The Borgia Ring (23 page)

Stepney, Friday 10 June, 10.00 a.m.

‘This is Dr Sue Latimer,’ Pendragon told the team before introducing each of them in turn. ‘Sue is a psychology lecturer at Queen Mary. I’ve asked her in today because she has some ideas about criminal motivation that might help our thinking.’ He waved to her to take over and sat down on the edge of a desk.

‘The subject came up when I was talking to Jack … er, DCI Pendragon … about the idea of transference,’ she began. ‘I was describing it in the abstract really, but now that I’ve seen the case notes for this series of murders, I realise it may well be of relevance to the investigation.’ She looked at the faces of the people gathered in the briefing room. The whole team was there, including the Super.

‘Criminal transference is the idea that someone commits murder using some totemistic object …’

‘Sorry, Dr Latimer, could we have that in English, please?’ Inspector Towers interrupted.

Sue smiled and looked at the floor for a second. ‘By “totemistic”, I mean that the killer places some special significance on an object. It might be anything, but it is directly related to the means by which they commit the crime. In the case of these recent homicides, the latest two have practically identical MOs. All three murders appear to
be linked to Bridgeport Construction, and all have happened since the ancient skeleton was unearthed on the construction site.’

‘So you’re saying the skeleton is the totemistic object?’ Grant said.

‘Not the skeleton itself, the ring that was originally on its hand and has since vanished.’

Grant raised his eyebrows and looked across at Pendragon. ‘But how can a ring be a murder weapon? Besides, Middleton and Ketteridge were poisoned.’

Sue was unruffled by this scepticism. ‘I would suggest the poison is in the ring.’ A stunned silence fell over the room at this. ‘In fact, a ring is a perfect totem. It’s a personal object, a thing that is kept close to the body. But, most importantly, rings usually possess some form of emotional resonance. They are used in many rituals to “seal the deal” – just think of a wedding ring.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Towers commented, ‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me again. The ring that was originally on the skeleton was presumably at least as old as the skeleton itself. But you’re saying that somebody today, living and working somewhere near here, is using that ancient ring to poison people? It sounds … well … far-fetched to say the least.’

‘I think it’s the best model we have to work on,’ announced Superintendent Hughes from the back of the room. All of them except Pendragon turned towards her. ‘It gives us a murder weapon, of sorts. It links in with the unearthing of the skeleton, and it’s at least a step along the road to a motive. It also suggests why Karim’s murder doesn’t fit the pattern of the later two homicides. It can’t be pure coincidence that he was killed the night the skeleton was unearthed. And if Dr Latimer’s theory is correct, then his murder at least was unplanned. He simply got in the way of our killer acquiring the ring.’

‘But how could our contemporary murderer first of all know about the ring being discovered and then so quickly learn what to do with it – acquire four poisons, the works?’ Turner asked. ‘Isn’t
that
too much of a coincidence?’

‘I can’t answer your question,’ Sue responded. ‘There’s not enough information as yet. I have no idea what the psychological connection between the ring and the murderer might be. I can, though, offer clues to the sort of mind that would be susceptible to criminal transference.’

‘Please do,’ Hughes told her.

‘The killer could be male or female. Indeed, women are more likely to be drawn to totems …’

‘But if our killer is a woman, how could she have overpowered Karim and bashed his skull in?’ Mackleby interrupted.

‘I’m just generalising,’ Sue responded. ‘Obviously, each situation has to be judged separately. It’s conceivable Karim was killed by a male accomplice, but I think that’s extremely unlikely. Totemistic murder is a
very
personal matter. Two people never share a totem. The only way the accomplice scenario could play out is if a woman, for the sake of argument, used a man to kill Karim but went on to commit the two poisonings herself.’

‘I think we’re getting off the point here,’ Hughes said. ‘Doctor, could you go back to your profile?’

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, explaining 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.