were not starting the fire.
They were trying to put it out.
I snapped out of my reverie when DC Edie Wren kicked me, the toe of her trainer banging hard against the heel of my boot.
‘You don’t answer your phone?’ she said, and looked at DCI Whitestone with exasperation. ‘Jesus!’
Whitestone took off her glasses, giving her face a vulnerable, owlish look until she had cleaned them and put them back on. She still had the bookish air of a teacher or a librarian about her, but I knew there was not a more experienced homicide detective in the city.
‘We’ve got a call, Max,’ she said. ‘And we’re going right now. So if you’re coming, then you have to come now.’
I nodded.
‘There’s no end to it, is there?’ I said. ‘I think that’s what got to Curtis at the end. There’s no end to the wickedness, the cruelty, the evil. There’s only an end to us. We fight it – but it will outlive us.’
‘That’s right, but we’re going now’ Whitestone said, smiling kindly, and she turned away and walked through the Sunday afternoon crowds.
Edie scowled at me once before following her.
I took one last look at the Turner. And then I found myself following the pair of them to the pool car parked outside, the engine running.
We drove north, to a street that was just a few blocks beyond a fashionable area, which was far enough away to make it look as though we could be in any suburb in the country.
Our people were already there. The blue lights swirling at either end of the road. The uniforms putting up yellow tape and a white tent. The CSIs in their white Tyvek suits and blue latex gloves, filming and photographing and dusting. There were some local detectives, clearly shaken up. It was a nice neighbourhood and they were not accustomed to murder.
The dead man was on his back, his body half in the street and half on the pavement. The tent was going up around him. There wasn’t much blood, which made it look like it had been some kind of blow to the head. He was perhaps forty years old, although the carpet slippers he was wearing gave him the appearance of a much older man.
‘He was in his home,’ the local detective told us, nodding to a house that looked just like all the others on the street. ‘There were some yobs in the street – kicking cars, swearing loud, the usual rubbish – and he came out to tell them to stop.’
‘And they killed him,’ Whitestone said.
‘Kicked him to death,’ the local detective said. ‘His wife and kids are inside. They’re in pieces.’
Whitestone nodded. ‘Get their statements,’ she told Wren and me, all business as she pulled on blue latex gloves.
Edie and I went into the house.
Our people were inside but beyond them there was what remained of the shattered little family. A woman around forty years old. A girl of about sixteen. A boy perhaps a year younger. The wife, the daughter and the son of the dead man in the road. Holding on to each other, all three of them sobbing uncontrollably, and trying to understand these new wounds that would never heal.
‘I’m DC Wolfe and this is my colleague DC Wren,’ I said.
None of them looked at me.
‘I am so sorry for your loss,’ I said, and still they did not look at me. They held each other and they wept and the pain was more than they could endure.
I looked at Edie.
She nodded
They found me looking at the Turners in the Tate.
I was sitting in front of a canvas that seemed to be painted in a thousand shades of red. ‘The Burning of the Houses of Parliament’, it said on the little brass plaque. ‘Joseph Mallord William Turner. c. 1834–5’.
In the painting the buildings all looked like phantoms, like the ghosts of buildings, or buildings glimpsed in a dream, and they were totally consumed by flames. Tiny figures huddled beneath the fire, jammed close together, and it looked like a vision of hell until you realised that there were rays of bright light aimed at the flames.
They were not starting the fire.
They were trying to put it out.
I snapped out of my reverie when DC Edie Wren kicked me, the toe of her trainer banging hard against the heel of my boot.
‘You don’t answer your phone?’ she said, and looked at DCI Whitestone with exasperation. ‘Jesus!’
Whitestone took off her glasses, giving her face a vulnerable, owlish look until she had cleaned them and put them back on. She still had the bookish air of a teacher or a librarian about her, but I knew there was not a more experienced homicide detective in the city.
‘We’ve got a call, Max,’ she said. ‘And we’re going right now. So if you’re coming, then you have to come now.’
I nodded.
‘There’s no end to it, is there?’ I said. ‘I think that’s what got to Curtis at the end. There’s no end to the wickedness, the cruelty, the evil. There’s only an end to us. We fight it – but it will outlive us.’
‘That’s right, but we’re going now’ Whitestone said, smiling kindly, and she turned away and walked through the Sunday afternoon crowds.
Edie scowled at me once before following her.
I took one last look at the Turner. And then I found myself following the pair of them to the pool car parked outside, the engine running.
We drove north, to a street that was just a few blocks beyond a fashionable area, which was far enough away to make it look as though we could be in any suburb in the country.
Our people were already there. The blue lights swirling at either end of the road. The uniforms putting up yellow tape and a white tent. The CSIs in their white Tyvek suits and blue latex gloves, filming and photographing and dusting. There were some local detectives, clearly shaken up. It was a nice neighbourhood and they were not accustomed to murder.
The dead man was on his back, his body half in the street and half on the pavement. The tent was going up around him. There wasn’t much blood, which made it look like it had been some kind of blow to the head. He was perhaps forty years old, although the carpet slippers he was wearing gave him the appearance of a much older man.
‘He was in his home,’ the local detective told us, nodding to a house that looked just like all the others on the street. ‘There were some yobs in the street – kicking cars, swearing loud, the usual rubbish – and he came out to tell them to stop.’
‘And they killed him,’ Whitestone said.
‘Kicked him to death,’ the local detective said. ‘His wife and kids are inside. They’re in pieces.’
Whitestone nodded. ‘Get their statements,’ she told Wren and me, all business as she pulled on blue latex gloves.
Edie and I went into the house.
Our people were inside but beyond them there was what remained of the shattered little family. A woman around forty years old. A girl of about sixteen. A boy perhaps a year younger. The wife, the daughter and the son of the dead man in the road. Holding on to each other, all three of them sobbing uncontrollably, and trying to understand these new wounds that would never heal.
‘I’m DC Wolfe and this is my colleague DC Wren,’ I said.
None of them looked at me.
‘I am so sorry for your loss,’ I said, and still they did not look at me. They held each other and they wept and the pain was more than they could endure.
I looked at Edie.
She nodded
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