Jack Pendragon - 02 - Borgia Ring Page 22

  Sue took a deep breath. ‘The killer is intelligent, sophisticated, well educated, possibly homosexual – though that is not a prerequisite. And they wrap up the process of murder in layers of personal ritual.’

  ‘What does that mean exactly?’ Sergeant Vickers asked. ‘There hasn’t been a ritualistic element to the murders.’

  ‘Not that we’ve seen. We’re not talking about positioning the bodies in a certain way or writing symbols on them. I said “personal ritual”. The murderer goes through a process to which they adhere religiously. They’ll prepare the poison under special conditions, following a formula. And they’ll probably dress up when they’re committing the murders.’

  ‘Dress up?’ Pendragon queried, frowning.

  ‘Yes. I have no idea what form that could take. Every documented case I have read is different. The best-known is actually fictitious – Norman Bates in Psycho. His mother was his totem. He could only kill when he dressed up as her. The rest of the time he was a placid guy who ran a motel. Hitchcock went to extremes there. It’s very unusual for the killer to use a person as a totem, and to become that totem. But, that said, the link between the murderer and the totem is always a very strong one.’

  ‘The gold thread and the slippers,’ Pendragon said suddenly, glancing around the room at the faces of his team. ‘If wearing gold footwear isn’t dressing up, I don’t know what is.’

  ‘I really appreciate your coming in, Sue,’ Pendragon told her.

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  They were in his office with the door closed.

  ‘At least it should get the team thinking outside the box,’ she concluded.

  ‘Well, that’s right. Oh, I almost forgot.’ Pendragon bent down to retrieve a plastic bag lying against the leg of his desk. ‘I bought you this,’ he said, removing a vinyl LP. ‘Just a little thank you for sparing the time …’

  ‘Jack! You didn’t need to do that.’

  ‘I hope you like it. Charlie Parker, Jazz at Massey Hall, his first record. This is an early pressing from 1956.’

  Sue studied the cover, beaming. ‘I love this album.’

  There was silence for a moment. Jack tapped her arm. She looked up.

  ‘You don’t have a record player, do you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, head tilted to one side. They both laughed.

  ‘It’s the thought that counts,’ she said, and kissed him on the lips.

  The Department of Plant Biology at Queen Mary College was on the sixth floor, one down from the top. As Pendragon ascended in the lift he remembered an old adage from his university days: engineering departments were always put in the basement so their heavy machines couldn’t fall through the floor. Chemistry departments were put on the top floor so that if anything exploded it wouldn’t damage anything above it. With some satisfaction, he noticed from the floor directory inside the lift that the departments were exactly where they should be – engineers in the basement, chemists on the top floor.

  He was met by a tall man wearing a lab coat. Pendragon guessed he was in his mid-thirties. He was unusually handsome, with jet-black hair cut short, a narrow face and large, dark eyes. A three-day stubble gave him the look of a movie star trying to look rugged.

  ‘DCI Pendragon,’ he said. ‘My name’s Frampton, Adrian Frampton.’ He had his hand out and shook Pendragon’s hand with a firm grip before leading him into the lab.

  Pendragon surveyed the large room and was struck by the fact that, to his untrained eye at least, all laboratories looked the same, with just the details changed from place to place. He had been in three laboratories during the past couple of days, and whether they were places devoted to forensics, archaeology or plant biology, they all had benches, pristine scrubbed floors, Bunsen burners, racks of test tubes, and a certain chemical smell that seemed to seep from the walls.

  ‘So, how can I help you, Chief Inspector?’ Frampton enquired. ‘I imagine it’s something to do with the Mile End Murders.’

  Pendragon pulled a face. How he hated the way the media trivialised everything. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is to do with a series of crimes linked by the use of a particular poison. The police tox lab has isolated two rare chemicals in the poison that derive from rather unusual plants, not indigenous to this country.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Abric acid and oleander.’

  Adrian Frampton raised an eyebrow. ‘Very exotic,’ he said. ‘Abric acid is from Abrus precatorius.’

  ‘The Paternoster Pea.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Frampton replied, a little surprised. ‘The other is from the Jericho Rose. What are you hoping to discover?’

  ‘If any lab or botanical garden has lost some plants recently.’

  ‘We’ve never had either plant here.’

  ‘Really?’ Pendragon looked disappointed. ‘I know they’re rare, but …’

  ‘There are a lot of plants in the world, Chief Inspector. Have you contacted Kew, or down the road at Queen’s Park?’

  ‘Yes, we have.’

  The door to the lab swung open at that moment. Pendragon turned and saw a very large man wearing a lab coat that barely came down past his sides. It was Nigel Turnbull, aka MC Jumbo from The Love Shack. He saw Pendragon, turned and ran.

  The DCI reacted with lightning speed, setting off in immediate pursuit. Turnbull was extremely overweight, but he knew his way around the college. By the time Pendragon reached the hallway beyond the lab, he had disappeared.

  Pendragon ran to the top of the stairs and looked down, but there was no sign of his quarry. Surveying the hall, he noticed an Emergency Exit sign and ran towards it, pulling out his mobile as he went. Stabbing two numbers for speed-dial, he was straight through to the station. ‘Immediate back-up required,’ he said, pushing through the emergency door. ‘I’m in pursuit of a white male, about twenty years old, morbidly obese, bald. Last seen wearing a white lab coat over jeans and a dark top.’

  He was in the emergency stairwell. Peering over the side, he saw a hand moving down a rail several floors below and heard the clatter of heavy feet taking the stairs at speed. ‘Target is Nigel Turnbull,’ Pendragon added as he leapt down the first flight of stairs. ‘Approach with caution.’ He heard the thump of a door crashing shut on the ground floor. ‘Contact Sergeant Turner immediately and get a couple of cars over to Turnbull’s address. It’s on file. Out.’

  He clipped shut the phone and swung round the landing. Then stopped. He leaned forward, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath. He was over this sort of policing, he thought to himself. Straightening, he climbed back up the stairs and emerged into the hallway on the sixth floor. Adrian Frampton was standing outside the lab with another man by his side.

  ‘What the hell’s happening?’ Frampton asked.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to close off this lab while my people go over it,’ Pendragon replied.

  ‘What? Are you mad? We’re doing important …’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dr Frampton.’

  ‘But this is outrageous. You’ll need a warrant. Besides, I can’t authorise it.’

  ‘Dr Frampton, this is a very serious investigation. One of your team, the young man who was just here …’

  ‘Turnbull? What of him?’

  ‘He moonlights as a DJ at a club near here where the first body was discovered less than a week ago. Now he turns up, sees me and runs. I think that’s a bit suspicious, don’t you?’

  ‘But what has it got to do with us?’

  ‘I take it Nigel Turnbull is a student here? One of yours?’

  ‘Well, yes, but.’

  ‘No buts …’

  Dr Frampton glared at Pendragon, his face rigid with indignation. ‘You’ll have to take it up with the Dean’s office,’ he said coldly.

  Nigel Turnbull lived at number twenty-four Northam Road a short drive from Queen Mary College. Pendragon pulled into heavy traffic on Mile End Road and made two calls. The first was to Superintendent Hughes, explainin
g the situation. She told him she would get on to it straight away. Forensics would be into Frampton’s lab as soon as possible. The second call was to Sergeant Turner.

  ‘Where are you?’ Pendragon asked.

  ‘Just pulling up at Nigel Turnbull’s place.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  Turnbull occupied one of five bedsits on the ground floor of a large detached house. The landlord lived on the upper floor. Inspector Grant pulled up in a squad car at the same time as Turner arrived with Roz Mackleby. The three policemen walked up a path overgrown with weeds to a front door that looked as though the last time it saw a lick of paint, Elvis was alive. Grant rang the bell. There was no response. He leaned on it. An upper-storey window over the porch opened and a man’s head appeared. His hair was a mess and he looked as though he had just woken up.

  Grant flashed his ID. ‘Police,’ he called to the man. ‘We’d like a chat.’

  The head disappeared. They heard sounds from inside the house and the front door opened. A man in his late-forties stood there in a tatty dressing gown. He had a stubbly, flabby face and black rings under his eyes. He said nothing, but opened the door for the policemen to enter.

  ‘I just got to bed. I’m on shifts,’ he said wearily, and rubbed his right eye.

  ‘Sorry, sir. It’s Mr Francis, isn’t it? You’re the landlord?’

  ‘It is, and yes, I am,’ the man replied, suddenly awake. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You have a tenant, a student at Queen Mary College – Nigel Turnbull?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re all students there. Why?’

  ‘Is Mr Turnbull in?’

  ‘I should think he’s at college,’ Francis said. ‘His room’s down the hall on the right.’ He took them along a dim corridor lit by a naked light bulb dangling from a frayed cord. He rapped on a door with chipped, grubby paintwork. There was no reply.

  ‘Do you have a key?’

  ‘Well, yeah, but I don’t …’

  ‘It’s a serious matter, Mr Francis,’ Grant said evenly. ‘We have reason to believe Nigel Turnbull is a suspect in a homicide.’

  Francis’s eyes widened. ‘Well, okay. Hang on a minute.’

  He left them at the door to the bedsit and returned shortly after with a large bunch of keys. He was going through them as he paced along the hall. After a few moments, he found the key he was after and slipped it into the keyhole. As it turned, they heard a sound from inside the room. Turner jumped forward and pushed the door inwards with the side of his body. Grant and Mackleby were right behind him. They were just in time to see a man’s leg slip through the open window.

  Grant ran across the room. Turner spun on his heel and dashed for the front door, almost knocking Francis off his feet. Mackleby was only a second behind him. When they were on the garden path, they saw the burly form of Nigel Turnbull running alongside the house, heading for the street. He was so large he seemed to roll along like a ball. Turner raced for the gate, turned right and almost collided with Turnbull’s vast stomach. The man was pulling a pained expression and gabbling incoherently. Behind him, holding the runaway in what looked like an agonising arm lock, was DCI Pendragon.

  ‘Ah, you got here then,’ said Turner, a little out of breath.

  London, March 1589

  I was extremely tired, but Edward Perch insisted we talk right away and draw up plans. He led me out of Edmund’s room and I followed him into a small office at the end of a corridor. The room was sparsely furnished, containing a large desk strewn with papers and, along the far wall, a pair of old chairs. A servant was sent to fetch wine and some bread. It was only at the mention of food I realised how hungry I was.

  The office was at the back of the Bear Garden, away from the stands and the noise of the crowds. Edward was businesslike. He cleared his desk and directed me to a chair.

  ‘I have been aware of your mission for some time,’ he began. ‘I have people working for me in France. A lot of our business is conducted between Paris and London, but you need not concern yourself with that.’ He waved one hand dismissively. ‘My people have infiltrated Walsingham’s network. I’m confident that we know a great deal more about the dealings and schemes of the Principal Secretary than he knows of ours.’

  ‘So you only heard of my work through your spies in Paris?’

  ‘Of course not. I have also had personal correspondence with Roberto Bellarmino himself. I have helped others before you – men sent to England simply as missionaries. I am aware of the recent shift in Vatican policy, however. His Holiness has been losing too many good men. As much as I despise Francis Walsingham, his methods are extremely effective. It is clear we must pull the plant up by its roots. The Queen must die.’

  There was a heavy silence, broken by a barely audible roar from the crowd around the arena in the main part of the building. Then Edward said, ‘May I see the ring?’

  I lifted my hand. He brought over a candle. ‘How remarkable to see something that once graced the hand of Lucrezia Borgia,’ he said quietly. Then he quickly returned to his chair behind the desk. ‘To business. Ann has brought the poison from her house.’

  He must have seen the relief on my face. ‘She is a good girl,’ he confirmed. ‘Now, I have given much thought to how we should proceed. The Queen is at Hampton Court but will be leaving the day after tomorrow, to travel to York. If we are to strike, it must be tomorrow night. We are now some five hours from sunrise. You must lie low until sunset. I have arranged everything. This is what you must do.’

  It was quiet in the little room they gave me under the now empty spectator stand of the Bear Garden. The noise of the slaughter and the braying had ceased but nothing could mask the stink. Over long years, the smell of fear and death had permeated these walls. It would hang here for ever, I thought to myself, or at least until the building was razed.

  I had no idea of the time, and little sense of the passing minutes and hours. I lay on a bier, staring up at a sloping white ceiling. But gradually a small window close to the door began to take shape in the darkness and the black sky gave way to the grey wash of pre-dawn. I must have drifted off to sleep, for the next thing I was aware of was the sound of a cock crowing. I pulled myself up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

  There came a gentle tap at the door and Ann walked in, carrying a bowl of steaming water and a length of cloth.

  ‘This is becoming a habit,’ I said as I watched her place the bowl on a side table and drape the cloth over the end of the bier.

  ‘It is my pleasure, Father,’ she answered gravely.

  She turned to go, then hesitated.

  ‘What is it, Ann? Stay, talk to me.’

  She sat down on the end of the bier, hands in her lap. ‘You know, you do not have to carry on with your mission,’ she began. ‘No one would think ill of you if you …’

  ‘Maybe that is so,’ I interrupted, smiling. ‘But I would think ill of myself, and I know the Lord would be disappointed in me.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But nothing, Ann. I have no fear. I know I’m doing the Lord’s work. I know that if I die in my attempt, then that is God’s will. That it is His plan for me.’

  ‘But things have changed, Father. Sebastian is dead.’ She crossed herself as she said it. ‘And the Pursuivants … they have destroyed our circle. Two of my friends have been taken and Master Byrd only escaped by a miracle. Father Garnet is also in custody.’

  ‘I heard about Father Garnet,’ I replied. ‘Edward told me. But I knew nothing of your friends. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Do not be. We all know the risks.’

  ‘Then you must also know that I am aware of the dangers I face, Ann. I’ve known of them since I first began training in the Vatican. I believe my purpose is to serve God in the best way I may.’

  ‘Then I can say nothing more.’

  ‘You could wish me luck,’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘I will do better than that, Father John. You will be constantly in my prayers. And you wil
l need this.’ She handed me the small glass vial of poison.

  ‘And what will you do?’

  ‘Me? I shall continue with my own work. The Pursuivants have their suspicions, of course, but no proof. I’m sure that one day I shall be trapped or betrayed, and will suffer the consequences. But I will go to the scaffold with a clear conscience and a proud heart.’

  I moved closer and held Ann’s hands in mine. ‘You are a brave woman,’ I told her. ‘May the Lord bless you and keep you.’

  I looked down at her hands for a moment. When I met her gaze, I could not hide the tears brimming in my eyes.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Sebastian,’ I said. ‘It seems it is only now I am able to believe he is dead.’

  My anxiety grew as the day wore on. For most of the time I was left to my own thoughts, with only past pain and future fears to dwell upon. Ann brought me meals, and in the late-afternoon Edward Perch arrived with a piece of paper containing a detailed plan of Hampton Court Palace.

  After he had gone, I thought through the plan he had conceived and could not help slipping into self-doubt. I prayed for long hours, asking the Lord to give me the strength I needed to fulfil my task. But worse than the self-doubt were the times I questioned my faith in those helping me. How could I be sure, for instance, that Edward Perch would not betray me? He spoke of his faith, his commitment to the Holy Father in Rome, but how was I to know he was not also receiving financial reward for his work? Men like him did nothing except for gold. He would have me believe his reward was surety of Heaven, and perhaps this was true. Perhaps I was being unfair to the man. But, just as I had questioned the morals of Cornelius Agrippa, I found it hard to eradicate the doubts I felt about a man who, by all accounts, made his living from extortion, gambling and supplying prostitutes. Would he not view assassination – nay, regicide – in the same way? Simply another means of making money.

  I was praying so hard, I did not notice the light fail in the room as the little window near the door framed a dark blue sky streaked with the red of sunset. I was pulling myself to my feet when the door opened and Edward Perch was revealed. ‘It is time,’ he said, and searched my face with the alert eyes of a man who lived each day on the fragile margins of society, relying solely upon his wits.