The Art of Murder

by Rebecca Muddiman

  The Art Of Murder

  Rebecaa Muddiman

  Contents

  Also By Rebecca Muddiman

  1. Michael

  2. Nick

  3. Karen

  4. Michael

  5. Nick

  6. Karen

  7. Michael

  8. Nick

  9. Karen

  10. Michael

  11. Nick

  12. Karen

  13. Michael

  14. Nick

  15. Karen

  16. Michael

  17. Nick

  18. Karen

  19. Michael

  20. Nick

  21. Karen

  22. Michael

  23. Nick

  24. Karen

  25. Michael

  26. Nick

  27. Karen

  28. Michael

  29. Nick

  30. Karen

  31. Michael

  32. Nick

  33. Karen

  34. Michael

  35. Nick

  36. Karen

  37. Michael

  38. Nick

  39. Karen

  40. Michael

  41. Nick

  42. Karen

  43. Michael

  44. Nick

  45. Karen

  46. Michael

  47. Nick

  48. Karen

  49. Michael

  50. Nick

  51. Karen

  52. Michael

  53. Nick

  54. Karen

  55. Michael

  56. Nick

  57. Karen

  58. Michael

  59. Nick

  60. Karen

  61. Michael

  62. Nick

  63. Karen

  64. Michael

  65. Nick

  66. Karen

  67. Michael

  68. Nick

  69. Karen

  70. Michael

  71. Nick

  72. Karen

  73. Michael

  74. Nick

  75. Karen

  76. Michael

  77. Nick

  78. Karen

  79. Michael

  80. Nick

  81. Karen

  A note from the publisher

  Love crime, thriller and mystery books?

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  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2019 Rebecca Muddiman

  The right of Rebecca Muddiman to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2019 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

  Print ISBN 978-1-912986-46-0

  Also By Rebecca Muddiman

  No Place Like Home

  Murder in Slow Motion

  Tell Me Lies

  Gone

  Stolen

  To Mam

  Who loves art and (fictional) murder

  1

  Michael

  Exposing the brain was surprisingly hard work. An incision at the top of the skull, cutting right down to the bone. Peeling off the scalp before sawing deeper. It was a skill, no doubt, and one that Michael, if he were being honest with himself, wasn’t confident he possessed. But once the brain was out in the open, Michael felt an overwhelming level of pride. Not bad for a first go.

  He had wondered if he should have a trial run, but that would take up precious time as well as resources. Besides, a true artist shouldn’t be afraid to jump in, to just try something new and see what happens. And that creative spirit had paid off. He stepped back and looked at his work before making a few adjustments, posing Christopher’s body so that his yawning skull was positioned beneath the hands on the canvas backdrop.

  The piece was inspired by Rembrandt’s The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Deijman, not a particular favorite of Michael’s, but ideal for the situation. The painting depicted the autopsy of a criminal, conducted by the eponymous Dr. Deijman and observed by an assistant. There had previously been more to it, but much of the canvas had been destroyed by fire around seventy years after completion, and, ever the perfectionist, Michael had burned the edges of his own backdrop, though he doubted his critics would appreciate such fine detail. These things were more for himself than the audience.

  Michael gazed at the tableau and noticed he was rubbing his chin, much like his pretentious teachers had done all those years earlier. He dropped his hand immediately and moved forward, tugging the sheet which covered Christopher’s lower half, allowing the gaping wound in his gut to be more visible. Michael stepped back again before adjusting the flap of skin around the face, moving it just so.

  He squinted. Was the lighting right? Perhaps he should move a lamp. Or… maybe not. You had to know when to stop. A good artist knew when he was done.

  Michael crossed his arms and tried to look at the scene objectively. A lot of work had gone into the piece. He had to get it right. The backdrop had taken three tries, not to mention all the sketches and studies, and the materials weren’t cheap. And then, of course, there was the physical work of preparing his model. It had been a challenge, for sure, although he wasn’t afraid of that. Irene had been tricky too, in her own way.

  Michael smiled. It looked good, even if he did say so himself. Although he knew from experience that, later that night, or maybe in the days that followed, he would think of things he could’ve done differently, perhaps even done better. He would fixate on the little details. But such was the life of an artist. That was part of the deal. You made mistakes and learned from them. You did good and then you did better. Always learning, always growing.

  ‘Damn it,’ he muttered as Christopher’s head slipped from its position. Michael made some adjustments, wondering if he should use something to prop up the head. He didn’t want his audience to see the work if it wasn’t right. He looked around for something to use, the “could’ve dones” already running through his mind.

  He’d considered performing the dissection while Christopher was still alive. But, as well as practical concerns – Christopher was a man in peak physical condition, it would’ve been tricky restraining him, plus imagine the mess if he’d been moving – the truth of the matter was that Michael wasn’t a cruel man. He had no desire to make his projects suffer more than was necessary for the work. And Christopher had already endured a more prolonged death than anticipated. Michael assumed being stabbed in the guts so many times would move things along quickly. Instead, Christopher had writhed around for several minutes, his eyes wide in pain and disbelief, knowing that even being the most prominent surgeon, he couldn’t save himself.

  Besides, the painting clearly showed the dissection of a man already deceased and there were certain aspects of the work that Michael was required to adhere to. That was what the project was about. Each piece would prove his brilliance as an artist, both in his meticulous ability to copy the techniques of others, as well as putting a twist on the original works which demonstrated his creativity. Just like art school had taught him. So in this piece, the backdrop was a perfect facsimile of Rembrandt’s painting, scorched canvas and all. But in Michael’s version, instead of the doctor performing the anatomy lesson, he was the one being dissected.

  Christopher Lawrence, pro
minent surgeon, and artist’s model. Michael picked up his camera and took several pictures. It was always difficult to walk away, knowing there’d be no final exhibition of the work, at least not all together in the flesh, but it had to be done, and at least he had a record of it for his own gallery.

  When he was finished, Michael stood back. Was this his best yet? Perhaps it wasn’t for him to say. And maybe he should wait until he was finished to evaluate. This was a work in progress and he still had plenty more to do.

  2

  Nick

  Detective Nick Kelly walked into the apartment, acknowledging his colleagues. He could see from their expressions that some of them did not appreciate being called in on a Sunday evening. These expressions differed from those repulsed by the scene before them, and mostly came from those who had families. Or those with families who they could conveniently use as a pretense to go home, when really all they wanted to do was watch the game.

  Nick didn’t have that problem. He wasn’t interested in watching a game of anything, nor did he have a family to go home to. He had a wife but had no desire to go home to her, nor did she have any desire for him to come home either. They were divorcing but still cohabiting and the way things were, no one could blame Nick for preferring to be at the scene of a grisly murder.

  Sliding on a pair of blue plastic covers for his shoes, he nodded at his colleague, Daniel Clarkson, standing in front of the latest scene. From his position by the doorway, Nick could see it was another elaborate set-up, a supposed work of art. Nick refused to call it that, but he could see by the look on Dan’s face that he was impressed. But then, Dan was more cultured than Nick.

  He made his way over and took in the scene. A painted backdrop, burned around the edges. In front, a table held the body of a man, his guts and brain exposed, his scalp hanging loosely at the sides of his face. A white sheet covered the lower half of his naked body.

  ‘Rembrandt,’ Dan said, and Nick looked up, about to ask how he knew. Dan waved his phone at him. Google. An investigator’s best friend. ‘The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Deijman.’

  ‘Any good?’ Nick asked and Dan showed him an image of the original. Whoever this guy was, he was talented. Nick leaned forward, getting a better look at the brain. Even the dissection looked good. Their guy was multi-talented.

  ‘Christopher Lawrence. Forty-one.’

  Nick didn’t turn to greet her as she spoke, purely because he knew it would irritate her. Azrah Khan was a good detective but she was also a pain in the ass. Nick would bet any amount of money that she was the kid at school whose hand always shot up every time the teacher asked a question, who volunteered for extra work, who brought the teachers gifts, most likely homemade. She was a suck up. And, if he allowed himself to be dramatic, she was his nemesis.

  ‘A prominent cosmetic surgeon,’ Azrah went on, addressing Dan more than Nick as a way to irritate him right back. Their little games could have been fun if she had any hint of a sense of humor. Nick put his hand in his pocket and slid out his lighter. He hadn’t smoked in two years but the lighter had been a gift and had he been a superstitious man, he’d have called it his lucky charm. Really, it was there to keep his hands busy and to help him think. He did some of his best thinking turning the lighter around his fingers.

  ‘His ex-wife found him a few hours ago,’ Azrah said. ‘She came around to yell at him for not picking the kids up. They were supposed to be going ice-skating. She was all ready to have a go at him and then… found this.’

  They all stared at Christopher Lawrence’s body. As excuses went for not taking the kids ice-skating, it was a pretty good one.

  ‘Just how angry was the ex-wife?’ Dan asked and Nick laughed. Azrah didn’t. They all knew this wasn’t a domestic. Even if it hadn’t been the fourth so far, it would be stretching things a little to think that a woman in her late thirties would do this to her ex-husband for not picking up the kids. And yet… divorce could get messy.

  Azrah looked at her notebook. Nick could see the tiny neat handwriting and felt a bristle of irritation again. Who wrote notes at a crime scene so precisely?

  ‘Looks like he was killed sometime last night,’ she said. ‘Cause of death was the stab wound to the gut. Appears he was stabbed multiple times. The dissection was post mortem.’

  Nick looked down at the body. Christopher Lawrence had been a big guy. Wiry but tall. Looked in good shape. Whoever killed him would’ve had to take him by surprise. So did he know his killer? Trust him? Nick thought about the others. No sign of a break-in, no real sign of a struggle. Who was this guy that he could just walk in and do something like this?

  Nick took in the rest of the scene. This guy came prepared with the backdrop and the tools to open up the head. Unless he left the scene and came back. Killed the man first and then returned with his kit. But surely that was more risky. More chances to be seen. More chance he’d be interrupted before he could finish his masterpiece. And that was the important part to the murderer. The act of killing seemed almost incidental to it. It was the scene he left behind that was the real work.

  Turning, Nick glanced around the apartment. It was a high-end place, expensive. What you’d expect from a cosmetic surgeon. Those guys were usually loaded.

  ‘Security cameras?’ he asked, but Dan shook his head. ‘Nothing? Not even someone with their hood pulled up?’

  ‘No CCTV at all,’ Dan said.

  ‘In a building this fancy?’

  ‘Seems after a certain point of fancy, the residents prefer no one to see what they’re getting up to.’

  ‘We’re checking businesses and other buildings in the area, but it’ll take time,’ Azrah said.

  Nick sighed. ‘The wife?’

  ‘Ex-wife,’ Azrah said pointedly. Everyone knew about Nick and Karen but if Azrah thought he was sore about it, she was wrong. ‘She’s sorting out childcare. She’ll come to the station to give a statement. I can do it if you want to go home.’

  Nick smiled at Azrah, trying not to let her get to him. He might not have been upset about the divorce itself, but he was fairly wounded about the apartment he and his soon-to-be ex-wife shared. If it weren’t for that, he’d have been out of there a long time ago. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you go talk to the neighbors?’

  Azrah closed her notebook and turned to the door. Nick could tell she wanted to tell him to fuck off, but girl scouts don’t swear.

  ‘I don’t know why you just don’t move out,’ Dan said. ‘But I suppose with all this overtime you rack up, you’ll be able to afford a new place when Karen wins.’

  ‘She’s not going to win,’ Nick snapped, and Dan held up his hand, a stupid grin on his face.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Just kidding.’

  ‘I’m going to talk to the wife.’ Nick walked towards the front door and pulled off his shoe covers.

  ‘Be nice to her,’ Dan called after him. ‘She’s not your wife.’

  Nick gave him the finger over his shoulder and made his way outside. A group of reporters had already gathered, several he recognized and who also recognized him. They rushed over as he walked towards his car.

  ‘Detective Kelly!’

  Nick turned to see two reporters running over. The one who’d shouted was called Billy or Barry or something like that. A man who resembled a potato really shouldn’t have a job on TV. But behind him was Lucy O’Hara, a woman made for TV. Nick nodded at her, inviting her to ask her question. He saw the look on Mr. Potato Head’s face but felt no guilt in ignoring him. The fact that Nick had slept with Lucy had nothing to do with their professional relationship. Lucy was just a better reporter. Or rather, she worked for a better news channel.

  As Lucy’s cameraman pointed the camera at Nick, he ran his fingers through his hair and put on his game face. He was ready for his close up.

  3

  Karen

  Karen looked up from her phone at the sound of his voice. As soon as she saw his face filling the screen, she fe
lt her stress levels rising. It hadn’t always been this irritating. There was a time when seeing her husband’s face on the news made her smile – even if he was talking about some horrific crime. But over time the novelty wore off. Even before they started to fight, before he messed around, even then the sight of him playing up to the cameras like an attention-seeking toddler caused her to roll her eyes. Maybe she should’ve seen it as a sign. Maybe happy couples were pleased to see one another on TV.

  Behind her, Paulo shrieked and Karen turned, smiling at her bird. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘He does look smug.’

  She turned back to the TV as Paulo shuffled along his perch. Nick hated Paulo and the feeling was mutual. Sometimes Karen caught Nick staring at the parrot with the kind of hatred he usually reserved for murderers and rapists. But Paulo would just stare back and it was always Nick who gave up first, walking away, muttering about the dumb animal. Even Paulo’s name irritated Nick. But giving pets human names was a tradition in Karen’s family.