cell. That’s how long I can hold you without charge. Meanwhile I’ll obtain a warrant. Shouldn’t take long. Then we’ll go through your studio with a fine-toothed comb.’
Arcade did not flinch.
Chapter 18
Friday, 7.30 p.m.
Pendragon’s mobile rang as he fumbled for the key to his flat. It was Turner. ‘Towers and Mackleby have just come back from Arcade’s studio,’ he said.
‘And?’
‘Nothing really, sir. The place is clean … a couple of joints, some rather ordinary porn, but nothing relevant.’
‘No tapes?’
‘Well, most cameras use memory sticks …’
‘Okay, Turner … no memory sticks ?’
‘No, guv. Zilch.’
‘Turner? Why do you insist upon using such ridiculous … oh, never mind. So Towers and Mackleby have got nowhere?’
‘I didn’t say that, sir.’
Pendragon sighed.
‘When they found nothing at Arcade’s studio, they went straight to the gallery to see Jackson Price, see if he had the original of the film taken at the private view.’
‘That’s surprisingly enterprising. And?’
‘He did, and he was very co-operative, apparently.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ Pendragon said. ‘We’ll watch itfirst thing tomorrow. Get in early, Sergeant.’
He clicked shut the phone, slotted the key into the lock and pushed on the door.
He had moved into this two-roomed apartment over six months earlier with every intention of using it as a stopgap until he found somewhere better, but now the place was growing on him and he was finding himself less and less inclined to move.
He had come to London from his old job in Oxford where he had worked for the best part of two decades. His wife Jean had left him for another woman and he had departed the force for a short time, only to be lured back by the chance of returning to the place where he had grown up and which he had visited only occasionally since his early-twenties. Oxford had become his home, but he no longer wanted to live there; it was tainted for him. His and Jean’s daughter, Amanda, had disappeared five years earlier. She had been nine at the time, and simply vanished on her way home from school. Jack had not only suffered the horror of losing his daughter, he had had to endure the pain of professional impotence – a cop whose only daughter had been abducted. Amanda’s disappearance had been a major factor in the collapse of his marriage. His twenty-year-old son, Simon, was a post-grad Mathematics genius at the University. Pendragon saw little of him now but they were only fifty miles apart, a sixty-minute drive down the M40.
The flat was tatty and had been neglected, first by the landlord and more recently by Pendragon himself. But only a week earlier he had decided to decorate, buy some decent furniture. It was a form of acceptance, anacknowledgement that he had moved on, left Oxford behind, and that this place, Stepney, East London, where he had been born almost forty-seven years ago, was again his home.
And he really did feel at home now. After a shaky beginning, his colleagues and subordinates had accepted him and he had grown in confidence. It was a fresh start and he was out of the blocks. He had even enjoyed a brief romance since arriving at Brick Lane. He and Dr Sue Latimer, a psychologist, had been neighbours – she had rented a flat on the ground floor. They had got on well and Pendragon had even dared to imagine the relationship might actually lead somewhere when Sue had broken the news that she had accepted a job in Toronto. She had left six weeks ago, and he was still feeling sore from the loss.
The door to the flat swung inwards and he stepped across newspaper taped to the floor. When he flicked on the light, the room came alive – white ceiling, white skirting and doorframes, half-painted walls. Pendragon strode over to the kitchen worktop at one end of the room, tossed his briefcase and overcoat on to the Formica surface and leaned back to appraise the shade of light brown he had chosen. On the
Arcade did not flinch.
Chapter 18
Friday, 7.30 p.m.
Pendragon’s mobile rang as he fumbled for the key to his flat. It was Turner. ‘Towers and Mackleby have just come back from Arcade’s studio,’ he said.
‘And?’
‘Nothing really, sir. The place is clean … a couple of joints, some rather ordinary porn, but nothing relevant.’
‘No tapes?’
‘Well, most cameras use memory sticks …’
‘Okay, Turner … no memory sticks ?’
‘No, guv. Zilch.’
‘Turner? Why do you insist upon using such ridiculous … oh, never mind. So Towers and Mackleby have got nowhere?’
‘I didn’t say that, sir.’
Pendragon sighed.
‘When they found nothing at Arcade’s studio, they went straight to the gallery to see Jackson Price, see if he had the original of the film taken at the private view.’
‘That’s surprisingly enterprising. And?’
‘He did, and he was very co-operative, apparently.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ Pendragon said. ‘We’ll watch itfirst thing tomorrow. Get in early, Sergeant.’
He clicked shut the phone, slotted the key into the lock and pushed on the door.
He had moved into this two-roomed apartment over six months earlier with every intention of using it as a stopgap until he found somewhere better, but now the place was growing on him and he was finding himself less and less inclined to move.
He had come to London from his old job in Oxford where he had worked for the best part of two decades. His wife Jean had left him for another woman and he had departed the force for a short time, only to be lured back by the chance of returning to the place where he had grown up and which he had visited only occasionally since his early-twenties. Oxford had become his home, but he no longer wanted to live there; it was tainted for him. His and Jean’s daughter, Amanda, had disappeared five years earlier. She had been nine at the time, and simply vanished on her way home from school. Jack had not only suffered the horror of losing his daughter, he had had to endure the pain of professional impotence – a cop whose only daughter had been abducted. Amanda’s disappearance had been a major factor in the collapse of his marriage. His twenty-year-old son, Simon, was a post-grad Mathematics genius at the University. Pendragon saw little of him now but they were only fifty miles apart, a sixty-minute drive down the M40.
The flat was tatty and had been neglected, first by the landlord and more recently by Pendragon himself. But only a week earlier he had decided to decorate, buy some decent furniture. It was a form of acceptance, anacknowledgement that he had moved on, left Oxford behind, and that this place, Stepney, East London, where he had been born almost forty-seven years ago, was again his home.
And he really did feel at home now. After a shaky beginning, his colleagues and subordinates had accepted him and he had grown in confidence. It was a fresh start and he was out of the blocks. He had even enjoyed a brief romance since arriving at Brick Lane. He and Dr Sue Latimer, a psychologist, had been neighbours – she had rented a flat on the ground floor. They had got on well and Pendragon had even dared to imagine the relationship might actually lead somewhere when Sue had broken the news that she had accepted a job in Toronto. She had left six weeks ago, and he was still feeling sore from the loss.
The door to the flat swung inwards and he stepped across newspaper taped to the floor. When he flicked on the light, the room came alive – white ceiling, white skirting and doorframes, half-painted walls. Pendragon strode over to the kitchen worktop at one end of the room, tossed his briefcase and overcoat on to the Formica surface and leaned back to appraise the shade of light brown he had chosen. On the
Similar Books
