perhaps it’s good that it does, for how else may we be kept alive when memory fails?’
‘Very profound. Very Damien Hirst,’ Pendragon replied tonelessly. ‘Where’s the artistic merit to it?’
‘I thought this was a murder investigation. Why are you so interested?’
Pendragon shrugged. ‘Humour me.’
Arcade gave a wan smile. ‘I don’t spare a moment’s thought for artistic merit and nor should you, Chief Inspector. But … if you want me to humour you.’ He tilted his head to one side for a second. ‘It’s about intent. My friend supplied the material just like an art shop provides paints and canvases. I edited the film. But much, much more important is the intent behind the work. The conceptualisation, if you like. In this case, the mystery of the after-image. The only possible form of Life After Death.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m an artist. That’s what I do.’
‘Oh, come on! That’s a glib remark and you know it, Francis.’ Pendragon allowed a look of disappointment to flicker across his face.
‘It’s the truth.’
‘It’s boring.’
Arcade could not hide his surprise.
‘You’re provoking us, deliberately positioning yourself as the prime suspect. Why?’
The young man shrugged and stared fixedly at a point on the wall behind Pendragon.
‘I think I know what you’re up to. This is all about publicity, isn’t it?’
‘Hah! You sound like Berrick,’ Arcade exclaimed. ‘That’s the sort of shit he was so concerned about. The oxygen of publicity ,’ he added in a pompous tone.
‘But it makes sense, doesn’t it?’ Pendragon moved a hand across the space between their faces. ‘“Failed Artist Seizes Opportunity to Get Noticed”. Perfect.’
‘You surprise me, Chief Inspector. I was beginning to think you weren’t quite as thick as some of the other pigs.’
Pendragon paused for thirty seconds, letting the silence grow uncomfortable. Then he placed the plastic folder upright on his lap and opened it so that Arcade could not see the contents. ‘I imagine, as an artist, you are quite accustomed to seeing extreme images, Francis.’ Pendragon stared into the young man’s eyes. ‘This is Mr Berrick, though I’m not sure you’ll recognise him.’ He removed a glossy from the folder and pushed it across the table. It spun round and stopped a few centimetres away fromArcade. It was a close-up of Kingsley Berrick’s disfigured head taken by the police photographer at the gallery on Wednesday morning.
Pendragon could just about discern a flicker of something in Arcade’s eyes, but was not sure what that something was.
‘Perhaps not as you remember him.’
Arcade slid the picture back. ‘You’re right, DCI Pendragon. I am accustomed to extreme images.’
Pendragon plucked the photograph from the table and replaced it in the folder. Then he removed two more glossy prints, turned each so that Arcade could see them and moved them across the table. The first one showed the flattened body of Noel Thursk, pensile over the tree branch in the cemetery. The second was a picture taken in the Path Lab from a camera placed high above the remains. With nothing else around it to offer perspective, the body looked like an amoeba under a microscope.
‘Recognise him?’
Arcade stared silently at the picture.
‘Looks a little peaky, I admit. But do you really not know who this poor fellow is? It’s your old friend Noel Thursk.’
Arcade looked up. His mouth moved as though he were about to say something, but he let it go. Then he gave a brief smile. ‘Quite something, Pendragon. I’d say you should be looking for someone with a dead Surrealist fixation.’
This time, Pendragon could see nothing slipping from behind Arcade’s mask, but he was sure it was a mask. ‘Very well,’ the Chief Inspector said calmly. ‘If that’s theway you want to play this, you give me no alternative but to place you under arrest. See if you still feel so relaxed after twenty-four hours in a
‘Very profound. Very Damien Hirst,’ Pendragon replied tonelessly. ‘Where’s the artistic merit to it?’
‘I thought this was a murder investigation. Why are you so interested?’
Pendragon shrugged. ‘Humour me.’
Arcade gave a wan smile. ‘I don’t spare a moment’s thought for artistic merit and nor should you, Chief Inspector. But … if you want me to humour you.’ He tilted his head to one side for a second. ‘It’s about intent. My friend supplied the material just like an art shop provides paints and canvases. I edited the film. But much, much more important is the intent behind the work. The conceptualisation, if you like. In this case, the mystery of the after-image. The only possible form of Life After Death.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m an artist. That’s what I do.’
‘Oh, come on! That’s a glib remark and you know it, Francis.’ Pendragon allowed a look of disappointment to flicker across his face.
‘It’s the truth.’
‘It’s boring.’
Arcade could not hide his surprise.
‘You’re provoking us, deliberately positioning yourself as the prime suspect. Why?’
The young man shrugged and stared fixedly at a point on the wall behind Pendragon.
‘I think I know what you’re up to. This is all about publicity, isn’t it?’
‘Hah! You sound like Berrick,’ Arcade exclaimed. ‘That’s the sort of shit he was so concerned about. The oxygen of publicity ,’ he added in a pompous tone.
‘But it makes sense, doesn’t it?’ Pendragon moved a hand across the space between their faces. ‘“Failed Artist Seizes Opportunity to Get Noticed”. Perfect.’
‘You surprise me, Chief Inspector. I was beginning to think you weren’t quite as thick as some of the other pigs.’
Pendragon paused for thirty seconds, letting the silence grow uncomfortable. Then he placed the plastic folder upright on his lap and opened it so that Arcade could not see the contents. ‘I imagine, as an artist, you are quite accustomed to seeing extreme images, Francis.’ Pendragon stared into the young man’s eyes. ‘This is Mr Berrick, though I’m not sure you’ll recognise him.’ He removed a glossy from the folder and pushed it across the table. It spun round and stopped a few centimetres away fromArcade. It was a close-up of Kingsley Berrick’s disfigured head taken by the police photographer at the gallery on Wednesday morning.
Pendragon could just about discern a flicker of something in Arcade’s eyes, but was not sure what that something was.
‘Perhaps not as you remember him.’
Arcade slid the picture back. ‘You’re right, DCI Pendragon. I am accustomed to extreme images.’
Pendragon plucked the photograph from the table and replaced it in the folder. Then he removed two more glossy prints, turned each so that Arcade could see them and moved them across the table. The first one showed the flattened body of Noel Thursk, pensile over the tree branch in the cemetery. The second was a picture taken in the Path Lab from a camera placed high above the remains. With nothing else around it to offer perspective, the body looked like an amoeba under a microscope.
‘Recognise him?’
Arcade stared silently at the picture.
‘Looks a little peaky, I admit. But do you really not know who this poor fellow is? It’s your old friend Noel Thursk.’
Arcade looked up. His mouth moved as though he were about to say something, but he let it go. Then he gave a brief smile. ‘Quite something, Pendragon. I’d say you should be looking for someone with a dead Surrealist fixation.’
This time, Pendragon could see nothing slipping from behind Arcade’s mask, but he was sure it was a mask. ‘Very well,’ the Chief Inspector said calmly. ‘If that’s theway you want to play this, you give me no alternative but to place you under arrest. See if you still feel so relaxed after twenty-four hours in a
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