And she inclined her head in the direction of the main road. ‘A couple of cars, but I can’t remember anything about them.’
‘No, that’s okay.’
‘But inside the churchyard, no. After I called the police, I went and sat on the bench over there. I couldn’t see the … er … tree from there. I must have been in a state of shock because the next thing I knew two policemen were standing beside the bench.’
‘All right, thanks, Ms Burnside,’ Pendragon said, getting up and flicking a glance at Sergeant Mackleby, who resumed her place on the tailgate.
Pendragon and Turner walked back towards the tree. A screen was being erected and they could see Inspector Grant and two constables moving in on the rubbernecks.
Beneath the tree, Jones was staring up at the hideous corpse and shaking his head. ‘Now I’ve seen it all, Pendragon,’ he said, without taking his eyes from the object above his head. ‘God only knows what you expect me to do with this.’ Then he glanced round. ‘You know that song, “Strange Fruit?”’
The chief inspector gazed into the branches. ‘Yes, of course I do, Jones. Billie Holiday, based on a poemby Abel Meeropol, about the lynching of two black men by the Klu Klux Klan.’
Jones was nodding sagely. ‘Looks like someone’s taken the idea a few steps further,’ he said, his tone unusually serious.
Chapter 12
The digital clock on the wall flicked forward from 15.59 to 16.00 as Jack Pendragon walked into the Briefing Room of Brick Lane Police Station. The whole team had gathered there. Superintendent Jill Hughes sat in a chair at the front. Roz Mackleby and Rob Grant were at desks to either side of the room. Inspector Ken Towers sat a little behind Hughes, perched on the corner of Mackleby’s desk. The three male sergeants, Turner, Jimmy Thatcher and Terry Vickers, stood in a ragged line, leaning against the back wall. Pendragon walked along the narrow space between the desks, edging past Towers and Hughes, and stopped in front of a smart board. A row of photographs had been stuck on to it. The first showed the body of Kingsley Berrick against the backdrop of a brightly coloured canvas. Beside this were a series of photographs of the body found that morning, hanging in the tree in the grounds of St Dunstan’s Church. Under the picture of Berrick’s corpse was a colour 10″ × 8″ portrait of the victim provided by the local newspaper, which had run a profile of the gallery owner two years before.
‘You’re all aware of the basic facts of the case,’ Pendragon began without preamble. ‘Two bodies in two days. The first found at Berrick and Price Gallery inDurrell Place. The vic was Kingsley Berrick, one of the owners of the gallery and a well-known figure in the London art world. He was killed by means of a needle plunged into his brain.’ Pendragon picked up a remote from a tray at the front of the smart board and clicked it. A picture from the Milward Street Path Lab appeared, a close-up of the back of Berrick’s neck, the red puncture wound clearly visible. ‘However, the killer did not stop there.’ Pendragon clicked again, and a six-foot-square picture of Berrick propped up in the gallery appeared. There was a moment’s preternatural quiet in the room. They had all seen this image before, but it still produced a potent effect.
‘Second murder was discovered this morning.’ Pendragon clicked the remote again and the image of the completely flattened body draped over the branch of a tree lit up the screen. A few clicks of the remote showed the hideous thing from half a dozen different angles. ‘Absolutely no idea of the cause of death, of course, nor the identity of the victim. Forensics will be working around the clock.’
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Terry Vickers broke the silence. He had his arms folded across his chest and was staring fixedly at the smart board with his head tilted slightly to one side. ‘I just don’t get how these murders could
‘No, that’s okay.’
‘But inside the churchyard, no. After I called the police, I went and sat on the bench over there. I couldn’t see the … er … tree from there. I must have been in a state of shock because the next thing I knew two policemen were standing beside the bench.’
‘All right, thanks, Ms Burnside,’ Pendragon said, getting up and flicking a glance at Sergeant Mackleby, who resumed her place on the tailgate.
Pendragon and Turner walked back towards the tree. A screen was being erected and they could see Inspector Grant and two constables moving in on the rubbernecks.
Beneath the tree, Jones was staring up at the hideous corpse and shaking his head. ‘Now I’ve seen it all, Pendragon,’ he said, without taking his eyes from the object above his head. ‘God only knows what you expect me to do with this.’ Then he glanced round. ‘You know that song, “Strange Fruit?”’
The chief inspector gazed into the branches. ‘Yes, of course I do, Jones. Billie Holiday, based on a poemby Abel Meeropol, about the lynching of two black men by the Klu Klux Klan.’
Jones was nodding sagely. ‘Looks like someone’s taken the idea a few steps further,’ he said, his tone unusually serious.
Chapter 12
The digital clock on the wall flicked forward from 15.59 to 16.00 as Jack Pendragon walked into the Briefing Room of Brick Lane Police Station. The whole team had gathered there. Superintendent Jill Hughes sat in a chair at the front. Roz Mackleby and Rob Grant were at desks to either side of the room. Inspector Ken Towers sat a little behind Hughes, perched on the corner of Mackleby’s desk. The three male sergeants, Turner, Jimmy Thatcher and Terry Vickers, stood in a ragged line, leaning against the back wall. Pendragon walked along the narrow space between the desks, edging past Towers and Hughes, and stopped in front of a smart board. A row of photographs had been stuck on to it. The first showed the body of Kingsley Berrick against the backdrop of a brightly coloured canvas. Beside this were a series of photographs of the body found that morning, hanging in the tree in the grounds of St Dunstan’s Church. Under the picture of Berrick’s corpse was a colour 10″ × 8″ portrait of the victim provided by the local newspaper, which had run a profile of the gallery owner two years before.
‘You’re all aware of the basic facts of the case,’ Pendragon began without preamble. ‘Two bodies in two days. The first found at Berrick and Price Gallery inDurrell Place. The vic was Kingsley Berrick, one of the owners of the gallery and a well-known figure in the London art world. He was killed by means of a needle plunged into his brain.’ Pendragon picked up a remote from a tray at the front of the smart board and clicked it. A picture from the Milward Street Path Lab appeared, a close-up of the back of Berrick’s neck, the red puncture wound clearly visible. ‘However, the killer did not stop there.’ Pendragon clicked again, and a six-foot-square picture of Berrick propped up in the gallery appeared. There was a moment’s preternatural quiet in the room. They had all seen this image before, but it still produced a potent effect.
‘Second murder was discovered this morning.’ Pendragon clicked the remote again and the image of the completely flattened body draped over the branch of a tree lit up the screen. A few clicks of the remote showed the hideous thing from half a dozen different angles. ‘Absolutely no idea of the cause of death, of course, nor the identity of the victim. Forensics will be working around the clock.’
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Terry Vickers broke the silence. He had his arms folded across his chest and was staring fixedly at the smart board with his head tilted slightly to one side. ‘I just don’t get how these murders could
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