‘What’s in their room?’ asked Anastasia.
‘Rubbish by two narcissistic weirdos who do photos and montages about themselves. As the great art critic Brian Sewell—who has resisted the barbarians—put it about Gilbert and George, “
these names alone are enough to make the heart of the sane man sink.” However, Tat disagrees. In its view, they have
sacrificed their individual identities to art and thus turned the traditional notion of creativity on its head. So at the expense of the taxpayer we look at their images of fellatio, using improbably large organs of even more improbable colours. Such works, according to Tat, demonstrate their transgression and vulnerability.’
Pringle was becoming hysterical. ‘But they do. They do.’
‘In my view,’ said the baroness ‘the pair should be taken at their own early estimation. As far as I could see, their only worthwhile work in Tat was a photograph of them with cut-out letters pinned to their chests which read “George the Cunt” and “Gilbert the Shit.”’
Pringle moaned.
‘To move on to the Hirst room. Apart from his rare moment of originality in having that snap taken in a morgue, everything else d’Offay had bought from him was all the old dreary derivative stuff: dead sheep, spots, skulls, pharmaceutical aids. Oh, and butterflies. Another idea pinched from someone else.’
‘How can you say that?’ said Marilyn. ‘I bought plenty of them and I was told they were original.’ She shot at Herblock what the baroness thought might be a glare. He patted her hand. ‘Original in the sense that he brought his own genius to bear on the insect, hon.’
‘That mountebank—though, I admit, talented mountebank—Salvator Dali was painting butterflies many years ago,’ said the baroness. ‘Hirst merely produced labour-saving versions by buying job-lots of real butterflies and letting them loose in a gallery or sticking them onto painted surfaces. Someone should have set the anticruelty people on him. Then an American artist called Precious started using the wings of real butterflies to create the effect of stained glass windows. Ten years later, Hirst—or rather his assistants—started doing exactly the same. However, death is a big feature of the Hirst brand, and d’Offay wanted a work made specially for him, hence these unfortunate insects randomly stuck on a painting are called
Monument to the Living and the Dead
.’
‘You don’t get it,’ shouted Pringle. ‘You just don’t get it. These butterflies are a metaphor for mortality. Hirst’s work is about life and death: it is relevant to us all.’ Then, remembering where he was, he shivered.
‘Artists have always been preoccupied with life and death,’ the baroness said evenly. ‘It is not an original notion. We can meditate on it without having to have this sort of crap all round us to remind us. A few words would do it. May I refer you to the Book of Common Prayer: “In the midst of life we are in death.”’ She looked about her and saw that she had made a tactical error: everyone was now silent and reflective. ‘Oh, lord,’ she said to herself. ‘We’re all depressed now. It’s the drug wearing off.’ Like an old warhorse, she stirred herself. ‘But here again,’ she cried, ‘useless though he is, Hirst is to be preferred to Andy Warhol. Now if there was ever a charlatan who robbed the rich just for the hell of it, it was that preening, narcissistic, self-absorbed, old queen who had one good idea and flogged it to death cynically.’ She saw Fortune stirring into angry life and settled back to up the ante.
***
It was after two a.m. when the three friends got back to the flat. ‘I know we’re exhausted,’ said Mary Lou, ‘but we’ve got to get our story straight for Ellis. I’ve already lied that I had to stay over because Rachel and I had so much work to do on my school presentation. Now let’s perfect the next lie.’
Rachel gave her a sympathetic squeeze. ‘It’s simple enough, isn’t it? We’ve been up late talking about Jack and wondering if there was anything useful we might have forgotten. And Robert just remembered the Albanians.’
‘You call him, Mary Lou, and then you can put me on.’
She pulled her phone out of her bag. ‘
I hate doing this. I absolutely hate it. Ellis and I have never had to lie to each other.’
Amiss gave her a hug. ‘I know, but we have to protect him and this is the only way. I’ll go on lying about not having heard from Myles. You have to lie about tonight. And at least we’re telling him something useful.’ He laughed bleakly. ‘Late in the day.’
Rachel glared at him. ‘Robert, you are not to beat yourself up because you didn’t think of the bloody Albanians earlier. It took three hours intense questioning for it to surface.’
‘And Ellis couldn’t have done what Mike did,’ said Mary Lou. ‘He’s obviously been at this for years. I feel sucked dry.’
Rachel gave Mary Lou another squeeze. ‘Robert and I will go to bed now and leave you to ring Ellis. Try not to feel bad. You’re doing this for Jack.’
***
Milton had taken pity on Morrison and Byrne and given them a night off. They wouldn’t have found the next
hommage
anyway, since it was much further down the Thames than their beat. Placed outside the O2 arena in Canary Wharf, at a cursory glance, it looked like a statue, so no one noticed it until about four a.m., when a security man having a quick cigarette spotted the notice. ‘It’s another of those
hommages
,’ he told the police. It says “
Hommage
to Koons. Jason and Bubbles.” I don’t know if it’s a novelty statue or they’re dead people. The small fat one’s sitting on the tall thin one’s lap and they’re wearing golden suits, golden wigs, and their faces are pasty but their lips are red. The small one’s even got a little golden beard. I tell you, I’ve seen some strange things in my time, but this isn’t something you’d want to see before breakfast.’
***
Having kissed Rachel goodbye and cleared the breakfast dishes, Amiss went out to the newsagents and bought all the papers. ‘You interested in these ‘omidge murders?’ said the newsagent.
Amiss nodded. ‘It’s because I write crime novels,’ he said. ‘We have to keep an eye on real-life murders.’
‘That was weird, putting that woman in that glass box like that bloke Damien Hirst put that shark. Who do you think’s behind it, then?’
‘No idea. Some lunatic.’
‘If you ask me it’s an art-lover,’ said the newsagent, guffawing. ‘Someone making one of those artistic statements of the obvious. Like that modern art’s all baloney.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Mark my words, there’ll be more. You’ve got a serial killer here. He’s going to knock off all those people he kidnapped, one by one.’
‘I hope you’re wrong.’ Amiss smiled wanly and went home.
***
The security man had always longed for his fifteen minutes of fame, preferably accompanied by riches, and to that end he had melted into the background once the police arrived and had called his favourite tabloid to offer an exclusive. So it was that Amiss knew there were two more
Hommage
murders before Pooley had even had time to ring him. Amiss had had promised to awaken Mary Lou at nine. It was only a quarter past eight, but he roused her anyway, told her there were things to discuss that wouldn’t wait, and had coffee and toast ready for when she joined him five minutes later.
Her reaction to the news of the double murder verged briefly on the hysterical. ‘Oh, Robert,’ she sobbed. ‘We’re going to be too late. You know we are. There just isn’t time to find her. And if he’s now killing them in pairs, even if she lasts till the end, there are only two days to go. What are we going to do?’
‘There’s only one thing we can do, Mary Lou. Or, rather, one thing you can do.’
***
When she realised that Fortune and Pringle were both missing, the baroness had also had difficulty in staying calm. First up, she retreated into the bathroom. She went over and over what she’d said when required the night before to say who was worst. She’d definitely gone for Fortune, but she might have said something disparaging about Pringle too. ‘No, no,’ she told herself as she climbed out of the shower. ‘It was because they were a couple. And a couple of gays at that, which of course always offended that homophobic shit. So maybe it won’t apply to Chester and Marilyn.’ She allowed herself to wonder if they’d be better off going on strike and daring him to send in the Albanians. Wouldn’t a quick death be for the best? And then she thought of Anastasia gamely trying to be cheerful and suppressed the thought. Maybe even now Milton and Pooley had located the prison and were at the head of a task force of armed cops, all ready to take on Sarkovsky’s revolutionary guard.
The image didn’t give her much comfort. Whatever way she imagined it, a lot of people were likely to end up dead. And she couldn’t see how the six remaining prisoners would be exceptions. Still, her job was to rally them. Before, no doubt, having to pick yet another fight.
She dried herself, put on her soiled pink shell-suit, and went out to try to convince five terrified people that their fears were exaggerated.
***
The commissioner was back and beside himself with frustration. ‘My God,’ he screamed at the assistant commissioner. ‘What took you so long? We should have been in there tearing Sarkovsky’s life apart two days ago. I want every member of Murder Squad on this job right now. And I want all our armed response units and firearms officers ready to go at a moment’s notice. Where’s Milton?’
‘Interviewing Sarkovsky’s accountant to see if he might know anything about any other properties the guy owns in London. But since he could have bought them through a foreign company, it won’t be straightforward. We’ll have to give it time.’
The commissioner, who had always hated and despised the assistant commissioner as a lazy, incompetent, buck-passing dipstick who’d only got his promotion because he was a genius box-ticker, thought of beating him to a pulp but then remembered he was a policeman and head of the Met. He clasped his hands very tightly together. ‘Just get out and get on with following my instructions, Pilsworth. Now! And tell Milton to get back here as soon as possible and come to see me immediately.’
His phone rang. ‘Yes, yes, yes. I’ll call the Home Secretary now.’
Pringle and Fortune had neither siblings nor living parents and with the media in full cry, a swift identification was necessary, so rather than put Allegra through it, Pooley sent for Thomas, the porter from Pringle’s apartment block. ‘It’s not that I mind dead bodies,’ he said as Pooley escorted him to the morgue. ‘What with being in the St. John’s Ambulance and all that I’m well used to it. But I don’t like my routine being disturbed.’
‘It won’t take long, I promise. We’ll have you back at work very soon.’
The sheets were whipped off and Thomas gazed with interest at what was revealed. ‘It’s Mr. Pringle and Sir Henry all right,’ he said, ‘but I never saw them wearing make-up before. Or wigs. Or gold suits. Or sitting on each other’s laps.’
Being a man who liked to follow a thought all the way through, he added, ‘Or dead, for that matter.’
***
‘There’s no evidence of any prisoners anywhere on his properties, Ellis. His domestic staff think he’s still abroad. He was always very secretive about his arrangements. The warrant for his arrest has just come through so I’ve put out a press statement saying we urgently want him to help with our enquiries and that all information on his whereabouts would be welcome. That stupid bastard Pilsworth. We’re too damn late with this.’ Milton ran his hands through his hair.
‘I didn’t have time to tell you earlier, Jim, but we’ve got another lead. Robert and Rachel and Mary Lou were together last night and while talking everything over, Robert remembered a throw-away line of Jack’s about Sarkovsky employing Albanians. Apparently he and Jack were talking about the characteristics of various peoples of the old Soviet Union and Sarkovsky said Ukrainian security guards were so useless he’d replaced his with Albanians. And that reminded Mary Lou that in some recent rant of Jack’s she’d speculated on how long it would be before the art establishment would embrace snuff performance art. Her example was an Albanian sticking a screwdriver through his victim’s cranium. I’ve checked this out and apparently it’s their signature form of murder.’
‘And?’
‘And yes, Special Branch are chasing their Albanian contacts as we speak. And they’re liaising with the security services too and will have the surveillance underway
asap
.’
Milton sighed the relieved sigh of a man who never failed to appreciate his luck in having a colleague he could rely on. From bitter experience he had developed the theory that in any institutional hierarchy you were doing well if two out of three in the line of command were competent. Just once in his career both his immediate superior and subordinate had been excellent at their jobs.
It was a halcyon period when no time was wasted on trying to motivate the lazy, clear up after others’ mistakes or—as now with AC Pilsworth —wheedle the blindly stubborn into doing the obvious. Pending trays were cleared and moribund cases reopened. He had time for a life outside work and his marriage flourished. In his self-pitying moments, he could measure the later slow decline in his relationship with Ann by remembering a series of colleagues whose general uselessness caused him to have to work early and late.
‘Thanks, Ellis. Call me when the pathologist is ready for us.’
***
‘I rang Mike as per your instructions,’ said Mary Lou, ‘and I told him everything Ellis has told me about what the Yard are doing.’
‘Well done. I know how difficult this is for you.’
‘I never thought I’d end up playing Mata-bloody-Hari to my own husband. But I know I’ve no choice.’
‘What did Mike say?’
‘That Myles is back, that they’re all working flat out and that if they get any kind of decent lead they’ll be ready to move. I hope that means what it sounds as if it means.’
‘I’d have more faith in the effectiveness of Myles and his superannuated comrades than in the pride of the armed wing of Scotland Yard these days. Between the press and the human rights lawyers, the poor bastards are terrified of making a mistake.’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Mary Lou. ‘I’ve a day of ghastly meetings and the phone will be silent, but it’ll be on and I’ll keep checking for texts. What are you going to do?’
‘For now, I suppose I’ll keep reading the fucking papers and hoping for a miracle.’
***
‘This is a weird one,’ said the pathologist. ‘Not that the others weren’t weird too. They were smothered and then put into position on a slab until rigor mortis set in and they could be moved. It must have been hard work to keep them from slumping over during the first few hours.’
‘I think our murderer probably isn’t short of help,’ said Pooley.
‘And there’s a really peculiar thing about them. There are traces of paint on the thin one’s penis and the fat one’s stomach. I can’t think of a rational explanation for that unless it’s a sexual perversion. But from my cursory look, they haven’t been having sex.’ He paused and thought. ‘Well, penetrative sex.’ He shook his head. ‘Sometimes I think it’s time for me to retire, Ellis. It was bad enough when it was ferrets up the bum and then when strangling yourself for kicks became all the rage, but every week there seems to some new sexual perversion. This is a young man’s game.’ He shook his head gloomily. ‘What’s been going on here anyway? Who are they supposed to be?’
‘It’s a pastiche of Jeff Koons’ sculpture of Michael Jackson and his chimpanzee Bubbles,’ said Pooley. ‘The original was made out of porcelain. These two were intimate friends, and the thin one used to call the fat one Bubbles.’
‘Blimey, Ellis. You’ve got a right one there and no mistake. Murderers aren’t usually so imaginative. Any guesses as to what he’s likely to do next? Or where?’
As Pooley shook his head, the pathologist laughed. ‘Do you know what all this reminds me of? Those painted elephants that were all over London a couple of years ago. There were hundreds of those. It’s a good thing for you this guy only kidnapped ten.’
***
News of the Koons
hommage
caused an uproar in the European and American press. While the general public didn’t much care about art, they loved imaginative murders and the connection with Michael Jackson was a gift for the chroniclers of celebrity as well as the culture brigade. Amiss tried to keep his brain from exploding by reading obituaries of Hortense Wilde, which mostly listed impenetrable titles of obviously dreadful essays buried in journals no normal person had ever heard of. Almost all had been written by her cultural tribe.
Hortense was agreed to have been a cutting edge influence in 1973 in achieving acclaim for radical artist Mary Kelly when she displayed her son’s dirty nappies in the London Institute of Contemporary Arts. For this, she had been ridiculed by reactionaries. There were those, however, who felt that much more important was the erudition as a cultural analyst that she had brought to the demolition of false gods who had been worshipped just because they could paint. Without theory, as she had explained to generations of students, there could be no understanding of art. Indeed, nothing qualified as a work of art unless it could be interpreted as such by esteemed cultural commentators.
Accused of helping foment hostility towards cultural achievement, Hortense had countered that since art was a cultural construct, no one could measure cultural achievement unless it was firmly rooted in cultural theory and had cognisance of it. Among those wrongly thought to have been persons of some cultural achievement, it turned out, were pretty well every male artist who had ever painted a woman (sexist), or anything foreign (colonialist). Indeed any Western male artist who had ever painted anything was off bounds, owing to being a masculinist, and if they made any money, a capitalist. Hortense Wilde, thought Amiss, was clearly even more of a pill than he had realised, since what was bad she automatically called good and what was good she called bad. But that didn’t mean she deserved to be murdered.
Having wrung all they could out of relatives and friends of Throrogood and Hortense, broadcasters were in seventh heaven at having those of Fortune and Pringle to go after. Having concluded quickly that voices from the art establishment lamenting the deaths of luminaries and the wickedness of subverting art to murder were becoming a bit old hat, they went after Thomas, the porter, as well as Allegra and Serafina, who were still doggedly running the Pringle gallery. Having been besieged by the press for some days, the women had become veterans. Together they fashioned a few sound bites mourning the loss to them and to art of their wonderful boss and his inspirational partner and delivered them soulfully on request to microphone and cameras and down telephones.
‘Don’t you wish we could say what we really thought of them, Ally?’ asked Serafina of Allegra.
‘It’d get us a global reputation in no time, Fina, but I guess it’d put us in the shit in the job market. Tell you what, let’s just get through today, and tonight we’ll buy some fizz and go to my place and get completely hammered.’
***
Fortune’s heir was Pringle and Pringle was Fortune’s, which initially made it difficult to get permission to investigate their finances, but they turned out to share an accountant who, after Pooley’s strong-arming, decided to be helpful. ‘Fortune’s affairs were pretty straightforward,’ he said. ‘He had a substantial income, generous expenses and earned quite a bit on the side. It was different with Pringle. He made some very lucrative deals in the second half of the noughties, but invested most of his profits in shares that have dropped way down since then. The gallery’s ticking over, but only just. Then there was a big sale recently that’s ended up with his lawyers. He got the money, spent it, and then couldn’t deliver what he’d sold. You’ll need to talk to his lawyers to get more information.’
‘I don’t think it matters for now to find out any more about the victims, sir,’ said Milton to the assistant commissioner. ‘We can, I think, guarantee that they have all annoyed Sarkovsky one way or another. May I suggest that we concentrate resources on finding him?’
***
‘Robert. It’s Myles.’
‘Thank God you’re back.’
‘Hope to Christ I’m not too late. Now, there’s bad news. Mike’s followed up the tip about the Albanians and it’s not good, I’m afraid. The cops will get nowhere with the Zekas. They’re very very bad people.’
‘Who the hell are the Zekas?’
‘Albanian über-thugs. They’ve been providing security for Sarkovsky for some time. If he’s keeping these people hostage and killing them, the Zekas are right for the job.’
Amiss despairingly leaned his head on his hands and inadvertently his elbow on Plutarch’s tail. The result, as he complained later to Rachel, was the transformation of his desk into Armageddon. It was a testimony to his concern for the baroness that he barely noticed the upended desk-lamp, the water spewing from the knocked-over glass, and the hundreds of pages of typescript kicked into confusion on the floor. ‘Sorry, Myles. I was interrupted. Tell me more.’
‘They’re a dreadful family, even by Albanian standards. Albanians don’t do gangs. If they did, we might get somewhere taking out the main guy and turning over the others. But they do families. They’re not like the Mafia. They don’t do godfathers. They’re more democratic. And they don’t talk or betray each other. To neutralise them we’d have to take them all out. Except for the women and children. But frankly, they’re such a big family, we wouldn’t know where to start.’
Amiss’ liberal conscience suggested protesting. He killed it. ‘Why are they so dreadful?’
‘Robert, in London, the Albanian thugs are the worst. As an Albanian friend remarked to me, it’s that the competition is so weak. Well, when you consider that in London we’ve got Triads, Somalis, Islamists, IRA throwbacks, and dozens of others groups of reprobates, that means trouble. Among Albanian gangsters, the Zekas are the tops.’
‘And not at market gardening, I assume.’
‘No. More at torture and murder to order.’
Amiss tried to keep his voice steady. ‘So what’s the strategy?’
‘We know who they are. We know where some of them live. We’re keeping an eye to see who might turn up at their mothers’. But we also know they’re randy, drunken, and girl-traffickers, so that gives us another line of enquiry.’
***
‘Why both of them, Big Brother?’
‘You say two together. Anyway, I plan execute together.’
‘Because…?
‘Because they cheats and liars and homosexualists and frauds and bastards and Pringle dirty Jew.’
‘Did they get a lot of money off you?’ asked the baroness, trying to sound as if the conversation were normal.
‘Not beeg money. It same conspiracy with Thorogood about Banksy. They think they can make Oleg Sarkovsky appeer stupid. But Pringle do bad things with Briggs additionally.’
‘Like what?’
‘Bidding when I bidding so I pay too beeg money. Dirty crook bastard Pringle secret talking with people and getting commissions.’
‘Briggs wasn’t trying to cheat you, though.’
‘He plot with Pringle. He laugh behind my back. I say you, nobody make Oleg Sarkovsky appeeer stupid man.’
‘What about Anastasia?’
‘Pringle try trick me about her. He say me she next beeg one, but she crap rubbish con trick.’
‘She’s just a girl trying to earn a living, surely. She wasn’t trying to trick you.’
‘Hah! She same all this crap rubbish artists. They all trying cheat rich people. She example, same like Pringle for dealers, Fortune for curators, and stupid bitch whore Wilde for art history person.’
‘And Truss?’
‘You say me all crap begeeen with teacher. He teach students all crap good enough. He example of big rubbish teacher. All trick people.’
The baroness thought of capitalising on his unusual loquacity by asking what she had done to deserve a sentence of execution, but she knew the answer already. ‘So what did you do with Henry and Jason?’
He sniggered the snigger that so grated now on the baroness that she had to exert all her will-power not to flinch. ‘Joke execute. Clever. I curate.
Hommage
Jeff Koons Jackson and Bubbles.’