Murder on the Cathedral Express (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 9)

  MURDER ON THE CATHEDRAL EXPRESS

  BY

  P.J. THURBIN

  Copyright 2014 P.J. Thurbin, All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Where public figures, historical events or places are used they are used in a fictitious way. Otherwise any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to Young Artists Everywhere

  Acknowledgement:

  My appreciation, as always, to my wife, Daisy, for her tireless editing and advice, without whose efforts this book could not be produced. She remains my harshest critic, my staunchest fan and my constant helpmate.

  Chapter 1

  James Riggs was a typical student. Bordering on downright lazy unless he was working on one of his art projects, he was bright enough and talented enough to sail through all of his subjects with little or no effort while his less fortunate classmates struggled for a pass. He and his pals sat around most days in his flat and ate take-away pizza and drank cheap beer. Or, if they were a bit hung-over from a night on the town, they nursed large bottles of diet coke. Life for James was fun. His mother had died when he was a year old and his father, Leon doted on him. He had bought his son the 60 inch flat screen TV that dominated the living room of his flat where Riggs and his friends watched all the usual favourites: Top Gear, any sort of motor sport and horseracing during the season. The flat was in New Cross, within easy reach of the hundreds of cafes and takeaways that sprawled out from central London.

  For Riggs, college had been an easy ride. Armed with a BA (Hons) in Art and Design from Kingston University, he had gone on to Norwich where he gained his MA in Moving Image and Sound. Like many of his fellow students, James had little ambition. He knew that eventually the gravy train would end and he would have to find a job, but he planned to put it off as long as possible. When pressed, he said that he wouldn’t mind teaching at a small art college in somewhere like Brighton. He liked the idea of living in a top floor flat with a view of the sea and living the easy life. But fate had other plans for James Riggs.

  One cold winter’s morning, as the blower heater in his flat worked overtime as it struggled to keep the grimy windows from freezing on the inside as well as the out, he remembered having what he had heard referred to as a ‘magic moment’. His idea was to take a photograph of a painting, any painting would do, but in his mind it would be something famous like Raeburn’s The Skating Minister. Then he figured that he could scan it to form a data base, and once he had that, he could use software to bring it to life. He could, in effect animate it. Once he did that, he could personalize it with music that the viewer himself, or herself could select.

  James had it all worked out in his head. It would be a step beyond Pixar and all the other animation techniques that he had studied. He wondered if he dared animate a work as revered as da Vinci’s Last Supper, or even bring Michelangelo’s marble masterpieces to life? James didn’t know if he was ecstatic or terrified at what he might achieve. But he was determined to give it a try.

  James’ father already thought he practically walked on water. When James presented his novel idea to him, the senior Riggs leapt at the idea of funding the project. Leon Riggs owned a successful Fine Art gallery in Mayfair and he readily agreed to let James use it as a springboard for his venture. With that, along with technical support from a German Company who wanted to get in on the ground floor of this innovative idea, James developed a form of contemporary art that was soon being shown in galleries in London, Edinburgh and Liverpool. The media hailed him as the new blood who would take over from the likes of Tracy Emin, Damien Hirst and Martin Creed, whose award winning exhibit that consisted of lights going on and off at five second intervals in an empty room had confounded the uninitiated. All of these were people who had shocked the art world with their work. The astute ones had gone on to become multi-millionaires.

  When Riggs aired his video on You Tube, he became a cult figure overnight. In spite of all of the acclaim, he had not changed his pizza-driven lifestyle. But tonight, less than two years after his epiphany moment, all that was about to change.

  He looked around at the guests that his father, Leon, had invited to the ceremony and the Channel 4 TV crew who were poised as the Chairman of the Tate Britain, Sir Robin Goodman, stood to announce the winner of the annual Turner Prize. The Selection Committee had declared the four candidates that they had short-listed some months earlier. The time had come to announce the winner.

  James’ tutors from Kingston and Norwich Universities smiled at their protégé and the CEO from the company in Berlin who had sponsored his work looked expectantly at Sir Robin while his friends topped up on the free wine. Over a hundred of the best and the good in the art world were poised as the Chairman picked up a gold rimmed envelope.

  “My Lords, ladies and gentlemen. It is my great pleasure to welcome you all here tonight to our magnificent newly refurbished galleries. Before I announce this year’s winner of the Turner Prize, I would like to introduce you to our four distinguished jurors. They have spent the past twelve months viewing and deliberating over the ground-breaking works that our candidates have presented in art galleries and exhibitions around the world. Tonight, on the occasion of the thirtieth anniversary of the Turner Prize, we will reveal their decision.”

  Riggs looked around at the invited audience as Sir Robin introduced the four judges and smiled at the applause that followed. He was not particularly interested in who they were. He guessed that they had somehow managed to ingratiate themselves to the Chairman or that he had some political or self-aggrandising ambitions for picking them from the thousands that could have done the job. One was from a New York art gallery that he hoped to visit someday. Another from the Guardian, a newspaper that he never read. The third was from Italy and the final juror was from Goldsmiths College. Well at least he should know his stuff, Riggs mused as Sir Robin droned on.

  “Although the candidates had two months to prepare for the exhibition at the Tate which closes on January 4th in the New Year, the judges’ decision is not based on the current showing. Rather, it is based solely on the work exhibited in the twelve months prior to the announcement of the four short-listed artists.

  Riggs waited impatiently for Sir Robin to announce his name as the winner. He had practised several variations of his acceptance speech, but his only real interest was in the £40.000 prize money and recognition of his work by the Establishment.

  Finally, he thought, and half rose as Sir Robin announced that ‘The winner of the Turner Prize for 2014 is,’ and paused in that infuriating way that that TV game shows have perfected --- ‘Margaret Dainton, for her paintings of Wounded Heroes’.

  There was an audible gasp from the audience, quickly followed by polite and increasingly enthusiastic clapping and some shouts of – ‘well done’!

  Riggs was stunned. He dare not look up for fear that he might cry in front of the entire assembled audience. He stared at his half-eaten dessert. His father placed a restraining hand on his son’s arm. “Don’t worry James. I still believe in you.” His father’s intervention did nothing to assuage his disappointment or his anger, but it had stopped him from leaping to his feet in protest. He held his head in his hands as he heard someone recite the poem Invictus. Margaret Dainton, he presumed.

  Out of the night that covers me

  Black as the pit from pole to pole,

  I thank whatever gods may be

  For my unconquerable soul.

&n
bsp; “Damn woman,” he muttered as he clenched his fists. He was certain it was a sympathy vote for the wounded and disabled military. He had watched and admired the competitors in the recent Invictus Games held in London. Prince Harry had read out the poem, so he was well familiar with the emotion it evoked. James had been stirred when he had had watched the games on the television and thought about the sacrifices ordinary people had made for their country. But damn it, this was not meant to be a tribute to the fallen soldiers, this was supposed to be a prize for modern art; a step forward in design and thinking. His mind was in a whirl. He had to get out. Pushing back his chair, he stumbled through the crowded dining area, barging into tables as he went. The words of the last verse of the poem haunted him as the winner completed her response to Sir Robin and the judges.

  It matters not how straight the gate

  How charged with punishment the scroll,

  I am the master of my fate,

  I am the Captain of my soul.

  At last he felt the cold night air strike his face. He ran down the broad steps two at a time and made his way to the Thames Embankment. He had always found that looking at the river helped him to relax.

  ‘Master of my fate’ – some bloody hopes now, he muttered through gritted teeth.

  ‘Captain of my soul’ - no bloody chance. I’ve been scuppered by a bunch of old fogies who would rather be politically correct than have the guts to say what everybody really thinks about my work.

  On one level he knew that he was acting like a spoiled brat, a self-pitying wimp. He could practically hear people saying it about him now. He really had no reason to complain. He had rushed the exhibition display at the Tate. He had gone too far in deciding to centre his exhibit on Michelangelo’s Tondo, one of the treasures owned by the Royal Academy. Had he crossed that line by depicting the dove flying across to the Baby Jesus? He cursed under his breath. He had been conquered, and it was bloody unfair. “Damn the judges and the Tate,” he shouted at the crisp silent night air.

  As he strode along the Embankment he looked at the river that shimmered in the wintery moonlight. As it swirled and eddied, it almost invited the unwary watcher to join it. Did he have the courage to commit suicide? No. Too bloody cold; and why should he give them the satisfaction? Sod ‘em all. The lights alongside the river cheered him up. He was no hero. He shuddered at the thought of drowning in the inky black Thames while everyone else was inside those warm cafes and restaurants having a good time.

  Just then a skinny kid went by on a skate board and nearly knocked into him.

  “Watch it mister,” the boy shouted; turning to salute him with a rude gesture.

  He grinned as he undid his bowtie and stuffed it into his pocket. Now he could breathe. So what. The Stuckist Group had said in the papers that they hated the Turner Prize. They called it crap. The stuff of Emperor’s clothes. He rationalised that he was well out of it.

  A couple walked past hand in hand. They laughed as they leant against each other. A welcoming light flooded out into the street as some people came out of a pub amidst a raucous burst of laughter. I can hack it, he muttered. The sounds of a piano playing in a restaurant that overlooked the river floated on the night air. It was time to have a drink and mix with some real people again. He stepped back and cursed as a double decker bus sped past. That familiar smell of hot rubber and fumes mixed with a gust of warm air enveloped him. ‘Number 87’, he read as the bus roared by.

  “Christ!” The driver of the Black Cab had no time to swerve. The man was thrown across his windscreen and into the road like a tailor’s dummy: the arms flapped as if making some pathetic gesture. It was everyone’s worst nightmare.

  ***

  The team at the Atkinson Morley Neurology Wing of St. Georges Hospital waited as the London Air Ambulance swung slowly down onto the landing pad. It was an all too familiar scene. The medics carried Riggs’ comatose body carefully into the soft lights of the reception area. It would be another long night.

  _______________________

  Chapter 2

  Once he had passed Giggs Hill Green and settled into his regular training pace, Ralph could start to think. It was 6.30 on a cold frosty morning and the ground was covered in a white frost that crunched underfoot. His first lecture was at 9. He knew it would be poorly attended. Undergraduates hated the ‘early bird’ lectures, as they dubbed them. Getting out of bed was not something that they welcomed, especially on a dark, wintery morning. Then he had a repeat lecture at 10. Some of the students who had missed the earlier lecture would turn up for that one and there were regular complaints that there were not enough seats.

  He overtook Emma and Joe, joggers whom he regularly saw on his morning run. Emma worked at a local Health Centre as an Asthma Nurse. He had been surprised to learn that she had suffered from asthma since a kid and yet still managed to represent England at Cross Country. Her husband was a hockey player and the pair trained together.

  “Got a full day, Professor Chalmers?” Emma shouted as he slowed for a brief chat.

  “Afraid so. We all have to earn a living. How’s it going with you two?”

  “I have a big race in Belgium at the weekend. That is, if the snow doesn’t disrupt Eurostar.”

  “Don’t wait for us, Professor. I already feel like death. Too many business lunches,” Joe gasped. “It’s a good job we’re already married or she’d have ditched me half a mile back.”

  Ralph raised his hand and went ahead. A mile later as he turned to head back to his apartment he reflected on the choice he had made many years earlier when he gave up a chance for selection for the Cambridge Cross Country team in lieu of a place at stroke, and fame among the rowing fraternity.

  Now in his mid- fifties, he had to settle for Tin Man Triathlon competitions and dream about moving up to the Iron Man. He shortened his pace to account for a slight gradient and thought of his relationship with Katie. Running and rowing were not activities they shared. Riding was Katie’s passion. Her job at London University kept her busy but she enjoyed spending her free time riding across Exmoor. His other passion was sailing, and they both enjoyed going out on his boat, the Gypsy Lady when they had time to go down to the cottage they shared near Clovelly.

  By the time he had thrown his shorts and running vest into the linen basket, indulged in a hot shower, grabbed some toast and tea and changed in to his business suit, it was time to make a dash for the K3 and get to Gypsy Hill for his first lecture. Today it would be a bit rushed as had an appointment for lunch with Pradeep Jeethi at his publishers in London.

  He glanced at his companions on the bus. Either they stared blankly ahead or sat with their thumbs poised waiting for a chance to text some unsuspecting poor bugger, he mused. The rather large girl in a blue and white woollen hat who sat next to him was engrossed in the strangulated sounds that came flooding out of her earphones. She was in another world as she stared out at the rows of shops touting their winter collections. She was no doubt dreaming of performing in front of Simon Cowel and his panel of judges on X Factor.

  A quick sprint down the steps that the safety conscious caretakers had sprinkled with road salt, then through the swing doors into a suffocatingly hot lecture theatre. He was not really on form that morning and the students showed little interest as they sat huddled in hats and coats in spite of the sauna conditions. There were the usual excuses from late comers about ice on the roads and delayed busses, none of which he had solicited. He had also upset the admin people by ignoring the sign on the outside of the door that proclaimed – no students allowed after 10 minutes of the scheduled lecture start time. All he asked was that any latecomers take their seats as quietly and unobtrusively as possible in order not to disrupt the class. Early in his teaching career when he had balled some poor girl out for coming in late, she had burst into tears and told him, between sobs, that she had been at the hospital visiting her mother who had cancer. He never challenged anyone after that.

  He suspected that some of the
students were on more than caffeine which could account for their lack of interest in his lecture. ‘Economic Development in Greece and the link to the Euro’. Hardly a scintillating subject, he had to admit, even for the most dedicated learner. They were more enthusiastic about heading for the refectory and a talk with their pals at the end of the lecture.

  Once outside Ralph found that the sun was out, and as he ran to catch the 85 bus to the railway station and his meeting in London, he felt on top of the word. The frost had melted from under the tall pine trees that surrounded the Gypsy Hill campus. The birds were singing and it was good to be alive.

  A few years back he had regularly taught summer semesters at Grand Valley University in Michigan. One of the things about his American colleagues that had impressed him was their ability to write and have published one book a year. They accepted it as a natural part of their job. That was something that would have terrified his colleagues at Kingston.

  Ralph admired his American colleagues’ discipline and tried to emulate it.

  His publishers, Financial Times – Longmans, wanted him to tackle something that would appeal to a larger audience. ‘We need to sell more books’ - was the way that Pradeep had phrased it. ‘We need to make you a familiar name with managers and business people. The John Grisham for managers. We need to push the envelope a bit. Challenge the conventional wisdom’. I’m not bloody Jeffery Archer, Ralph had muttered when Pradeep had rung off.

  The taxi from Waterloo weaved its way through the traffic in the Strand and skirted Leicester Square before pulling up in front of the FT Offices in Longacre. As he waited in the foyer, he flicked through their latest promotional material. It all looked very slick, glossy and decidedly upmarket. He began to regret having been so keen to agree to a lunch. He could hear Katie telling him to learn to say ‘no’.