shade card it had been called something ridiculous like ‘elm bark brown’ and now it covered the top half of two walls. He was about to get on with the rest, but suddenly felt hungry. He opened the fridge door and sighed. A can of lager and a piece of old cheese sat there. Leaning on the door, he tried to decide what to do.
In a moment, he was pulling his coat back on and heading towards the hall outside the flat, checking he had some cash in his wallet. There was a half-decent deliaround the corner and an off-licence a few yards beyond that. While the deli owner warmed up a panino , Pendragon went along to the off-licence. There was a queue and he was forced to spend ten boring minutes reading and re-reading labels on wine bottles and signs around the shop informing him of cut-price bulk buys. Leaving with a bottle of South Australian Shiraz, he picked up the panino and headed back to the flat.
At the kitchen worktop, he poured himself a generous glass of wine and surveyed the walls he had painted. Fifteen minutes later, the deli wrapper was in the kitchen bin and the wine glass recharged. Pendragon had changed into a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt, put his favourite Wes Montgomery LP, Smokin’ at the Half Note , on the stereo and had a roller in his right hand.
Painting was a mild anaesthetic, he decided. It seemed to guide the mind into a mellow groove whereby you could perform the physical process, but at the same time you could think about, well, anything. Whatever flooded in, flooded in. He had spent most of the afternoon poring over art books. The local library had a surprisingly good selection. While Turner Googled and searched through blogs and websites, Pendragon did one of the things he did best – he stared at ink on paper, just as he had done as a student at Oxford, just as he had done throughout most of his career. All the secrets of the world could be unravelled with ink on paper. He would always believe that. Although he had lost faith in many things, this was one principle he would never doubt.
‘So, what do we have?’ he said aloud to the empty room as he prised open a fresh tin of paint. ‘René Magritte:Surrealist artist, born Lessines, Belgium, 1898. Came to prominence in the late twenties, early thirties. Creator of a style defined as Magic Realism in which he used ordinary objects but placed in unreal situations and juxtapositions. His work exhibited a great sense of humour, a certain contrived and deliberate dislocation from perceived reality.
‘And Salvador Dali: a close contemporary of Magritte’s, six years younger. Born in Figueres, Spain, May 1904. Named after a brother who died nine months before the painter’s birth, he was told by his parents that he was the reincarnation of his dead sibling. Rose to prominence at about the same time as Magritte. The two men knew each other and spent time together first in Paris in the late-twenties and then at Dali’s Spanish home in the thirties.’ He paused for a moment and lowered the roller into the paint tray, watching the sponge soak up the paint.
‘Any other associations? Each man lost his mother when he was young. Magritte was fourteen, Dali seventeen. Anything connecting the two painters to the two murders – other than the fact that in each case the body was set up in a pose reminiscent of their most famous work?’
Pendragon picked up the roller. ‘No,’ he said aloud. ‘No connection that I can see.’ Perhaps Francis Arcade had been on the money when he remarked that they should look for someone with a dead Surrealist fixation. There seemed to be nothing to connect the murders other than the painting style of the two artists whose work had been travestied.
‘Okay,’ he went on, and pushed the roller back into the paint tray. In the background, Wes Montgomery wasplaying sweetly, an elaborate riff in B-flat minor. ‘Obviously the killer is trying to tell us something. But what? Are they a frustrated artist, ignored and
In a moment, he was pulling his coat back on and heading towards the hall outside the flat, checking he had some cash in his wallet. There was a half-decent deliaround the corner and an off-licence a few yards beyond that. While the deli owner warmed up a panino , Pendragon went along to the off-licence. There was a queue and he was forced to spend ten boring minutes reading and re-reading labels on wine bottles and signs around the shop informing him of cut-price bulk buys. Leaving with a bottle of South Australian Shiraz, he picked up the panino and headed back to the flat.
At the kitchen worktop, he poured himself a generous glass of wine and surveyed the walls he had painted. Fifteen minutes later, the deli wrapper was in the kitchen bin and the wine glass recharged. Pendragon had changed into a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt, put his favourite Wes Montgomery LP, Smokin’ at the Half Note , on the stereo and had a roller in his right hand.
Painting was a mild anaesthetic, he decided. It seemed to guide the mind into a mellow groove whereby you could perform the physical process, but at the same time you could think about, well, anything. Whatever flooded in, flooded in. He had spent most of the afternoon poring over art books. The local library had a surprisingly good selection. While Turner Googled and searched through blogs and websites, Pendragon did one of the things he did best – he stared at ink on paper, just as he had done as a student at Oxford, just as he had done throughout most of his career. All the secrets of the world could be unravelled with ink on paper. He would always believe that. Although he had lost faith in many things, this was one principle he would never doubt.
‘So, what do we have?’ he said aloud to the empty room as he prised open a fresh tin of paint. ‘René Magritte:Surrealist artist, born Lessines, Belgium, 1898. Came to prominence in the late twenties, early thirties. Creator of a style defined as Magic Realism in which he used ordinary objects but placed in unreal situations and juxtapositions. His work exhibited a great sense of humour, a certain contrived and deliberate dislocation from perceived reality.
‘And Salvador Dali: a close contemporary of Magritte’s, six years younger. Born in Figueres, Spain, May 1904. Named after a brother who died nine months before the painter’s birth, he was told by his parents that he was the reincarnation of his dead sibling. Rose to prominence at about the same time as Magritte. The two men knew each other and spent time together first in Paris in the late-twenties and then at Dali’s Spanish home in the thirties.’ He paused for a moment and lowered the roller into the paint tray, watching the sponge soak up the paint.
‘Any other associations? Each man lost his mother when he was young. Magritte was fourteen, Dali seventeen. Anything connecting the two painters to the two murders – other than the fact that in each case the body was set up in a pose reminiscent of their most famous work?’
Pendragon picked up the roller. ‘No,’ he said aloud. ‘No connection that I can see.’ Perhaps Francis Arcade had been on the money when he remarked that they should look for someone with a dead Surrealist fixation. There seemed to be nothing to connect the murders other than the painting style of the two artists whose work had been travestied.
‘Okay,’ he went on, and pushed the roller back into the paint tray. In the background, Wes Montgomery wasplaying sweetly, an elaborate riff in B-flat minor. ‘Obviously the killer is trying to tell us something. But what? Are they a frustrated artist, ignored and
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