Dying Art, page 1
part #5 of DCI Cyril Bennett Series
Dying Art
DCI Bennett Book 5
Malcolm Hollingdrake
Copyright © 2017 Malcolm Hollingdrake
The right of Malcolm Hollingdrake to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Contents
Also by Malcolm Hollingdrake
Prologue
July
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
A Note from Bloodhound Books:
Only The Dead
Hell’s Gate
Flesh Evidence
Game Point
Crossed Out
Acknowledgments
Afterword
Also by Malcolm Hollingdrake
DCI Bennett Books
Only The Dead ( Book 1)
Hell’s Gate ( Book 2)
Flesh Evidence ( Book 3)
Game Point ( Book 4)
Crossed Out ( Book 6)
The foreground in a picture is always unattractive … Art demands that the interest of the canvas should be placed in the far distance, where lies take refuge …
(Louis-Ferdinand Celine)
Dedicated to
Debbie Hollingdrake
who never lost faith.
Prologue
The sadistic murder of a female colleague leaves DCI Cyril Bennett reeling and wracked by an impossible burden of guilt. The attack had been wrought by an old adversary, seeking revenge, after Bennett had disturbed and closed down his lucrative trade in a previous case. Her kidnap and murder had been a contrived test, a challenge that Bennett had eagerly, yet naïvely accepted.
All he had needed was his ability as a good detective, his professional skills to out-think and out-manoeuvre the criminal. If he were to succeed in this, as he had always done in the past, then he would reach his colleague before she could be sacrificed on the altar of revenge. That belief had been foolish, the murderer was always one arrogant step ahead, for this crime had been long in the planning.
Seeing a colleague’s damaged corpse propped against a gravestone was, to all concerned, the final, crushing blow. Even though Cyril was down and broken, he was most certainly not out of the game. Moving his final piece in the evil contest, this last, calculated strategy would cost the detective dearly. Liz was not the only person to die that day, a huge part of Cyril died too as the seeds of doubt inevitably took hold, quickly killing his self-belief. Guilt, always lurking, followed swiftly to bury it.
Cyril did not think that he would be able to function anymore, let alone work, so he withdrew to the security of his past.
What he needed was time and care.
July
The summer rain was relentless. Manchester was famous for two football clubs, M People, The Hacienda Club and the ability to attract wet weather. As he crossed Mosley Street, after a Metrolink tram had shaken the ground, a warning bell added to the rumble of the wheels on the track.
The Manchester Art Gallery was an impressive building but he had little inclination to stop for a moment and stare. The rain seemed to have found a greater enthusiasm and was now driving almost horizontally. He quickly mounted the steps and entered, shaking the umbrella under the shelter of the portico. Research had a lot to answer for but here he would see a fine collection of the works he wished to study at first hand and his qualifications would allow very close inspection.
The gallery entrance was busy and he deposited his coat and umbrella receiving a cloakroom ticket in return. He moved to the Reception checking his watch, he was a few minutes early.
‘Good morning, I have an appointment with a Miss Tonge. My name is Green. Dr Darwin Green.’ He smiled and wiped a drop of water that ran from his hair.
‘Still raining a little?’ The Receptionist’s smile said everything as she picked up the phone. ‘She’ll be along in two ticks. Please take a seat.’
Dr Green sat looking at the flight of stone steps that led from the entrance to the galleries. Two green-patinated, bronze, statues filled each plinth. He stared at them.
‘Dr Green?’
Green turned and looked at the attractive young lady who held out her hand, which he shook.
‘As I mentioned on the phone, the Valette paintings that you wish to see are not on public display. I’ve brought them to one of the education rooms for you to study.’ She passed him a pair of white, cotton gloves.
‘It’s busy today.’
‘Whenever we have heavy rain we see many more visitors. The gallery is dry, warm and, more importantly, it’s free.’ She pulled a face and smiled as if to suggest it was ever thus.
Within five minutes, she had left him with the three Valette oil paintings. None was large and all illustrated a moment in Manchester’s social history during a key time, its industrial peak. The grim, sombre-coloured oils depicted a window into the past. His expert eye checked the coloured pigments, the board and the back of each painting. This, to people like Darwin, revealed much more than the painting itself.
It would take him twenty minutes to study and photograph each work and then he would head back to the station and home. As he drew his observations to a close, he removed a small, padded envelope from the side of his laptop case. From this he extracted a small oil painting, which he laid between the others. He scrutinised the paintings again, one after the other and then came back to the outsider that he had introduced. Bloody hell that’s good! He whispered to himself. He picked it up and slipping a jeweller’s loupe into his eye he inspected the painting close up. Bloody good indeed.
He opened his eye fully and the loupe immediately dropped onto his open palm. Happy with the result, he slipped the painting back into the envelope and into the bag.
August
The sun hung like a limp, yellow balloon in the early morning Yorkshire sky; it was neither high nor low but at a height that was blinding both for the few drivers and even fewer pedestrians alike. It would prove to be far from innocent. For Nathalie Gray, it was a total nuisance. Each step of this part of her morning run was becoming unacceptably difficult. The lack of suitable pavement was also a hindrance.
‘Merde!’ she whispered under her breath as her foot dipped into the third pothole within a hundred yards. She made a mental note to wear sunglasses on her next run.
She had pounded the same route for four consecutive mornings and this was the first day of sunshine; she was so ill-prepared. Within the hour she would be back at the hotel, she would have breakfasted and be heading for the Conference Centre and the Antiques and Fine Art Fair. It was the penultimate day of her annual working pilgrimage to Harrogate. The songs of Jack Savoretti caressed her ears, blocking out the surrounding sounds; there were few, not surprisingly, considering where she was and the time of day.
The silver-grey Lexus had passed her ten minutes previously. The driver knew Nathalie’s route, she had run a convenient distance behind her each day, but today was to be different, very different. Monica parked the car at the side of the road and waited. There was no tail of grey smoke from the exhaust of the now stationary vehicle. The driver, ever alert, was sensing her pending and approaching prey. The hybrid car sat ready to pounce; it would do so electrically and silently. The driver checked the rear-view mirror and yawned. The occasional early morning and late night were tolerable, but four in a row were proving unacceptable, especially considering the exercise.
She lowered herself into the seat as the runner came into view. Pulling down the sun visor with her gloved hand, she slipped on a pair of sunglasses. Within seconds, Nathalie was closing on the car, now a dark silhouette ahead in her path. The driver saw her turn her head as if checking there were nothing approaching from behind in preparation for rounding the parked car, unlikely considering the time of the morning, but it was more instinctive. She quickly veered to the right and ran around the parked obstacle, unaware of the driver’s presence. She checked her watch and, in spite of the dazzling sun, she was still on schedule.
It was then, when she was a hundred yards past the parked car, that she suddenly pulled up abruptly as a startled rabbit sprang from the hedge. It paused briefly before darting, bob-tailed across her immediate path and vanishing magically into the far hedge. Nathalie raised her hand, shielding the sun so as to allow her eyes to focus on the white, swiftly-disappearing tail. A smile came to her lips. It’s like ‘Watership Down’, she thought, her breathing slowly steadying as she bent at the waist to take a deep inhale. It would be the last thing that would pass through her mind as the blinding sun was swiftly snuffed like a c
andle flame touched by wet fingers. Her breathing stopped seconds later.
Monica Mac stared at the crazed windscreen. Her gloved hands gripped the wheel and a huge smile moved across her lips. She whispered, ‘Yes!’ to herself in a triumphant gesture. It had taken days of planning. She had stood and watched from outside the hotel from the day her victim had arrived in Harrogate; she had followed her to the Conference Centre daily and she had even followed her into the ladies and struck up a conversation about the weather if her memory were correct. She had planned every detail noting Nathalie’s habits and her routines.
Monica lowered herself yet again into the seat as a car approached from behind. It sped past, the driver concentrating on the blinding road ahead. She took one final look around the inside of the car, ensuring that she had left nothing, before collecting the small bag from the passenger seat and climbing out.
The sun was sparkling, diamond-like on the fractured glass screen where Nathalie’s head had made contact. Within seconds, Monica looked down at the contorted, blood-covered face staring back blindly with open eyes. One white earphone had been dislodged from her left ear and lay bizarrely like a thin, albino worm next to her head. Most of the twisted torso was buried beneath the car, apart from a leg that protruded from beneath the front wheel. Two pieces of bone had punctured the green leggings but there was little blood. The training shoe that had been torn from the foot was swiftly kicked to dispatch it under the car. She leaned towards the body, lifted it away from the tarmac and removed the hotel key card that was tucked beside her phone in her sleeve armband. She then slid the key card into her own armband. It was no coincidence that their running gear was a near match.
Monica sprayed the inside of the vehicle with lighter fuel, flicked open the Zippo lighter, lit the fluid and then tossed them into the car. She started to jog down the road, her back to the sun and the growing flames that would slowly incinerate any evidence. She headed towards the town centre and Nathalie Gray’s hotel. To approaching cars, she was but a silhouette! There would be no vehicles coming the other way, the fire should ensure that.
She was soon on Crescent Road and slowed as she approached Parliament Street; the traffic was busy there and she jogged on the spot waiting for a break in the stream of vehicles. It amazed her how just one hour could transform the town’s traffic.
From the sixth floor an observer saw her appear. He watched her less than perfect running style and shook his head. Buildings soon masked her approach as she stopped for the crossing. He turned away and went to shower.
As she ran up King’s Road towards the Grand Hotel, she focussed on Nathalie’s routine and followed it to the letter. She ran up the steps before pausing, her head lowered taking in breaths as Nathalie had always done. She then entered the foyer nodding at the Receptionist. Keeping her sunglasses on, she made for the stairs. She had followed Nathalie on one occasion to determine her routine. Once on Level Four, she turned right and stopped at room 434. Within minutes she had collected a laptop and iPad and was crossing the foyer. The Receptionist looked up a little confused as to why she was going out again, dressed for her run, carrying a laptop but said nothing; she had learned over the years that some guests had the strangest of habits.
DS David Owen’s head thumped as his hand reached out unsuccessfully for the screaming mobile phone that danced and vibrated on the bedside table. He was, however, successful in knocking over a half-drunk mug of stale tea, quickly followed by the bedside lamp. The lampshade clattered to the floor and rolled in a semi-circle before coming to rest against the wall.
‘Shit!’ came immediately to his lips as he welcomed the morning.
He sat upright and opened his eyes; light pierced the gap in the curtains bringing a semblance of reality to his cloudy world. His phone continued to move like a small, flat fish in a polluted pool before it collided with the marooned teabag.
‘Shit!’ he uttered again followed by, ‘Bloody hell fire!’
He swung his legs out of bed and collected the drenched phone.
‘Owen!’ he barked, annoyed at drips that hit his shoulder before running down his chest like cold tea tears. He wiped them off with his free hand before wiping his hand on the sheet.
‘When? Right. SOCO? Twenty minutes …’ He checked his watch. ‘… tops. And Shakti,’ he paused, ‘thanks.’
DC Shakti Misra stood leaning on her car, the smell of burning rubber mixed with an acidic aroma still polluted the morning air. The dark shadow of smoke lingered and ensnared the upper leaf canopy of the bordering trees to the left of the scene, like a dark pall. She watched as the ethereal form changed shape and density as if moved by invisible hands. The blue flashing lights from the fire engine attracted her attention and she again focussed on the yellow-clad figures moving efficiently to clear and secure the scene. She had to admit that she felt attracted to the men in uniform and it brought a smile to her lips. She shuffled with uncomfortable guilt.
A dark grey Skoda stopped lower down the road and Shakti immediately recognised Dr Julie Pritchett, one of four Home Office Pathologists working within the North East; she was followed by her assistant, Hannah Peters. The Crime Scene Manager moved past Shakti towards the Doctor and they talked for a few moments. Julie and Hannah donned the necessary protective clothing and collected the tools of their trade before moving towards the taped area.
‘Morning, Doctor, DC Shakti Misra, we’ve met before. DS Owen is on his way. How’s—?’ She wanted to ask after her boss, DCI Cyril Bennett, who was still on compassionate leave, but then stopped herself. Even though Julie and Cyril were close, she realised that it was neither the time nor the place.
Julie smiled. She paused in front of Shakti and whispered to her. ‘I’ll tell him you asked, he’ll be pleased. He’s doing very well but still a bit of a misanthrope so, in my honest opinion, he needs a bit more time.’ She smiled and rested a reassuring hand on Shakti’s shoulder. When did Cyril listen to anyone? Julie thought before recovering her composure. ‘I believe we have a bad one here.’
On hearing the news Shakti felt a degree of relief, but then focussed on the job in hand. ‘Strange one. A body under the car and from what I’ve seen badly charred from the fire that may have been deliberate. First call came in just after five forty-five but by then the whole thing was an inferno. SOCOs are waiting for clearance to move in when it’s safe to do so but at this stage we know only that we have a burned-out vehicle and a fatality. The vehicle’s a hybrid and the fire people have a standard operating procedure for dealing with it so it’s taken a little longer than anticipated.’
Julie saw the Crime Scene Manager wave to her. She picked up her bag and smiled at Shakti before moving towards the cordoned area where she spoke with the Senior Fire Officer to ensure that the area was safe to work. She knew that it would be only a brief assessment until the body was back in the operating room and lab, particularly as only a small portion of the torso was visible.
Shakti saw Owen’s car pull to the side of the Skoda. She watched as he climbed out of the car and lumbered up the slight incline towards her, noting that his tie was loose and his top button undone. He rubbed his eyes as he approached and stifled a yawn.
‘Doctor is there now. You OK, Sir?’
Owen observed the scene. The sun was higher now allowing a clearer view. He spotted Hannah Peters and raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, thanks, the morning started badly and from what I’m looking at it could get worse.’
‘A body, believed to be female, trapped under what’s left of the vehicle. No driver, no witnesses. Could be a hit and run, could be a deliberate act, could be anything. There’ve been a number of accidents this morning on account of the intensity of the low sun, interestingly mostly on easterly routes.’
Owen moved towards the cordon. The fire officers had finished clearing their equipment but remained on scene until the body had been recovered once the vehicle had been lifted. He watched Julie direct Hannah, taking photographs before moving towards him.
