The Dead City (Ophelia book 2)

by Amy Cross

  “Laura?” Nick continues, nudging my shoulder. “Case closed, yeah? Station, confession, drink. Preferably in that order, but I'm not picky. Sound good?”

  “Sure,” I reply, turning to him. “Absolutely. Case closed.”

  As he heads out of the room, I stay behind for a moment. I want to believe Nick, to accept that Bryony's the killer and that we caught a lucky break. Still, I can't shake the feeling that things are suddenly getting wrapped up too quickly. Sure, we've got enough evidence to put Bryony away for a very long time, and any objective analysis of the facts would conclude without doubt that she's the killer. In fact, it's neater than any case I've ever solved before. So why do I have this feeling in the pit of my stomach that we've somehow got the wrong person?

  Ophelia

  “The Dead City,” Victoria explains as she holds the modeling knife up to the face of one of her life-size models. With almost maternal care, she runs the blade against the surface, creating a tiny scratch that seems to mesmerize her for a moment. “It's a stupid name, really. I want to change it, but I can't think of anything else.”

  I watch as she makes her way around the model. It's as if she's lost in her own world, like an absent-minded god working on her world in the dark. For the past few minutes she's been trying to explain the project, but everything she says just ends up sounding disjointed and confused. I've got no doubt that it makes sense in her head, even if she's unable to articulate her thoughts.

  “They're supposed to be...” She pauses, before looking at me and then turning to another of the models. “It's like, they're people, frozen in time at the moment when they...” Another pause; she pauses a lot, barely completing a single sentence. “It's like if you could cut time down into such thin slices that it's got nothing to do with seconds or milliseconds, it's just these tangible fragments, like moments, like... fused time that you can reach out and touch and hold and...”

  I wait for her to finish, but finally I realize that she seems lost again.

  “They're cool,” I tell her.

  She turns to me, with the knife still in her hand.

  “I like them,” I add, forcing a smile. “I mean, I don't fully get them yet, but just looking at them, I feel like they've got this real resonance, like...”

  “Like if you stop looking at them you might die?”

  “Sure,” I reply. “I guess. Maybe.”

  It's been more than an hour since she found me in here, and she's spent the whole time trying to explain her artwork. After a few awkward mutterings at the start of the encounter, she's now showing a surprising keenness when it comes to telling me about her artwork. I don't really understand much of what she's saying, but it's clear that she's really into the project, and I can't help but admire her dedication. The more I listen to her, the more I realize that she truly does remind me of how I used to be a few years ago. It's like I'm looking into a five-year-delayed mirror. I just hope those similarities don't go all the way; if they do, I'm in big trouble.

  “It's all dumb,” she says suddenly, taking a step back. “That's why I don't let anyone look at them. When you have something in your head for so long, you never really know what they'll be like when you bring them into the world. It's like a mother imagining some perfect kid, and then when it comes splatting out between her legs it turns out to be ugly. This whole project, it's all just dumb.”

  “It's not dumb.”

  “It is. I've got this whole project in my head, and it's really detailed and figured out, but I can't get it out and put it into the physical world. The amount of time and money I'd need...” She pauses yet again. “Sometimes I don't know if the Dead City is ever going to be finished. It might take up my whole life and still be...” She falls silent for a moment. “Right now, they just look like dumb models. I'm so close to making them perfect, though. It might only be one tiny thing that needs to be changed.”

  “They're cool,” I reply, stepping over to one of the figures and reaching out to touch its shoulder. It feels surprisingly cold and brittle. The truth is, I meant what I said to her a moment ago. Even though I don't fully understand what this Dead City project is all about, I still feel as if they're more interesting than anything else I've seen at the college. “What are they made of?”

  “Resin,” she explains. “I did a lot of experiments to get the right look. It all depends on the light. That's one of the key parts of the project, really. I'm trying to control the way light passes through the models so that I can be certain how they'll look in any given location.”

  Turning, I look at the dirty windows at the top of the far wall. The only light in this whole room comes from the moon, which is casting an eerie blue glow across the entire scene. After a moment, my attention is drawn to the sleeping bag and piles of papers in the corner. At first glance it appears to be a mess, but there's clearly some kind of system to the way that Victoria is living, and I can't help but feel that here again we're very similar: to other people we seem to live in chaos, but we have our lives organized in ways that make sense to us.

  “Do you live here?” I ask, turning back to her.

  She stares at me, as if the question is too personal.

  “It's not like I care,” I continue. “I mean, I was just wondering. It looks like you've got things set up pretty well.”

  “Yeah,” she replies hesitantly. “I live here. So what?”

  “Nothing, it's just...” I pause for a moment. “So you live and work in the same place? You just spend all your time on this one art project? That's pretty dedicated.”

  “I need to focus,” she replies. “I tried working in the studio for, like, a day and it almost drove me nuts. Everyone just talks all the time and shows off. They're all just a bunch of posers who don't know how to really work hard. All I wanted was to be left alone to get on with my stuff, but they kept telling jokes and trying to get me to join their pointless conversations. If I'd stayed, I'd have ended up -” She pauses. “I hated them, and I hated the teachers, and I almost quit. Eventually I managed to find a compromise. It's not so bad here, not once you get used to the cold at night.”

  “Why don't you live in a student house?” I ask, even though I know it's a dumb question.

  “No way.”

  “I understand,” I continue. “I've only been on the campus for a day, but they all seem so phony. It's like they're all so pleased with themselves all the time.”

  “I tried being more social in the first year,” she replies. “I lived in this big house with eight others for a couple of months, but it drove me crazy. They were just so loud and annoying, and I spent all my time in my room. Sometimes they tried to get me out with them, but after a while they stopped trying and I realized they were talking about me behind my back. Eventually I just had to move out, even though I'd paid for the first year upfront. So I didn't have enough money to get somewhere else, and I ended up living in the out-rooms at the school. It was supposed to be temporary, but after a while I realized that it was better than living with other people, so in the second year I decided to keep doing it. I used my rent money for art materials and...”

  I wait for her to continue.

  “And what?” I ask finally.

  “I don't know why I'm...” She pauses. “Sorry, I don't normally talk to people about this kind of stuff.”

  “So you're choosing to be homeless,” I continue, unable to stifle a faint smile. So far, the similarities are uncanny. “Me too.”

  She stares at me.

  “I mean,” I add, “I don't have a job or much money or anywhere to live, so I sleep on the streets. I could probably get my shit together and get back on the ladder if I really wanted, but I'm okay with the way things are, you know?”

  She nods.

  “I move around a lot,” I tell her. “Mostly central London, around the South Bank area and sometimes Greenwich. I like being able to get away from people when I want to be alone. People are fine for a while and I can usually manage, but sometimes they get to be
too much. I don't like being tied down. This way, I can come and go, and no-one has any right to ask me where I've been.” I pause for a moment. “That's what I hate more than anything in the world... When you walk into a room and someone asks where you've been, like they own you or something.”

  “People are annoying,” she replies.

  “Families are even worse,” I point out.

  “I hate my family,” she replies.

  She smiles faintly, and so do I.

  “What about them, then?” I ask. “Where are they?”

  “I don't care.”

  “I know that feeling.”

  She stares at me for a moment, and then she very conspicuously sets the sculpting knife down on a nearby table. It seems like a deliberate move, as if she feels she no longer feels the need to defend herself.

  “Do you want to see my sketches?” she asks suddenly.

  “Sketches?”

  “I've never shown them to anyone before,” she continues. “They're about how I want the Dead City project to look when it's done. These models are just the beginning. It's going to take me all my life to get it finished, but the sketches are the only way I can really show what I'm aiming for. I haven't even shown the idiot teachers at college, but...” Another pause. “I could show you. Only if you want to see them, though. I mean, I don't wanna bore you or anything.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, “sure. I'd love to see them.”

  “Okay,” she continues with a faint smile, “just give me a moment. They're kind of a mess, like they'll only make sense to me.”

  As she hurries over to the pile of books next to her sleeping bag, I can't help but watch her. She has a kind of childish enthusiasm, as if she truly wants to share her work with me. Almost every word that leaves her lips is another confirmation of the fact that we're similar. No, not similar: we're almost exactly the same. We both live rough, we both avoid our families, we both dislike crowds, we both find it hard explaining ourselves to other people. Sure, I've managed to come up with a mask and a coping mechanism, and she hasn't quite got to that stage yet, but I guess she's a few years younger than me. To all intents and purposes, Victoria Middleton and I are spookily similar.

  I never thought there could be someone else in the world like me. But now I've found her.

  Laura

  I sit silently and watch the look on her face. I desperately want to see some hint of guilt, some twitch or twinge that gives away a hint that she's the killer, but so far Bryony Hawthorne is behaving like a frightened young woman who genuinely doesn't understand why she's here.

  Something's not right.

  “Is it really him?” she asks, holding the photo in her trembling hands.

  “Of course it is,” Nick replies coldly. “It's your teacher, Mike Wallace. But you already know that, Bryony, don't you? You know it because you're the one who stuck him up there.”

  She shakes her head.

  “You're the one who killed him -”

  Again, she shakes her head.

  “You're the one who cut him up and wrote all those squiggly lines all over his flesh.”

  “No,” she whimpers, with tears rolling down her cheeks. “You've got to believe me.”

  “And you're the one who killed those other people, too, aren't you?” he continues, ignoring the fact that she's starting to sob. “You killed them, including that poor little kid, and then you cut them all up and stitched them together. It's an art project, isn't it? You think you're being clever, but you're not, not really. You're just a murderer, like all the other murderers in the world, although you've actually killed enough people to count as a serial killer, Bryony. Does that make you proud, eh? Is that what you wanted?”

  “My client is innocent,” says the duty lawyer who was called into advise her. “She's consistently denied every accusation that has been put to her.”

  “These aren't baseless accusations,” Nick continues. “Oh no, we're not just flapping our lips in the wind and hoping to get to the truth. We've got proof, Bryony. We know you were at that church hall -”

  “I wasn't,” she replies, interrupting him. She puts the photo down but continues to stare at it. “Why doesn't anyone believe me? I've never been there in my life!” She turns to the lawyer. “Do you believe me?”

  “Bryony,” I say, “I need you to listen to me.” As she turns to face me, I can see the fear in her eyes. “We have fingerprints, your fingerprints, that were found in multiple locations at the scene of this crime. One of those locations was on the victim's skin, partially mixed with his blood. This isn't something that can happen by accident. In a court of law, this will be considered proof that you were involved with moving the body after Mr. Wallace had been killed. We can help you, but only if you help us first, and step one is for you to tell us the truth.”

  “I have,” she replies, shaking her head. “I swear to God, I don't know anything about this.”

  “We have proof,” I say again, as much to persuade myself as to try to get her to understand the situation. “What do you think a jury is going to think when we show without a shadow of a doubt that you were at that church all and that you touched Mr. Wallace's dead body? You can cry all you want, but they'll be able to recognize a cold-blooded serial killer when they see one.”

  “I wasn't there!” she shouts, finally losing her temper. “I didn't kill anyone!”

  “You seem upset,” Nick says calmly. “Is your well-prepared plan starting to fall apart, Bryony? Are you starting to realize that you're not quite as smart as you thought you were?”

  “What plan?” she yells, getting to her feet. “I -”

  “Sit down!” Nick shouts back at her as he stands up. “Don't make me call someone in to drag you back to your cell!”

  “I didn't do anything!” she whimpers. “Please...”

  “Sit down, Bryony,” says the lawyer. “You need to stay calm.”

  As she sits down, it's clear that Bryony is completely lost. I keep having to remind myself about the fingerprint evidence, because on the basis of this interview alone, I feel as if there's no way this girl can possibly be the murderer. Sure, people are sometimes capable of putting on a show and presenting a convincing face, but there are limits and I'm convinced that Bryony genuinely doesn't know anything about these murders. The problem is that the fingerprint evidence alone would quite probably be enough to convict her.

  “I get it,” Nick continues. “When you're sitting in your bedroom, coming up with all this stuff, it probably makes total sense. You think you've got all the angles covered, but then you get out into the real world and you find that nothing quite works the way it should. People don't react how you want them to, and you end up fucking things up. And then it all just unravels at lightning speed until you're left crying in some police station somewhere.” He pauses. “We can help you, Bryony, but only if you come onside with us first.”

  “I'd like a moment with my client,” the lawyer says, as Bryony puts her face in her hands and starts to sob uncontrollably.

  “We're not done,” Nick replies.

  “She's upset!”

  “Course she is,” Nick mutters. “I'd be upset too if I'd murdered a bunch of people and then I got caught. It's natural to be upset, but the thing is, Bryony, you can make yourself feel better by just confessing. It'll be a real weight off your shoulders.”

  “I didn't hurt anyone!” Bryony wails, as the lawyer puts a hand on her shoulder.

  “Let's give them a minute,” I add, getting to my feet and heading to the door. Turning, I see that Nick is still in his seat. “Can I talk to you outside?” I ask him. “It's important.”

  ***

  “She didn't do it.”

  “For God's sake, Laura -”

  “She didn't do it. Bryony Hawthorne is not the killer.”

  “Jesus.” Sighing, he turns and takes a couple of steps along the corridor before turning back to me. He stares for a moment, as if he's struggling to see things from my point of vie
w. “I knew you'd get like this,” he hisses, keeping his voice down. “We've got this one in the bag, Laura. We've got her hook, line and sinker. Even if she denies it for the rest of her life, we've got enough evidence to have a damn good shot at a conviction, but you're determined to make it more complicated, aren't you?”

  “She didn't do it,” I say again.

  “Why not?”

  “Were you not in that room with me just now?” I ask. “In-between your attempts at pop psychology, did you actually pay attention to her? Do you honestly think that girl is capable of carrying out these murders?”

  “Right,” he continues, clearly not impressed, “so murderers are always a certain type and you can spot 'em a mile off. Just because she's a good actor and she can cry some crocodile tears, you figure we should ignore those prints and act like they were never there, is that it?”

  “Not ignore them,” I reply, “just... We need to look at this logically.”

  “I am,” he says firmly. “You're the one who's acting like her prints just magically appeared on Mike Wallace's dead body. Prints, body, case closed, back of the net, sorted.”

  “I know they didn't appear magically on the body,” I continue, “but...” I pause as I try to come up with a solution. “There are ways to transfer fingerprints,” I point out eventually. “It's difficult and the success rate isn't high, and it's usually detectable if we run some more tests. I'm going to get Maitland to examine the -”

  “One of her prints was literally in the dead guy's blood,” Nick points out.

  “So whoever put it there knew what they were doing.”

  “You're talking James Bond shit now,” he continues. “The technical expertise -”

  “Would be consistent with someone who was also able to engineer a blackout in Trafalgar Square,” I point out, “and with someone who completed the first murder without leaving any traces behind. Someone who can do something like that doesn't suddenly become sloppy.”