The Borgia Ring (15 page)

London, Wednesday 8 June, 8.15 a.m.

The kitchen smelt of spilled milk and was filled with the sound of a chart hit on Radio 2. Julie Silver sighed heavily as she opened the door of the dishwasher and realised she had forgotten to switch it on the night before. With a curse, she slammed it shut, put the kids’ breakfast bowls and cups into the sink and ran the tap over them. Leaving them to soak, she turned to the washing machine, extracted a knot of jeans and T-shirts, swung open the door to the drier and shovelled in the clothes.

There was a scratching sound at the door from the garden. Julie turned and saw Rex, the family’s collie. He had something in his mouth. Switching on the drier, she crossed the kitchen and unlocked the door. She only opened it an inch but Rex pushed it back and dashed past her, leaving muddy prints on Julie’s freshly cleaned floor. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ she exclaimed. ‘You little …’

Rex stood in the middle of the kitchen, his tail wagging, and let the object he was carrying drop from his mouth. It made a clunking sound as it hit the tiles and the dog gave a loud bark. Julie took a couple of steps towards him and Rex crouched down playfully, his tail going twenty to the dozen, saliva dripping from his jaws. Julie squatted down to take a closer look at the object. It was white and vaguely
hemispherical. She could barely imagine how Rex had got his jaws around it. She nudged it with a fingertip and it rolled over. Seeing the top half of a human skull, the orbits of the eyes hollow and bleached, Julie screamed and leapt to her feet. Ten seconds later, she was calling the local police station, her hand shaking as she stabbed at the keys.

Sergeant Jez Turner lived in a council flat in a cul-de-sac off Mile End Road. Even in bright sunlight the tower blocks looked grim. Turner’s place was on the fourth floor of Malibu House, a seven-storey edifice built in the mid-60s. As he pushed the button for the lift, Pendragon wondered whether the town planners believed they were being funny or if that ridiculously inappropriate name had come from the genuine belief that they were constructing a future paradise. Either way, the pigeon shit and car fumes were having the last laugh.

The lift had broken down months earlier and had never been repaired so Pendragon took the stairs. Like the rest of the building, they were constructed from plain concrete blocks. The stairwell was covered with graffiti and stank of beer and urine. He could hear a baby crying and then a gruff male voice shouting something unintelligible. The sounds from several different TV channels clashed horribly. Reaching the fourth floor, he turned on to a walkway. He counted at least half a dozen satellite dishes bolted to the ceiling, each pointing out over the car park below. A morbidly obese woman with the sad remnants of a roll-up dangling from her pursed lips was hanging some grey clothing on a makeshift washing line. The DCI gave her a friendly smile as he negotiated his way past her. She merely scowled back. A few doors on he reached 451,
knocked, and turned to see the fat woman studying him suspiciously.

The door opened and Pendragon was surprised to see a woman in a wheelchair. She was extremely thin and dressed in a black shell-suit, but her eyes were bright and full of life. When she smiled her face lit up. Pendragon realised she would once have been an extremely attractive woman.

‘It’s all right, you’ve rung the right bell, love,’ she said.

Pendragon glimpsed Jez Turner standing at the end of the hall behind her.

‘Sorry, I …’ Jez began.

The woman put out her hand. ‘Eileen Turner. You must be DCI Pendragon. I hope you’re going to come in for a cuppa.’

‘Mum, we’re in a hurry. The DCI’s gone out of his way to pick me up,’ the young sergeant said.

Pendragon smiled and glanced at Turner who looked embarrassed. Pendragon’s natural inclination was to refuse politely and beat an apologetic retreat, but for some reason this time he responded differently. ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

Jez stared at him, astonished.

‘Come through to the kitchen then, Chief Inspector.’

Eileen Turner wheeled herself towards her son who ducked into the kitchen before her. As Pendragon followed them, a black Labrador heaved itself up from a basket and padded over, tail wagging. He crouched down and stroked the dog’s head.

‘That’s Beckham,’ Jez said. ‘He’s getting on. I named him when he was a puppy and Becks first played for England. I went off the name after the incident at the ’ninety-eight World Cup, but he was soon back in favour.’ He ruffled the dog’s fur playfully and kissed the top of his head.

‘Please sit down,’ Eileen Turner said. Jez helped her with the cups. ‘So, how’s my boy doing, Inspector?’

‘Please, call me Jack,’ Pendragon answered. ‘How’s he doing? A credit to the force,’ he declared, straight-faced.

Eileen Turner glanced at her son and beamed. ‘Glad to hear it. Things haven’t always been easy for us. Jez has worked hard.’ She handed Pendragon a china cup and saucer. Catching his sergeant’s anxious expression, he took a sip before placing the tea on the table. ‘Excellent,’ he said.

Beckham sat beside Pendragon and let the DCI pet him. Eileen Turner wheeled herself around the other side of the table and Jez placed her tea in front of her, retreating to the kitchen counter beside the stove to drink his.

‘Jez told me about the terrible murder at the building site. Awful,’ Eileen said, between sips of her tea. ‘I can never understand why people do these things.’

‘I don’t think many people do, Mrs Turner.’

‘It’s only fair you call me Eileen if I’m to address you as Jack,’ she told him, smiling.

‘Quite right … Eileen. I’ve come to accept the fact that people find all sorts of strange reasons to kill.’

‘Usually to do with money.’

‘More often than not. Or at least things linked to money: drugs, gambling, power struggles.’

‘So the crime of passion is a thing of the past?’

‘Depends what you call passion, doesn’t it?’ Jez interjected. ‘Money’s a passion for a lot of people.’

‘I didn’t mean that, Jez love,’ his mother replied. ‘I meant the crimes of passion you see in the old movies.’

‘There’s nothing very romantic about murder in real life, Eileen,’ Pendragon said. ‘It’s always repulsive and disturbing, whatever the motive or means.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’ She turned to her son. ‘Jez,
bring over the biscuits, will you, love? The chief inspector looks famished.’

Pendragon laughed. ‘That’s very kind of you, but we really have to get going now.’

Eileen started to protest, but Jez put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Mum, we can’t stay chatting, I’m afraid.’ He kissed her on the cheek and she squeezed his hand.

‘Take care,’ she said as the front door closed behind them.

They were in the stairwell when Jez addressed his boss. ‘I know what you’re thinking. We hate the bloody place too. But I’ll be getting us out of here within a year. I’m saving for a deposit.’

‘Good for you, Sergeant.’

‘You want to know what happened, don’t you?’

Pendragon looked at him, surprised.

‘Six years ago. Car crash. It killed me dad. Mum was left semi-paralysed.’

They reached ground level and crossed the concrete courtyard that led to the road. ‘A tragic waste,’ Pendragon managed to say. ‘Your mum’s a lovely woman, and clearly lonely.’

‘I do the best I can, sir. We were on our way to getting out of this shit-hole when the accident happened.’ Turner waved to indicate the grey bulk of Malibu House without looking back. He had a pained expression. Pendragon squeezed the remote for the car and the doors unlocked with a click and a flashing of lights. ‘The upside is, it gave me the kick up the arse I needed. I was a bit of a tearaway before. Now look at me.’ And he produced a disarming grin. ‘A credit to the force!’

They had just pulled away when Pendragon’s mobile rang. It was Rob Grant.

‘Sir, something’s come up.’

‘What?’

‘The skeleton has miraculously reappeared.’

‘Where?’

‘Close to Frimley Way. Long story.’

‘Well, it had better be a good one, Inspector. I’ll be there in five minutes.’

The skeleton had been found in a skip no more than fifty metres from the Frimley Way building site. Pendragon parked the car at the end of the lane and he and Turner walked towards a small group gathered around a rusty yellow skip. Forensics were there, but there was no sign of Colette Newman today. A large rectangle of plastic sheeting had been spread out on the stony ground of the lane. Two men in plastic suits stood in the skip, balancing on piles of household refuse and prising away a length of cabling that was caught around a large rusty oil drum. They laid a second sheet of plastic inside the skip and carefully manoeuvred the skeleton on to it. Then, between them, they lifted it gingerly over the edge into the waiting hands of two colleagues. Vickers and Thatcher were standing to one side, looking on. They stiffened when they saw Pendragon and Turner approaching.

‘Guv,’ Vickers said. He and Thatcher studiously ignored Turner who was standing slightly behind Pendragon with a smirk on his face.

‘Fill me in, Sergeant.’

‘Got a call from a lady at number seven Alderney Road, just over there.’ He pointed to his left. ‘The family’s collie brought half a skull into the kitchen. Sergeant Thatcher and I had just arrived at the station and came over straight away. We made a search of the lanes and alleyways round about. Half an hour ago we found this.’ He nodded towards the skip.

‘And you searched this alleyway two days ago?’

‘Yes, sir. The skip was here then, no skeleton.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘Certain,’ Thatcher said firmly. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Turner, take that fucking smirk off your face …’

Pendragon turned to find his sergeant a picture of innocence. ‘All right, Sergeants,’ he said to Thatcher and Vickers. ‘Obviously someone’s playing games with us. Get back to the station and do your reports. We’ll take it from here.’

Pendragon and Turner walked over to where the skeleton had been laid out. They both crouched down beside the bones.

‘No ring,’ the DCI noted.

‘Could have been nicked by someone who saw the skeleton in the skip though, guv.’

‘Possible, but unlikely.’

Pendragon straightened up and had turned towards the main road when he saw Fred Taylor approaching. The journalist was accompanied by a photographer Pendragon recognised from both his press encounters outside Brick Lane Police Station. ‘Oh, wonderful!’ he said under his breath.

‘This must be the owner of the metatarsal,’ Taylor announced as he got close. He turned to give Pendragon a cold smile. ‘That’s m-e-t-a-t-a-r-s-a-l.’ He started to walk over to where the forensics officers were arranging the limbs and cranium of the skeleton on the sheet, but Pendragon shot out his arm, stopping Taylor in mid-stride.

‘This is a crime scene, Mr Taylor. Strictly off-limits to the public.’

Taylor knew better than to push things. He turned to face off Pendragon. ‘A crime scene, Chief Inspector? Well, that’s really all I needed to know.’ He nodded to the photographer who peeled off a dozen shots in rapid succession.

Feeling his anger rising, Pendragon took a step towards both men, then restrained himself. Thatcher and Vickers were still by the skip. ‘Sergeants, would you please escort these gentlemen to their car?’ he politely requested.

London, Wednesday 8 June, 8.05 p.m.

Tony Ketteridge passed by the bed and glanced at his wife, Pam. There was nothing on TV so they had agreed on an early night. She was propped up against a pile of pillows reading a magazine. He could see the white lead of her iPod running down into her frilly nylon nightie. The strains of a particularly rumbustious Tom Jones track spilled from the headphones.

He had always hated this flat, hated it for the entire seven years they had lived there. He particularly despised the bedroom with its pink walls and faux-antique furniture – all Pam’s choices. There was nothing of him in the room, he thought as he walked towards the bathroom. In fact, there was nothing of him in the entire flat. It was Pam’s domain. He earned the money, she picked the curtains. It was an arrangement he had come to accept long ago. But he had also concluded long ago that accepting a thing was not the same as embracing it.

He closed the bathroom door behind him. At least it was cool in here. To either side of the sink stood narrow sash windows. They were open, the blinds up. They faced a neighbour’s brick wall, so it was private enough. The bathroom was over-lit and painted in a different shade of pink from the bedroom. To Tony Ketteridge’s eye, the colours clashed
horribly, the entire ensemble looking like a pig’s insides. The bath was lilac plastic and had been very fashionable in the 70s. To complement it, Pam had opted for gold-dipped, Victorian-style taps. The hand basin was white except for a pattern of lilac flowers that swept up from the pedestal and cascaded into the bowl. A gold-plated but severely tarnished waste and plug completed the look of fake faded grandeur.

Ketteridge studied his reflection in the mirror. He looked horrendous, and felt worse. Until a few days ago he was just about coping. Now … everything seemed to be falling apart around him. He wasn’t just on the back foot – that was normal – he was tumbling into the abyss. All he could see ahead was hopelessness, a yawning chasm into which he was being sucked.

He leaned towards his reflection, arms dangling at his sides, and poked out his tongue. Then he realised he had forgotten to bring up a glass of water. Walking back into the bedroom, he saw that Pam was engrossed in an article about Tom Cruise’s love life. There was an old picture of him in mid-leap on Oprah’s studio sofa. Pam ignored her husband completely.

He padded along the hall barefoot, past the tiny living-room with its heavily patterned sofa and drawn curtains that clashed horribly with both the fabric of the sofa and the ghastly orange and red swirls of the carpet. He switched on the kitchen light and crossed the linoleum floor as the fluorescent tube juddered into life. He let the water run for a moment. It had been so hot for so long, the pipes made water from the cold tap lukewarm.

He heard a sound behind him. He turned but there was nothing. He could see his own reflection in the glass of the back door. He tested the water with his finger. Satisfied, he pushed the glass under the tap.

That sound again. It was coming from just outside the door to the yard. Maybe Minnie the cat wanted to come in. She did that sometimes though it was against Pam’s strict rules. He had dutifully fed the cat and put her out only five minutes earlier. He unlocked the door and opened it a few inches.

It was quiet except for the sound of traffic passing along the main road the other side of the building. From far off, he heard a girl squeal then a peel of laughter. He was just ducking back into the kitchen when the sound came again. It was a scratching sound, like metal on metal.

‘Minnie!’ he called. ‘You can come in for a saucer of milk but that’s all. Then you’re out again. Minnie!’

He saw a flash of colour and heard a swishing sound – the movement of sumptuous fabric. Then he was propelled backwards into the kitchen. Tony was a big man, but he had been taken completely by surprise. He lost his footing and crashed to the linoleum with a dull thud. A figure rushed through the doorway with astonishing speed – a bulbous crimson-and-gold blur. Tony Ketteridge registered long, black hair flying through the air and the flash of red lips. But before he could move, he felt a steel blade at his throat. Terrified, he just managed to focus on the face peering down at him.

The face was pale: lips ruby red, eyes dark discs ringed in black mascara, cheeks heavily rouged. For an instant he imagined he was looking at The Joker from
Batman
. But beneath the make-up the face was just recognisable. He felt sick suddenly. ‘You!’ Ketteridge managed to rasp, eyes darting from the grotesque face to the blade held in the hand hovering above his throat.

Tony Ketteridge felt a sharp pain in the soft flesh just beneath his left armpit. It was like fire, like a burning needle piercing his skin and sliding up into his shoulder. He turned his head as much as he could, but he could see no wound. His
mouth fell open. Paralysis came a second later. To his horror, he had absolutely no control over his body. His vision began to go. The world started to melt into a palette of white, red and black. He wanted to scream, but instead he felt his stomach heave. He vomited blood that fountained over his chest. The face of his killer floated into view again and Ketteridge could see, in front of that painted face, the murderer’s hand. It was wearing a ring, but the large green stone had been lifted and a bloodied spike rose from inside. Ketteridge tried desperately to shout a name, but nothing happened. And, all around him, the universe faded to nothing.