Praise for
‘I flew through it . . . Tense, gripping and brilliantly inventive’
SIMON LELIC
‘A hugely compelling procedural thriller set in London. Unsettling, fast-paced, suspenseful and gripping. Loved the way the cityscape was rendered. Excellent’
WILL DEAN
‘A serial killer thriller with the darkest of hearts, David Fennell more than earns his place at the crime fiction table with this superb exploration of a psychopath with the creepiest modus operandi I’ve read in a long time, and a flawed yet brilliant detective’
FIONA CUMMINS
‘A tense-as-hell, high-body-count page turner, but a rarer thing too – one that’s also full of genuine warmth and humanity’
WILLIAM SHAW
‘A stunning start to what promises to be a fantastic new series. The Art of Death is layered, twisty and so deliciously dark. A hero for our age; DI Grace Archer is fierce and relentless, intuitive and driven, yet underneath the mask she wears, she’s also surprisingly vulnerable and just a little bit damaged. I can’t wait to see what she gets up to next’
M. W. CRAVEN
‘A serial killer classic in the making, The Art of Death is neatly plotted, perfectly paced and brilliantly characterised with a clever concept that hooks you in and holds you tight, right up to the extremely satisfying final page’
SUSI HOLLIDAY
‘A gritty, dark thriller. Perfect for fans of Chris Carter’
OLIVIA KIERNAN
‘Chilling, unsettling and wonderfully atmospheric, it grips from first page to last. I hope we’ll be hearing much more from Fennell and his brilliant detective, Grace Archer’
BRIAN MCGILLOWAY
In memory of my big brother, Marty Fennell
Every act of creation is first an act of destruction.
Pablo Picasso
I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality.
Frida Kahlo
Art is a way of recognising oneself.
Louise Bourgeois
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Acknowledgements
Letter from Author
About the Author
Copyright
1
Central London
H
E APPROACHES THE LUMBERYARD CAFÉ on the corner of Monmouth Street and Tower Street and checks his watch. It’s 8.09 a.m. Less than one hour until the curtains drop. A tingling sensation surges through him, prickling his flesh, rousing his senses. He takes a breath and composes himself.
The Lumberyard Café is one of a breed of urban ‘cool’ coffee shops dotted throughout Central London. The exterior is painted an à la mode Victorian dark grey in a shabby chic style with splashes of contrived meaningless graffiti ‘art’ that pull at his eyes for all the wrong reasons. The entrance door is a contrasting pillar-box red, not a colour he would have chosen, but each to their own.
Peering through the café window, he sees Elaine Kelly’s blonde head nod and shake as she chats to her ‘bestie’, Jackie; the friend who is forever posting cat pictures, mood memes and filtered selfies with ridiculous pouting lips. Jackie’s mediocre existence is gilded through the lens of social media. She is a small candle burning in a cavern. Not like Elaine. Elaine is special. Elaine is the flame that lights the cavern. But Jackie has her uses. Jackie’s social media is his window into Elaine’s whereabouts. Her postings have brought him here today. If he is lucky he can sit close to her, listening, watching, smelling. A smile crosses his face as he appraises his muse. She’ll be an exquisite addition to his next exhibition.
Pushing open the red door, he is greeted by a rush of different aromas: fresh brewing coffee, fruit teas, fried chorizo and toast. Jazz music plays through tinny speakers, thankfully lost in the drone of the clientele. A fat batch of latte-supping millennials and thirty-somethings with their heads buried in the latest iPhones and silver MacBooks inhabit the seating areas. Some are in groups and others are alone, but all are online and connected, their personal details open and ready for the taking, should one or more capture his interest. He closes the door quietly behind him.
The floors are stripped pine, scuffed by the leather and rubber soles of coffee-bores seeking a caffeine fix with their breakfast of grilled halloumi and squashed avocado on toasted sourdough. Cold industrial aluminium pipes draped in red, pink and white bunting hang from the ceiling. The walls are exposed brickwork with Warholian graffiti art canvas paintings. One depicts the Queen wearing a baseball cap and another shows several images of an athletic six-packed teenage boy suggestively squeezing the crotch of his tight white shorts.
Edgy, he thinks, and almost laughs.
‘Hello. What can I get you today?’ says a chirpy voice.
He follows it and sees a young Asian woman smiling up at him from behind a small mountain of doughnuts, cakes and croissants. His eyes flare and he watches her for longer than he should. Her face is small, her eyes bright. His gaze slides to her neck which is tender and smooth. He moistens his lips but senses a change in her demeanour. He sees a trace of fear in her eyes. She is smart and can see through his shell. He glances at her name badge.
‘Excuse me, Chau,’ he says, with as warm a smile as he can muster, ‘I was miles away.’
Her return smile is trepidatious. She is wise to be cautious.
‘I’ll have an Americano. Please.’
‘Name, please.’ She doesn’t meet his gaze.
He gives her his name.
‘Would you like something to eat?’
‘No thank you.’
‘I’ll bring it to you.’
‘Thanks,’ he says as he passes over a crisp five-pound note. ‘Keep the change.’
He scans for a place to sit. Business is thriving and tables are limited, however, through a partition bookshelf wall, he spots two Spanish tourists leaving from a table in the corner. A perfect location with a direct view of Elaine. It is meant to be. He skirts around the partition, stands by the empty table and looks distastefully at the debris on top. A passing male server quickly clears away the mess, much to his relief.
He sits at the table and from his shoulder bag removes his Moleskine notebook and Maki-e Phoenix fountain pen, which he places neatly side by side. He then takes out his MacBook Air and iPhone. He is as
similating into his environment. Like a chameleon, he has blended into it and become one of them.
In his peripheral vision he sees Chau approach with his Americano. He looks up.
‘Excuse me for asking. I’m intrigued by your name. Is it . . .’
‘Vietnamese,’ she says, finishing his sentence.
He smiles at her.
‘I’ve always wanted to go.’
Chau offers a wan smile as she places the coffee gently on the table top.
‘Enjoy,’ she says.
‘Thank you. Please could you tell me the Wi-Fi password?’
‘Lumberyard Café. All one word.’
‘Thank you, Chau.’
As she leaves he opens a browser and searches through the Lumberyard Café Facebook page where he finds a photo of the staff bunched together in a smiling group pic. Chau is dead centre. He hovers his mouse over her face and reveals her tagged name. Chau Ho. He clicks on the name. Her Facebook page is open for all the world to see. Her history hooks him immediately. She is a ‘proud’ refugee from poverty and communism. This revelation has elevated her as a potential candidate. He watches her preparing coffee surrounded by puffs of steam and wonders why he has never considered using an Asian person for one of his collections before. He has no answer, but he feels she’ll bring an exoticness to his work. The thought both excites and pleases him. He opens the notebook and scratches New Collection at the top of the page with his pen. Below that he writes:
Chau Ho.
The time on his wristwatch says 8.15. Forty-five minutes to go.
He looks at Elaine, who is sitting on a re-upholstered red baroque chair. A short gasp of pleasure escapes from his mouth. Her face is heavily made up, but there is no mistaking that her top lip is split. He scans her face and wonders what other bruised delights lie beneath that thick layer of cosmetics. The raw tones of Jackie’s South London crowing interrupt his thoughts. His eyes slide towards her. She has shoulder-length dark hair and judging by the crusting of chocolate powder on her lips she is drinking a cappuccino. He notices the small boy with dark blond hair sitting on a stool opposite them seemingly lost in the glow of a Samsung phone screen that is too big for his hands. He recognises him from Elaine’s Facebook page. He is her son, Jordan.
‘Jordan, let’s get a selfie with you, me and your mum,’ shrills Jackie.
‘But my lip, Jackie. Frank’ll go mad!’ protests Elaine.
‘Sod Frank! It’s about time everyone saw what he does to you.’
He has been communicating with Elaine for five weeks using a faux Facebook account with another person’s photos, and is familiar with her troubled marriage to Frank. He has been an attentive, sympathetic and occasionally flirtatious confidant. He has given her the non-judgemental support she craves. It has been a tiresome but necessary part of his grooming process.
He watches as the boy stands between the two women, smiling as Jackie stretches out her arm to take a picture of them all. She can’t quite seem to get them all in.
‘May I?’ he offers.
They all look over at him but he locks eyes with Elaine. Young blonde Elaine with her damaged face. She smiles sweetly at him and something clicks inside.
‘Oooh, thanks very much!’ says Jackie.
He takes her phone and points it at them as Jackie and the boy each beam brightly at the lens. Elaine moistens her split lip before cracking a toothy smile. With his fingers he enlarges the screen and focuses in on her lip. ‘Perfection!’ he says, returning the screen to the original size. Their faces are frozen, bordering on impatient.
‘Say, cheese!’
With fixed smiles, they cry, ‘Sheeeze!’
He presses the button and lets it click several times before handing it back. ‘I took a few shots,’ he says.
‘Thanks.’ Elaine’s fingers shield the split in her lip.
‘You’re welcome.’
He returns to his table and hears Jackie say, ‘I’ll check us in on Facebook.’
He opens up Facebook on his MacBook Air, searches for the Lumberyard Café page and straightaway finds the picture he has just taken.
Jackie Morris has checked into the Lumberyard Café on Seven Dials with Elaine Kelly and gorgeous Jordan.
He clicks on Elaine Kelly’s name and indulges once more in the small window of her life. It contains pictures and data from her childhood, school days and the present. Her husband Frank is a rum-looking sort, moody and miserable and twice her age. In her photographs there is a sense of distance between them both. In other pictures she is with her son Jordan, but most of them are shots of her alone, in a park, in the woods, or gazing out the window of her small shadowy apartment. What a wretched life she leads. Only he sees in her what no one else can see. She is a tragic Shakespearean heroine like Juliet, or even better, Ophelia. He pictures her floating lifeless, like Millais’ painting.
He takes a sip of the bitter hot coffee, which is better than expected. Now it’s 8.24, and not long to go before his new collection will be revealed. He is calm but also filled with a sense of nervous excitement. For now, he focuses on his fellow customers and the selection of new candidates.
To his left is an occupied bank of red bar stools framed in the window overlooking Tower Street and Seven Dials. He has a sense of being watched and looks to the mirror opposite. A round woman with bobbed hair is scrolling through her phone and occasionally steals a glance his way.
She looks familiar and he wonders, but also suspects, what has captured her attention on her phone.
He enters the security code on his device and opens the Tinder app. With location services switched on, he pages through the profiles until he finds her.
CassandraH, 30, project coordinator.
Bright, bubbly, loves cuddles, cats and the books of E. P. Jones. Cassandra Hotchkiss is my heroine! Looking for my very own Max. Hit me up for a date.
He smiles to himself. CassandraH is the username of sweet Megan Burchill. He has been communicating with her for almost one month now and is surprised to see her here, but then, perhaps not. He has mentioned that he is often in the area. She looks older than her stated age and is also plumper and curvier than her photos suggest. He pictures her without clothes. A Renaissance beauty.
His gaze meets hers. She freezes, locked in eye contact, blushes and turns back to her device.
She’ll be perfect, he thinks. With the fountain pen he scratches:
Megan Burchill.
His phone chimes with a message. A notification from Grindr.
Thomas Butler.
Another potential acquisition.
He shoots a glance at the artwork of the crotch-grabbing youth with the six pack and considers just how alike Thomas and the painting are. There is a rare synchronicity in this moment that is almost beautiful. Like Elaine, Thomas is meant to be.
He selects the like button, sends him a message and scratches Thomas’s name in the notebook.
The café door opens and he looks up to see a woman step inside. Her skin is a milky latte, her eyes are blue, or green, he cannot be sure, and her oval face has a determined expression that brightens when she smiles at Chau. She is wearing a navy-blue double-breasted pea coat and carrying a black leather backpack. She orders a green tea and gives her name as Archer.
‘Archer,’ he whispers to himself. Her surname perhaps. The sound of it sweetens the bitter coffee on his lips.
She walks across the café and finds a space on a high stool facing out of the window.
He is intrigued by her ethnicity and struggles to place it. She could be from central Europe and have a trace of the Middle East or Africa, perhaps, concealed somewhere in her genes. He fancies that with a little more sun her skin would transform to a golden brown.
She takes off the backpack, drops it to the floor and lets the coat slip from her shoulders and fall onto the back of the stool. She is wearing casual dark jeans and a fitted olive-green sweater.
She scoops a phone from the coat and rests he
r elbows on the window table. Through the reflection in a nearby mirror, he can see it’s an old iPhone 6 with a cracked screen. She enters the passcode, dials a number and places the phone to her ear. A moment passes and she ends the call. She bites her thumb and begins to tap the phone on the table top. She seems troubled and he wonders what is turning over in her pretty head.
Chau appears with the tea. The woman thanks her, removes the lid and blows on the hot liquid.
He becomes aware of the time and checks his wristwatch. It’s 8.46. Time to go and watch the reveal before paying one final visit to the courier’s. He packs up his belongings and notices the woman called Archer is hurrying out through the door. He smiles and walks down St Martin’s Lane like a ghost following in her wake.
2
T
HE SMALL HAIRS ON GRACE Archer’s neck stand on end as if she has been caressed by a cold hand. Archer isn’t the superstitious type, yet if there were ever a time to think that someone has just walked over her grave, now is that time. She has the sense of being watched and slows her pace. Looking at the shop window to her right, she sees the transparent figures of commuters and tourists swarm around her like spectres from another world. Turning, she scans the faces, but sees no one watching her.
She shudders and rubs the scar on the back of her left hand.
Dark memories from her childhood surface in her head, but she suppresses them and pushes them from her mind. Cold droplets of rain splash onto her face. She wipes them away, turns up the collar of her coat and hurries on, conscious that she should not be late on her first day.
Charing Cross Police Station has had a makeover since she was last here three months ago to make an arrest. A generous and questionable police budget of half a million has seen the immense four-storey Georgian building restored and painted a luxurious period cream colour. She looks up at the four sturdy columns and newly repaired Corinthian capitals that support the portico entrance. Such a different station to the one she was at recently.
She pauses before entering and considers what lies ahead. She is taking over the job of ex-DI Andy Rees, the same man she had arrested and sent down three months ago. Stepping into his shoes hadn’t been part of the plan, but she is hungry to move on in her career and this opportunity is too good to turn down, despite the resentment she will inevitably face from his colleagues. Aside from that, she’s never expected to end up working here, of all places. The same station where her father also served as DI, a career cut short by a brutal gangland murder eighteen years ago. She wonders what he would think of her now on her first day stepping across the same portico that he had walked through every morning. He would be proud, she knows that, but he would probably also advise her to be cautious and to watch her back. She smiles to herself. He always had been one to state the obvious.
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