The Borgia Ring (26 page)

Pendragon was pacing along the corridor, in one of the worst moods he could remember. Questioning suspects was one of the aspects of the job he really disliked. He hated putting on the tough guy act because he had to adopt a persona that was very different from the way he saw himself, and he was always concerned that once he had taken on the role, he would not be able to shake it off. He didn’t want to become the person he pretended to be in the interview room. Other cops seemed to be able to slip in and out of character as easily as changing a shirt, but he found it unnatural. Perhaps, he mused, that was one of the reasons he had never progressed beyond DCI. What made today’s performance particularly bad was the fact he had been so far off-target with his hunch. Lost in thought, he didn’t hear the uniformed sergeant the first time he spoke.

‘Sir?’ Sergeant Scratton repeated.

Pendragon snapped out of his reverie. ‘Sergeant?’

‘Sir, just had a call from Constable Smith. He’s found the body of a dog down by the canal on South Street, about a mile from here.’

‘A dog?’ Pendragon looked completely confused.

‘Remember on Tuesday I told you we had three reports of missing dogs? That old lady was just leaving …’

‘Yes, yes,’ Pendragon recalled. ‘I remember. Her spaniel, wasn’t it?’

‘It was, sir. Smith says this one’s a mongrel, not the old lady’s dog. He told me he thinks the poor thing’s been dead for less than a day. But get this – he reckons it was poisoned. There’re no visible wounds, and its gums are coated in some greenish stuff. He didn’t elaborate. Oh, and there was a hypodermic needle next to the body.’

Pendragon was about to say something glib, like, a hypodermic by the canal in that part of Stepney being almost de rigueur, when he stopped. Along the corridor, a door slammed, and they saw Turner emerging from Interview Room 2. Pendragon stepped towards him. ‘You done with Turnbull?’

Turner nodded.

‘Good.’ Then, turning back to Scratton, Pendragon added, ‘Sergeant, lock up the suspect, please. Turner, you come with me.’

‘What’s up?’ Jez asked as they took the stairs to the car park three at a time.

‘A poisoned dog.’

‘A what?’

Pendragon filled him in as they got into a patrol car. The sergeant went very quiet and gazed out of the passenger window.

‘What have you found out about Murano Glass UK and the charming Mr Gregson?’ Pendragon asked, pulling out on to Brick Lane.

‘Oh,’ Turner said, facing his boss, ‘nothing very helpful, guv. No real previous on anyone working there. The storeman, Daniel Beatty, did a bit of joyriding when he was a teenager, but then … who didn’t? Both Alec Darlinghurst and his mother are clean. Not so much as a parking ticket between them. Sidney Gregson and his wife flew to Nice on
May the twenty-third, the day before the break-in. There’s not a speck of evidence to implicate any of them.’

‘No big surprise, really,’ Pendragon replied. ‘Still, I’m going to get Mackleby to ask everyone involved in this investigation to submit to a voluntary DNA swab test. Nothing’s giving.’

They fell silent again, and Turner watched the buildings flash by as the main road gave way to a small side street. Pendragon pulled to a stop at the end where a line of white metal pillars separated the road from a patch of worn grass. Beyond that, a narrow path of baked mud joined a concrete towpath running alongside the canal. A short walk brought them to a rusted wire fence. They could just make out the solid form of Constable Smith in his bright yellow jacket. He was standing with three other people in the middle of a patch of land covered with great chunks of concrete, piles of rusted petrol cans and the occasional tuft of long, scrubby grass.

The dog lay in a sad heap on a patch of gravel. Its eyes were open and milky-white, but there were few outward signs of decay. Its matted, brown fur was greasy, and exuded the pungent smell of urine.

‘A couple of kids found the poor little bugger,’ Constable Smith said as Pendragon and Turner reached the animal. ‘I’ve bagged the hypodermic and kept anyone from contaminating the scene as much as I could, sir.’

‘Good work, Smith,’ Pendragon said. He crouched down and looked closely at the green stains around the dog’s gums. ‘Okay, I’ll get someone down here to take this away. Smith, can you send these people home? God knows why they have to stand around here. Sergeant …’ he looked at Turner. ‘Sergeant?’

Jez looked up and Pendragon could see he was very pale
and tears were brimming in his eyes. ‘How could anyone do this?’ he said.

‘Come on,’ the DCI replied. ‘Let’s get back to the station.’

They picked their way through the detritus. Pendragon opened his mobile and speed-dialled the station.

‘Get me Inspector Grant, please.’

‘Guv?’

‘Turner and I are heading back from the canal near South Street. I take it you’ve been told about the dog?’

‘Yeah, Scratton just showed me the report. Smith found it, right?’

‘Correct. It’s pretty clear it was poisoned.’

‘You sure?’

‘Well, no, Inspector,’ Pendragon retorted. ‘But something weird is going on and it seems a bit too much of a coincidence that the first dog was reported missing before Middleton’s murder.’

‘What? You think the killer practised on dogs first?’

‘I’m not sure what I think, Grant. There are so many unanswerable questions. This dog died only last night at the latest, so who knows?’

There was silence on the line.

‘Inspector?’

‘Yes, sorry, sir. Just thinking.’

‘All right, listen. I want every piece of waste ground, park, canal footpath and back alley in the borough searched. Pull everyone off what they’re doing. I want those other missing dogs found by the end of the day.’

‘Will do. By the way, sir, something else has come up.’

‘What?’

‘Got a call just before you rang in. From Max Rainer.’

‘Rainer?’

‘Claims he was attacked leaving work last night. Smacked
over the head. He spent half the night in A and E, apparently, and he’s mad as hell. Wants the culprit in chains.’

‘Was it a mugging? Was he robbed?’

‘Apparently not. His wallet was untouched.’

They had reached the squad car. Pendragon got behind the wheel. ‘Okay,’ he said to Grant. ‘I want to be told the minute you find anything.’ He shut the phone and turned the ignition key.

Max Rainer was a great deal more welcoming than he had been on their first visit to his flat. He opened the door to them wearing a long silk dressing gown over expensive-looking pyjamas. He had a large plaster on his forehead and was holding a cold pack to his right temple with one hand and had a glass of whisky in the other. Aren’t we the drama queen? Pendragon thought to himself as Rainer invited them into his sitting-room.

‘I appreciate your coming over, Chief Inspector.’ He gave Pendragon a weak smile and glanced at Sergeant Turner who was looking the other way at a painting on the wall. ‘Please sit down. May I offer you both a drink?’ And he held up his tumbler.

‘Not on duty, regrettably,’ Pendragon said.

‘That’s a shame. This is a particularly fine single malt, a thirty-year-old Macallan.’

‘I’ll have a glass of water, please,’ Turner said merrily. Pendragon gave his sergeant a fleeting grin as Rainer strode through to the kitchen.

‘So, talk us through what happened,’ Pendragon said as Rainer handed Turner a small glass of tap water.

‘I was leaving the office. It must have been just after nine. I had stayed on to do some work. The others had left hours before. I was locking the main door to the office – the one
leading from the lobby on the first floor. I heard a sound behind me, but before I could turn, I felt this incredible pain in the back of my head and I collapsed, smacking my forehead on the door as I went.’

‘So you saw no one?’

‘No.’

‘And you came to, when?’

‘It was three minutes past twelve. I found a cab and got myself to the London Hospital. They kept me in until this morning. Concussion, of course, and I had four stitches … here.’ He pointed to his forehead. ‘And seven here, at the back.’

‘Do you have any idea who could have done this?’

‘I was rather hoping you could tell me that,’ Rainer retorted, the old brittleness returning.

‘I understand nothing was stolen? Your wallet was untouched.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Then it’s possible you were attacked by someone with a grievance.’

Rainer was silent.

‘Mr Rainer, is there no one you suspect? Do you have any enemies?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

Pendragon glanced at Turner, who was concentrating on his notebook. ‘It’s just that your partner, Tim Middleton …’

‘Yes. All right. I know what you’re going to say. Tim’s not even in the ground yet and I’m attacked with no apparent motive – odd. Okay …’ He paused for a moment, stood up and walked over to a drinks cabinet where he poured himself a generous new measure of the particularly fine Macallan. Returning, he admitted: ‘I’m being blackmailed.’

Pendragon and Turner both stared at him. ‘When did this start?’ Pendragon asked.

‘About three months ago. I have no idea who it is, or why. But they seem to know an awful lot about my past and are completely unscrupulous about how they employ that knowledge.’

‘Can you elaborate, please?’

‘No, I can’t, Chief Inspector. It’s irrelevant.’

‘You think so? I would say it’s entirely relevant. You see, Tim Middleton was also being blackmailed. Before he was murdered.’

Rainer blanched and took a large gulp of whisky. ‘Before I qualified as an architect,’ he said quickly, ‘I did a bit of teaching on the side. Sixteen-and seventeen-year-olds doing their GCSEs. I … I had a brief relationship with one of the girls. She was seventeen, all perfectly legal.’

‘What went wrong, Mr Rainer?’

He sighed and looked at the ceiling. ‘She fell pregnant and I pushed her into having a backstreet abortion. She died of septicaemia. I never owned up to her family.’ Rainer glared at the two policemen. ‘It was thirty years ago, for God’s sake! I can’t imagine how
anyone
could know about it.’

‘Someone obviously does,’ Turner said, returning Rainer’s glare.

He drained his glass. ‘So, what are you going to do now?’

‘Would you be willing to give a full statement and provide access to all your accounts?’

‘No!’ Rainer’s voice was slightly slurred.

‘Do you have any letters, e-mails, anything from the blackmailer?’

‘No, they contacted me by phone. They’ve called three times. The last time was over a month ago to say they were doubling the payments.’

Pendragon stood up. ‘Well, in that case, there’s not a lot we can do.’

‘What do you mean, there’s not a lot you can do?’ Rainer demanded. ‘This is outrageous! Surely you have forensics, DNA people, fingerprint experts?’

‘Mr Rainer, what evidence do you think we’ll find at the scene of the crime? You were hit over the head from behind. You saw no one. You had the wound cleaned and stitched – quite understandably. The person who attacked you was almost certainly wearing gloves, and they would not have left DNA at the scene. We could check surveillance cameras close to your offices, but I would say the chances of seeing anything useful would be … well … zero. The only real chance we have of getting anywhere with our inquiries would be to try to trace the blackmailer. To do that, we need to follow a paper trail beginning with your bank details and a full and thorough statement from you, giving names, dates, every detail you can about your … indiscretions thirty years ago.’

‘I’m not willing to do that.’

‘Very well,’ Pendragon retorted. ‘If you change your mind, you know where to reach us. We’ll see ourselves out.’

Stepney, Saturday 11 June, 4.05 p.m.

Pendragon looked at the photographs spread out on his desk and felt a growing sense of hatred for all humanity well up inside him. He had seen so many mangled bodies over the years, there was little shock value left for him in that sight. The only things that upset him, apart from seeing bodies in the morgue being prodded and poked by pathologists, were pictures of murdered children or abused animals. What adults did to each other was one thing, but the killing of innocents made him realise that, for all the cleverness of the human race, all the great things civilisation had created, at its core humankind was maggot-ridden.

The team had found all three of the dogs reported missing and one that had not been, which, along with the dog found near the canal, made a total of five. Here were the pictures. Five dead dogs in different stages of decay, all of them twisted, pathetic things, a rich endorsement to human depravity. Pendragon looked away and picked up two sheets of A4 stapled together – a preliminary report written by a young and enthusiastic forensic assistant named Janie Martindale, who had been sent by Collette Newman to assist the search team. He glanced at the neatly typed report, absorbing the essential facts.

He placed the report back on the desk and ran his fingers over his forehead. What connection did the dogs have with the murders of Karim, Middleton and Ketteridge? There had to be a link. Three dead men and five dead dogs within a few square miles, and all within a week? The dogs couldn’t have just been ‘practice’, as Inspector Grant had put it. If the murderer had experimented before turning to his first human victim, why continue killing dogs? No, that theory didn’t hold water.

There was a tap at the door. He looked up to see Janie Martindale. She was small, no more than five feet tall, with cropped black hair, a boyish face and figure. ‘Sir? Sorry, you looked lost in thought,’ she said.

‘No problem at all. I
was
lost in thought, but going nowhere with the exertion.’ He gave her a smile.

‘I thought you might be interested in this.’ She held out a sealed plastic bag. Inside lay a piece of red fabric. He took it from her and peered through the plastic.

‘It’s velvet, sir. I found it on a gatepost at site number two, a piece of waste ground near the railway bridge off Sycamore Road … the spaniel. It’s hard to tell how long the fabric has been there, but the dog died around seventy-two hours ago. This piece has kept its pigmentation integrity – sorry, its colour. Strongly coloured fabric like this fades in intense sunlight, and we’ve had abnormally bright sun recently. The degradation isn’t noticeable to the naked eye after such a short time, but under a microscope you can tell. I would say the velvet has been on the gatepost no more than a week and quite possibly about as long as dog number two has been dead – three days. I wouldn’t normally stick my neck out and say something like that. But if you put it together with the gold thread and the slipper imprint found at the scene of the Tony Ketteridge murder …’

Pendragon nodded. ‘Someone dressing up.’

Janie Martindale shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s a theory.’

‘It is, Dr Martindale.’

She laughed. ‘Not a doctor … yet, Chief Inspector! Only six months away though, hopefully.’

‘Okay … well, good work, Ms Martindale.’

The young forensic scientist had only been gone a few minutes when there came another tap at the door and Superintendent Hughes peered in. ‘You busy?’ she asked.

‘I was about to knock on your door actually, ma’am.’ He looked at his watch. ‘My time’s almost up.’

She perched herself on the edge of the desk. ‘That’s what I wanted to see you about.’

Pendragon put his hands up. ‘Okay, I’ve done my best. It’s back to you.’

‘Jack, I think perhaps I’ve been a little unfair on you. You look shattered. It’s been a hell of a week.’

He stared at her, surprised.

‘I’ve just had a call from the lab. They’ve found a tiny piece of DNA on the synthetic fibre they found on the hypodermic. It could be from someone completely unconnected with the case, but they’ll do their best to find out. They told me you’d put Sergeant Mackleby on to collecting voluntary DNA swabs from everyone even vaguely linked with the case.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good move. If Dr Newman has any chance with that sample on the fibre, it will only be of any use if we have something on file we can match it to.’

He produced a half-smile. ‘Glad to hear I’ve done something right.’

Hughes looked at the photos of the dogs and then up at Pendragon. ‘I’ve also had a call from Commander Ferguson.’

‘Oh.’

‘He was cheerful for once. Though still very much pissed off we haven’t caught the “Mile End Murderer”.’

‘Oh, God! Even the bloody Commander is using that ridiculous …’

‘Commander Ferguson sees himself as “the people’s copper”,’ Hughes interjected with a faint smile. ‘And that’s strictly off the record!’

Pendragon sighed. ‘So, he’s pissed off about the murders, but …?’

‘But he’s delighted we’ve caught the bastards who’ve been flooding the market with cheap E.’

Pendragon raised an eyebrow.

‘Turnbull’s given a very full confession and has named names. He and Dr Adrian Frampton were actually manufacturing the stuff, but we also have the names of half a dozen dealers. I think we can safely say we’ve shut down distribution for … oh … at least a month. Until, that is, some other clever little sod sets up in business.’

‘So, catching Turnbull has bought me a reprieve, has it?’

‘A brief one, Jack, a brief one. But you know what? I feel quietly confident we’re closing in on the “Mile End Murderer”.’

‘I wish I could share your confidence,’ Pendragon replied.

Pendragon had just turned off the light and was closing the door to his office when his phone rang. For a second he considered ignoring it, but then thought better of it, flicked the light back on and retraced his steps.

‘Pendragon.’

‘Chief Inspector? It’s Geoffrey Stokes. I wasn’t sure if you’d still be at the station.’

‘How may I help you, Professor?’

‘Well, I think I may be able to help
you
, Chief Inspector. I’ve become rather obsessed with your case, I’m afraid. I’ve slipped way behind schedule and my students have been ignored!’ He produced an odd, whinnying laugh. ‘But I think you’ll consider it worth my while. Could I trouble you to pop over to the lab?’

Pendragon glanced at his watch. It was 6.32. ‘Well, I …’

‘I have some very exciting findings.’

Pendragon couldn’t help thinking that, in his experience, what academics considered ‘exciting’ was not nearly as
titillating or as useful as they thought. But then he recalled how much the professor had already discovered, from so little, and found himself agreeing to come over to Queen Mary right away.

As Pendragon passed the front desk, a young constable taking the evening shift saw him and nodded. Then he suddenly remembered something. ‘Oh, sir. I was just about to pop down to your office. Just had a call from a …’ he looked at his pad ‘… Mr Jameson. He lives on Sycamore Road. Says he saw something odd the other night.’

‘Odd?’

‘He reckons he saw a woman leaving the waste ground where one of the dogs was found.’

Pendragon frowned. ‘When?’

‘He said Tuesday, about midnight. He said the woman looked odd.’

‘That word again, Constable. What does “odd” mean?’

‘Apparently, he only caught a brief glimpse, but she was wearing a long flowing dress and she had long black hair. Sounds a bit dodgy, don’t you think, sir? Maybe he’d had one too many.’

Pendragon nodded. ‘Thanks, Constable,’ he said, and strode towards the main doors. Tuesday night was around seventy-two hours ago, he mused. Dog No. 2 found on the waste ground near Sycamore Road showed evidence of ‘2nd instar’ larvae. And the words Sue Latimer had used rang inside his head: ‘They’ll probably dress up …’

‘Chief Inspector, it’s good to see you again,’ Stokes said warmly as he guided Pendragon through the doors of the lab where they had talked the previous day.

‘So, what are these exciting findings you mentioned?’

‘There’s so much, I don’t know where to begin.’

Pendragon looked at the professor and realised with a sudden stab of pity that this man was even more married to his job than he was to his, and he was probably even more lonely. At least, Jack remembered, he had a date tonight. He somehow doubted Professor Stokes had been out with a female since his graduation dance.

‘Well,’ Stokes went on, ‘one thing at a time. The bone. Please thank Dr Newman for me. It’s been most revealing.’

‘How?’

‘Well, I found a tiny, tiny trace of soft tissue on it.’ He walked over to another of his futuristic-looking machines and patted it. ‘And our DNA analyser is second to none. In fact, Thomas, our tech guru, modified this himself. It’s more sophisticated than anything you’ll find at Quantico.’

‘And what did you find?’

‘Our skeleton is that of a young Caucasian male, aged fifteen to twenty-five. He died between 1580 and 1595. And the cause of his death?’ Stokes paused for dramatic effect and held Pendragon’s gaze. ‘Arsenic poisoning.’

Pendragon raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, that is …’

‘It’s exciting, isn’t it? But there’s more, Chief Inspector. The ring. I’ve been studying the main image again. I’ve put it through various filters and enhancers, but it took a fresh eye to spot something I kept missing. Thomas …’

‘Your tech guru?’

‘Yes, the same. He took one look at the picture of the ring and pointed out the anomaly on the side of the jewel.’

‘Anomaly?’

‘Yes, take a look.’ Stokes walked to a desk and pulled over a huge enlargement of the ring. ‘There. See that bulge? Here, take this.’ He handed Pendragon a loupe.

The DCI peered at the image with the loupe at his eye. Straightening, he said, ‘What is it?’

‘Good question, Chief Inspector. I’ve given it a great deal of thought and can reach only one possible conclusion. This ring is no ordinary bishop ring. Yes, it was almost certainly owned by the Borgias, which means it wasn’t ordinary to begin with. But there’s even more to it than that. I believe this ring is the famous “poisoner’s” ring once owned by Lucrezia Borgia.’

‘Poisoner’s ring?’

‘Yes. You know about Lucrezia Borgia?’

‘Well, I know she was the daughter of Pope Alexander. She was an infamous nymphomaniac and probably a murderer, depending on which historical account you accept.’

‘Oh, make no bones about it, Chief Inspector. Lucrezia Borgia was pure evil. She is known to have murdered at least three people. And this ring …
this very ring
… was almost certainly the means by which she killed those people without ever being caught. Documents written after her death tell us that Lucrezia possessed a ring which fits the description of this one.’ He tapped the photograph. ‘The jewel pivoted back and a spike levered up from inside. She coated the spike with a particularly potent poison she named Cantarella. The major component of Cantarella was arsenic, but nobody knows the exact composition. According to some accounts, the recipe for the poison was inscribed inside the ring.’

Pendragon stared at the photograph. ‘That tiny bulge on the side – what you call an anomaly – that’s the mechanism used to open the ring?’

‘Correct. When Lucrezia was about to kill, she depressed that tiny lever. The top flipped open, the spike swung up and … well, you can imagine.’

‘So, what happened to the ring?’ Pendragon asked.

‘That’s the really fascinating thing. It disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’

‘Actually, it disappeared twice. Lucrezia died in Ferrara in June 1519, and the ring was not listed among the effects in her estate. We know that several people wanted to get their hands on it, including her third husband, Alfonso d’ Este, who survived her by some fifteen years. But it’s almost certain he never found it.’

‘And the second time?’

‘There’s a story that the ring was used in an attempt to kill Elizabeth I during the late-sixteenth century.’

Pendragon looked incredulous.

‘You find that hard to believe, Inspector? Well, you shouldn’t. There were many attempts on the life of the Queen. You have to remember, the religious chaos her father, Henry VIII, had initiated troubled Elizabeth’s entire reign, and the wrath of the Catholics was only exacerbated by the humiliation of the Spanish Armada in 1588. Jesuit missionaries were sent to England in an effort to indoctrinate the people against Elizabeth, and some were trained assassins.’

‘I had no idea. So, you think the skeleton is that of a Catholic fanatic who tried to kill the Queen of England?’

‘Well, I can’t be certain. Almost nothing is known of the assassination attempt using the ring of Lucrezia Borgia. The ring was lost and it seems the whole affair was hushed up. But there is a strongly held view among some academics that the assassin almost succeeded.’