The Art of Murder

by Rebecca Muddiman

  ‘I know. The divorce,’ Michael said, knowing that reminding her she’d already confided in him would make her comfortable enough to do it again. ‘But I had a good time. I enjoyed your company. I thought it would be nice to do it again.’

  Karen looked at the floor and Michael wondered if he’d wasted his time. From the corner of his eye, he saw the short guy move closer. He was irritating; listening too intently. But Michael almost had her. And he was tired of assholes derailing his plans. Maybe he could get rid of the guy. Not everything had to be art. Many artists did other jobs out of necessity.

  ‘Okay.’

  Michael turned his attention back to Karen. Had she agreed? She was scribbling something down on the back of a receipt. She handed it to him, her eyes seeking out the short guy as if she didn’t want him to know. Michael saw it was her number.

  He felt a jolt of pleasure. He looked up and saw she was nervous. Maybe she’d only agreed to get rid of him, to stop the other guy from listening. Maybe he owed the little guy.

  Michael took his phone out of his pocket, the one he’d got specially for the occasion, and put in her number, making sure it was right. He texted her and heard her phone beep in her pocket.

  ‘Great,’ he said and almost asked if she wanted to see him that night until he remembered he had plans. How could he have forgotten that?

  ‘How about tomorrow?’ he asked and she nodded, smiling.

  ‘Okay. Text me where and when,’ she said and ushered him towards the door.

  ‘Tomorrow then.’

  He left feeling joyful. Not only had he got a big night planned, he’d solved his Maria-shaped hole too.

  He had been feeling listless, wondering if that asshole detective had spoilt things for him. After telling people to be aware of a decorator, Michael knew that getting his backdrops in would be more difficult. There were still projects that didn’t require one, but this next one did. He’d sulked for hours about that. How the hell was he going to manage it? And then he’d had a light-bulb moment. It was genius really, as long as it worked.

  Making his way to the café across the street, Michael decided to wait a while, hoping Karen left work early, letting him follow her home. It was always nice to have that knowledge without having to ask. You never knew when it would come in handy.

  He only hoped she wasn’t too long. This business of art, of killing, was hard work. So many balls in the air, so many moving parts. And he had a big night ahead of him, one he was truly looking forward to.

  17

  Nick

  Nick had driven two hours out of the city to speak to Rachel Sherman. He could’ve talked to her on the phone, but Nick wanted to speak to her in person. Or, more truthfully, he wanted to get away from his colleagues. They refused to let it go. His dressing down, if that’s what it was, was days earlier. He hadn’t spoken to the media since. It was killing him. And that was what they couldn’t let go. Both Dan and Azrah, as well as various others, persisted with tormenting him. He didn’t want them to know how much it was getting to him, hence the field trip.

  Dan had suggested this guy had probably worked his way up to the murders. It was unusual for crimes like this to come from nowhere. Usually there were lesser crimes committed first. A career ladder for killers. So Nick had dug up the story the day before, and maybe he was wrong, but his gut told him he was right. For him, it smacked of having serious similarities, and he wondered why no one else had noticed it yet. Maybe because it was outside the city? Or maybe because at the time the crime had been largely ignored, dismissed as a prank.

  But what if this was their guy’s stepping stone? True, he hadn’t hurt anyone with this one, not really. It was morally wrong, yes, but the victim had already been dead. It seemed to him that the killing was secondary to the art in this man’s eyes. The death served the art, rather than art serving death. Maybe this was his starting point. Maybe there’d been others like it they were yet to uncover. And if this was the same guy, then it was possible the victim would provide more clues on how and why the killer chose who he did. Of course Nick hadn’t mentioned any of it to Lynch or the others yet. He wanted it for himself. He wanted to be sure before he brought it to their attention. To make sure he’d be applauded.

  It was late afternoon when he got there. As he pulled up in front of the house, a woman came out onto the porch. Rachel Sherman, he assumed. She smiled, uncertainly. This wasn’t a social visit, but she obviously had manners.

  ‘Detective Kelly?’ she asked and they shook hands before she led him inside.

  Fifteen minutes later she had told him what had happened with her grandfather, Benjamin. Five years after his death, someone had dug up his bones, stealing the skull and a few others from the upper body. They’d then positioned the bones in a frame and inserted a cigarette into the mouth. The set-up was quickly identified as Van Gogh’s Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette.

  It was removed from its position in front of the town hall, but only because whoever had placed it there had done so without a permit. It was a case for bureaucracy rather than the police. Plenty of people had gazed at it as they passed, making comment or even taking a photograph. The image was a well-known one, popular with students, which was why it was generally accepted to be a prank or some form of guerrilla art by a student with too much time on their hands. Rachel had even seen it herself, laughing with a friend at the strangeness of it all.

  ‘It was only when someone from the graveyard got in touch that we knew anything was wrong,’ Rachel said. ‘And I didn’t put it together at first. Why would I? But they told us that some of the bones were missing and then a few days later, I saw something in the paper about the art prank and I…’ Rachel shook her head. ‘No one took me seriously at first. But I made them look into it. They tested the remains that’d been used and, of course, it was him. My grandfather.’ Rachel looked at Nick, tears settled on her eyes. ‘Why would anyone do that? For a joke?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nick said.

  Rachel wiped her eyes and shook herself. ‘You mentioned something similar had happened,’ she said, and Nick nodded. Obviously he couldn’t tell her the truth, and making her aware that it was likely a serial killer in the making who’d disinterred her grandfather wasn’t going to make her feel any better. But he had to wonder if there had been more. Other body parts taken, other instances of street art that was ignored or dismissed. Maybe that was what pushed their guy to start killing. Maybe no one was paying enough attention.

  ‘I’m trying to find out a little more about your grandfather. See if I can find any links, any reason why this person chose him.’

  Rachel shrugged, the same way any victim’s relative did when they were asked the question – why would anyone want to hurt them? ‘I really don’t know what to tell you. Like I said, this was five years after he died. As far as I know, he had no enemies. But then, it didn’t seem random. There were plenty of graves that would’ve been easier to get to, more out of the way so they’d be less likely to get caught. It seemed, to me, that they picked him specifically. I have no idea why.’

  ‘There wasn’t anyone else in your family that it could’ve been aimed at? No one that could’ve been trying to hurt you or your father?’

  ‘No. We told them at the time. There was nothing.’

  Nick nodded. He knew that Benjamin Sherman had been in his seventies when he’d died. He was white, Jewish. Had been married for over fifty years. There was nothing that seemed to link him to the current victims, but then there was nothing linking them to each other either.

  ‘What did he do? Your grandfather?’

  ‘He was a composer,’ Rachel said, looking over to a grand piano that sat in the corner, a thin layer of dust covering the keys. ‘That was his. I couldn’t bear to get rid of it. I don’t play. I keep thinking I should try but…’ She shrugged. ‘He always wanted me to learn. My dad played a little but gave it up. I think we disappointed him… Granddad.’ She smiled sadly as she said it. ‘
But then he gave up himself. My grandmother died a few years before him and he couldn’t bring himself to play anymore once she was gone. Sometimes I wonder if it was living without her or without the piano that killed him.’

  Nick stared at the piano. Something was nagging at him but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But he did have something. This had to be their guy. He could feel it. In his bones. He’d take it back to Lynch, tell Dan to ask the art schools about it. Maybe this guy had done something similar before.

  Nick thanked Rachel and drove back to the city. He’d hoped the time away, the fresh air, would make him feel better. It didn’t. He was still angry with Karen. Still anxious about his parents and his job. And he was still pissed off he couldn’t talk to the media. Maybe Azrah had been right about him needing attention and validation. He felt like he was suffering from withdrawal, like he had when he quit smoking. He hadn’t realized how much he needed it, all that attention, all that love.

  When he got back to the precinct, he saw a smattering of reporters outside the building. For a moment he wondered if something else had happened, if he’d missed it on his little day out. Lynch had warned Nick that his taunting description of their guy as a decorator might spur him on, make him move on to the next one more quickly. But if that were true, if someone else was dead, there’d be more reporters lurking. These guys were seeing what tidbits they could get on an otherwise slow news day. There was always someone – usually him – who’d throw them something. He wondered if they were as disappointed as he was with his gag order.

  Nick climbed out of the car and felt that familiar little shiver of excitement as the reporters flocked towards him.

  ‘Detective Kelly,’ Lucy said. ‘Time for a quick sound-bite?’

  Nick wondered how she could make something so banal sound so inviting. He almost opened his mouth until he remembered he wasn’t allowed.

  ‘Sorry, not today,’ he said and moved past her. He didn’t want to tell them he’d been ordered to stop, that he was like a neutered animal. He could hear them chattering amongst themselves. They were assuming something big was happening, that he was teasing them. If only.

  But as he made his way towards the door of the precinct, he heard one of them say, ‘I guess we’ll stick to the expert then.’

  Nick turned and saw Aronsen standing there, smirking, ready to steal the spotlight, to stand in it alone, wallowing like a pig. Nick paused. Maybe he could say something, anything, to keep them away from Aronsen. But he knew he’d be out on his ear the moment he did.

  Instead he turned around, going back to the car, and got in, slamming the door behind him. He couldn’t be there while they talked to Aronsen, listening to him as though he were the second coming.

  Nick had to get out of there. He had to go home.

  18

  Karen

  Karen walked into the apartment, surprised to hear the sounds of someone moving around in the kitchen. It was unusual for Nick to be home at this time, assuming that it was Nick. She supposed it could be a burglar and it occurred to her that she might very well be happier to see an intruder rather than her husband.

  As she hung up her coat and pulled off her shoes, there was no call of Hello or any acknowledgement of her presence. Again, it could mean it was her husband or an intruder.

  She walked through into the living room and could suddenly smell garlic. Someone was cooking. For a brief moment she panicked, thinking it was Nick’s mother, that she’d let herself in and was planning on having a chat with Karen about their marriage troubles. She wondered if it was too late to sneak out when she caught a glimpse of Nick.

  Karen relaxed a little and sat down, switching on the TV. The smell of whatever was cooking made her stomach rumble, but she assumed it wouldn’t be a meal for two. If she wanted to eat, she was on her own. She flicked through the channels while she considered calling for some takeout. Chinese would be good.

  She stopped on the news. Peter Aronsen was at it again. She wondered how long it’d be before Nick’s face filled the screen when she heard Nick come into the room.

  ‘Turn it off,’ he said.

  Her finger had been poised to do so, but his tone made her put down the remote.

  ‘I’m watching it,’ she said. She crossed her arms and stared at the TV as if it was the most important thing in the world. She knew Aronsen pissed Nick off. He pissed her off a little too. But my enemy’s enemy and all that.

  ‘Turn it off,’ he said again and stomped over, trying to snatch the control from her. When she held onto it, he glared at her. She smiled and he turned away.

  ‘Jesus!’

  Her heart was thundering. Nick had kicked the TV over and though it lay on its back on the floor, it was still playing to the ceiling.

  Paulo squawked and Nick marched towards the bird. Karen leapt up, certain Nick was going to hurt her pet. Instead, he pulled the plug on the TV and, apart from Paulo’s continued noise, the room was quiet.

  Nick looked at her with disgust before moving back towards the kitchen.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asked, following him.

  ‘I asked you to turn it off.’

  ‘And I said I was watching it.’

  ‘Right.’ Nick went back to stirring his dinner.

  ‘Just because he’s getting more airtime than you, you don’t have to be such a child about it.’

  ‘Me?’ he said, turning around, spoon in hand, tomato sauce dripping onto the floor. ‘You think I’m childish? You can’t stand the man either.’

  ‘Whatever,’ she said and turned to walk out.

  ‘And he’s not getting more airtime than me,’ Nick called after her.

  She pulled on her boots and grabbed her coat, texting Jamie as she opened the door. She wasn’t going to sit there all night, not with Nick home. It crossed her mind to call Mark, but hadn’t he said he was busy that night?

  Fortunately Jamie was ready at a moment’s notice, just like she knew he’d be. They met at the Chinese restaurant at the end of his street and Karen asked what he thought about getting Peter Aronsen in to do a reading.

  ‘But you hate him,’ Jamie said.

  ‘So? He sells books,’ she said, and Jamie nodded, conceding.

  ‘But do you really want him in the store? You’d have to be nice to him. And what did you call him? A greasy weasel?’

  Karen finished the last egg roll and sighed. It was true. She really did dislike him. Besides, as he was currently riding high on media attention, he was probably in demand. It seemed unlikely he’d visit her little store.

  ‘What now?’ she asked Jamie as they paid the bill, and she saw the look of surprise on his face. ‘Should we get a drink somewhere?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jamie said, and Karen felt a stab of guilt again. Would she be asking him out if Nick wasn’t home? It wasn’t likely. But really, who was it harming? Jamie wanted to be out with her, she just wanted to be out.

  ‘There’s this bar down the street,’ Jamie said. ‘They do great cocktails.’

  ‘Ugh,’ Karen said, her guts recalling the cocktails from earlier in the week.

  ‘Okay, not cocktails but they do other drinks. Cheap too.’

  ‘All right. You had me at cheap.’

  They walked towards the bar and Karen almost turned back when she saw how busy it was. But Jamie was already pushing his way inside. He’d ordered two beers before she’d even made it to the bar.

  ‘It’s a bit loud, isn’t it?’ she yelled in his ear, and he grinned.

  ‘All the better for indiscretions,’ he said and handed her a bottle.

  She took it and wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake. Did Jamie think this was a date? Did he think her interest in Mark had opened up the floodgates, that she was now on the market? She decided to drink the beer quickly and call it a night. But that would mean going home to another fight with Nick. Unless, of course, someone else was murdered. That would get him out of the house.

  Jamie found a seat
at the back and Karen squeezed through a throng of people, most of whom looked twenty years younger than her. She wished she’d got changed out of her work clothes before she’d come out, but then stopping to change would’ve diluted the drama somewhat.

  In the end, she stayed for three drinks. Their conversation was mostly shouted and only half understood. But at least he wasn’t trying it on.

  She checked the time, and seeing it was getting on to eleven, assumed it would be safe to leave. Even if Nick was still up, she was tired and could escape to the sanctuary of her room.

  Jamie gestured, asking if she wanted another, but she shook her head.

  ‘I need to sleep!’ she shouted, and he nodded. ‘I’ll just go to the bathroom.’

  She got up and tried to maneuver around all the people. And then she stopped. Was that him? Karen tried to look around a man making his way from the bar to a table while carrying four drinks, but he was blocking the way. When he moved she could no longer see him.

  Was it possible it was Mark? How strange would that be? Unless he was following her. When she’d seen him in the store she’d been surprised. She didn’t remember telling him where she worked, but it was entirely possible. But if he’d wanted to see her that night, why not make the date for then? He was the one who’d suggested the following day.

  ‘Sorry!’

  Karen was jolted as a woman knocked into her, spilling her drink onto Karen’s shirt.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Karen said as the woman tried to rub her down, only making it worse. ‘Really,’ she said, and finally the woman walked away.

  Karen gazed back to the corner where she thought she’d seen Mark but all she could see was a redheaded woman draping herself across a man with his back to Karen. She turned away, not wanting to look like a pervert.

  ‘Ready?’ Jamie said from behind her, and Karen nodded. She couldn’t bear the thought of fighting her way to the bathroom. She was done. She wanted to go home. Alone.