Liddell dropped the swab to the floor and fashioned a new one. It was then he heard a noise downstairs that sounded like the snap of a lock. He sat motionless for a moment, then tilted his face toward the ceiling and called, “Hester? Is that you?” Receiving no reply, he dipped the fresh swab in the clear potion and once again twirled it carefully over the skin of the girl’s breast. A few seconds later came another sound, closer than the last, and distinct enough for Liddell to realize he was no longer alone.

Rotating his body quickly atop the stool, he glimpsed a shadowed figure on the landing. The figure took two steps forward and calmly entered Liddell’s studio. Flannel and denim, dark hair pulled into a stubby ponytail, dark eyes—the man from the Hundred Monkeys. It was clear he was neither a poet nor a polemicist. He had a gun in his hand, and it was pointed directly at Liddell’s heart. Liddell reached for the flask of solvent. He was reliable. And for that he would soon be dead.

CHAPTER 2

2

ST. JAMES’S, LONDON

The first indication of trouble occurred the following afternoon when Emily Liddell, age four years seven months, emerged from St. John’s parish preschool to find no one waiting to take her home. The body was discovered a short time later, and by early that evening Liddell’s death was officially declared a homicide. BBC Somerset’s initial bulletin included the victim’s name but made no mention of his occupation or any possible motive for the killing. Radio 4 chose to ignore the story, as did the so-called quality national papers. Only the Daily Mail carried an account of the murder, a small item buried among a litany of other sordid news from around the country.

As a result, Christopher Liddell’s death might have gone unnoticed by London’s art world since few of its lofty citizens ever soiled their fingers with the Mail. But that was not true of tubby Oliver Dimbleby, a lecherous dealer from Bury Street who had never been shy about wearing his working-class roots on his well-tailored sleeve. Dimbleby read of the Glastonbury murder over his midmorning coffee and by that evening was blaring the news to anyone who would listen at the bar of Green’s Restaurant, a local watering hole in Duke Street where dealers gathered to celebrate their triumphs or lick their wounds.