Her old boss, Charlie Bates, a scrappy old-school copper laid it bare for her: ‘Don’t let the past hold you back. Your old man would want this for you. And forget what Rees’s cronies think. Take the job at Charing Cross or you’ll face a secondment of NCA investigation work in the arse end of nowhere. I can promise you.’ Charming Charlie has a way with words. Archer has a sharp mind and is ambitious. Charlie understands that more than anyone and this was his no bullshit way of telling her not to turn down this opportunity.
She gives her name and shows her ID to the receptionist, a stern-looking woman who shoots her a cold stare and mutters something indecipherable. Archer swallows. She isn’t even in the building and it has already begun. The worst is yet to come, she knows it.
Charlie sent her a text this morning reminding her that because of her high-profile arrest of DI Rees, the staff at Charing Cross will probably do everything in their power to see that she fails. He said it would be a test of her resolve. Archer had bitten her tongue at that. Let them try, she thinks now. After all, she has faced much worse.
She feels an emptiness in the hollow of her stomach. Much worse.
‘Third floor,’ says the receptionist. ‘DS Quinn will be waiting for you.’
Archer nods a thanks and makes her way up the stairs.
DS Harry Quinn is standing at the top of the stairs, watching her. She interviewed Quinn shortly after Rees’s arrest. A softly spoken Belfast man with a dry sense of humour that she considered inappropriate at the time. He has a boxer’s stocky build and is wearing a scuffed black leather bomber jacket. His short dark hair is neatly trimmed; his eyes are pale blue, giving him an icy, insolent look. She takes comfort in the fact that he was no fan of Rees. However, she investigated and nailed a copper and that fact alone has tarnished her.
‘Good morning, ma’am. Welcome to Charing Cross.’
‘DS Quinn.’
She glances behind him into the open-plan office where several leery expressions meet her gaze before returning to stare at their computer screens.
‘Ma’am, the Lord Mayor’s Show has left us a little short of staff. So I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me on a wee assignment.’
‘What would that be?’
‘Nothing important. Some la-de-dah artist has been commissioned to produce street art for the Lord Mayor’s Show itself. We’ve had a complaint – actually four, to be precise – from the show director claiming three of his art pieces are obscene and should be taken off the street immediately. He’s kicking up a right stink, so he is.’
In normal circumstances this kind of issue would be handled by uniform or a DC, however, the Home Office’s cuts to police staff of all ranks have been savage. The force is still struggling to cope with the rise in crime. All coppers, Archer included, understand the necessity to step in wherever they can.
‘Of course, DS Quinn. I’d be happy to.’
‘It’s outside The Connection at St Martin’s Place. We can walk.’
Archer knows The Connection well. It is a homeless charity situated in a tired Victorian block on Trafalgar Square next to the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields. It is where Archer took a short sabbatical two years ago to work with the homeless.
‘Ma’am, do you mind if I make an observation?’
‘What would that be?’
‘It’s not my place to say this, but I will, and excuse me for it . . . but Andy Rees still has friends here.’
Archer swallows. ‘You’re right, DS Quinn. It’s not your place to say that.’
‘Sorry, ma’am, I just wanted to—’
Archer changes the subject. ‘Is there anything more to tell me about these complaints?’
‘Nothing more than what I told you already. Derek Manly is the festival director. He’s there now.’
*
A swell of people has gathered outside St Martin’s Place and The Connection with hands raised above their heads recording and snapping pictures with their devices. Standing on her toes Archer can see the top of three glass cabinets, but the crowd is dense and the view obscured.
‘What does he look like?’ asks Archer.
‘No idea. He shouts a lot down the phone, though. Look out for a shouty type.’
They begin to push their way through the throng, but the crowd closes in on them. Archer feels her head swim and begins to breathe rapidly. She wants to push her way back out, but holds her nerve.
‘Police!’ she calls. ‘Move out of the way, please.’
‘Oi, watch it!’ someone calls, as she forces her way through.
‘I think I hear him,’ says Quinn, pointing. ‘There, with the clipboard.’
She sees a slender man wearing heavy black-framed glasses and a bright white puffer coat that drops all the way down to his ankles. He is speaking angrily to someone on his phone.
‘Yes, this is Derek Manly. I have already told that to the person who transferred me! Yes, I understand that . . . But I have been waiting here in the freezing cold for almost twenty minutes and there is no sign of a police officer. It’s just not good enough. I want to speak to whoever is in charge.’
Archer focuses and surges forward. ‘Mr Manly . . .’
Manly glares at her. ‘I’m on the phone, if you don’t mind!’ he snaps.
‘Mr Manly. I’m Detective Inspector Archer and this is Detective Sergeant Quinn.’
Manly frowns, his head sinks into his neck as he looks them up and down. ‘You took your time.’
Quinn speaks. ‘Mr Manly, could you please be a little more specific about your complaint?’
The crowd behind Manly begins to thin and Archer catches a fleeting glance of three glass cabinets almost six feet tall. Each is filled with liquid and seems to contain a life-like effigy of a naked man wearing a long scruffy coat, calmly floating in the water. The hands of the men are extended and cupped as if they are begging.
‘Look at them! I can’t have them here. They’re obscene!’ cries Manly.
Archer inches forward as the crowd parts, and narrows her gaze at the tattooed torso of the figure in the middle cabinet. Faded blue skulls are inked onto the chest.
They look familiar.
Her eyes rise to the neck, which is ringed with thick purple bruises. The face is long with a high forehead and a wispy beard. Lifeless grey eyes stare over the heads of the crowd. Archer takes a sharp breath.
She knows him.
Her eyes dart to the other cabinets. Each man has bruises around the neck.
‘DS Quinn,’ she calls.
Quinn is behind her in a second. ‘Holy Jesus!’
‘This isn’t some weird artistic effigy. These men are dead. I know this one. His name is Billy. Billy Perrin. Call in for assistance. I’ll start moving this crowd back.’
Quinn calls through to Charing Cross as Archer tries to disperse the crowd. ‘Get back, please. This is a police matter.’
‘Help is on its way, ma’am,’ calls Quinn.
‘Forensics?’
‘On it already.’
For every four people Archer herds back, four more appear. ‘Mr Manly, until more police arrive I need you to help me move this crowd back.’
Manly sniffs, places his phone inside his jacket and tucks the clipboard under his arm. He points at the cabinets and waves his finger. ‘I am fuming. Those things should not be here. They are not what I was expecting!’ Manly has clearly not realised exactly what he has on display. Perhaps that is best for the moment.
‘Let’s deal with that later. Right now, please help me move the crowd back.’
With Manly’s help, Archer is able to put three feet of distance between the cabinets and the mob. She hears comments from the crowd: ‘They’re so realistic!’ says a woman. A man adds, ‘The detail is just extraordinary. Hats off to him. He has really exceeded expectations with this collection.’
A visceral scream makes Archer jump and she turns to see Billy Perrin’s girlfriend, Sharon Collins, push her way through the c
rowd. Her gaunt face is ashen and twists with horror and confusion as she runs toward the cabinet. Archer blocks her path.
‘Sharon, stop. There’s nothing you can do.’
The woman is thin and weak and struggles against Archer’s firm but gentle hold.
‘No. No. No, my Billy!’ she sobs.
Archer looks around for Manly but he has disappeared. Quinn is pushing back a pack of eager phone photographers. Behind her a new crowd has gathered around the cabinet containing Billy Perrin.
‘Hey! Move away from there,’ commands Archer. She sees Manly beside the cabinet and is shocked to see it rise suddenly.
‘Mr Manly!’
She can feel Sharon’s body tensing. ‘Sharon, please stay here. Let me deal with this.’
‘I can take her,’ comes a voice. Archer looks up to see The Connection director, Eula Higgins.
‘Thank you, Eula.’
As Eula comforts Sharon, Archer rushes forward, shoving aside anyone in her way. She sees Manly directing two men dressed like roadies. They are trying to tip the vitrine onto a small upright trolley.
‘Stop what you are doing! ’ shouts Archer.
‘Carry on, please,’ instructs Manly. ‘We have precious little time.’
‘This is a crime scene. Put that cabinet down.’
The two roadies stop, confusion in their eyes, as they look from Manly to Archer.
‘Put it back gently,’ orders Archer.
Manly’s lips tighten. ‘DI Archer, we need to get these off the streets. There are children present and the Lord Mayor will have my head on a stick!’
The roadies struggle to hold the cabinet, and as the trolley begins to wobble the frame starts to bend. Liquid seeps through the edges and a warm sweet chemical smell fills the air. Archer moves forward to help, but it’s too late. The trolley collapses and the cabinet slips, crashing to the ground as glass shatters and liquid spills across the paving stones, washing over the feet of all nearby.
The smell is foul. The smell of a mortuary and death.
Formaldehyde.
A hushed silence falls over the walkway.
Archer puts her hand to her mouth in an effort to block the stench.
She hears a shriek and then notices Manly swoon and fall to the wet ground.
Sharon continues to sob somewhere behind her. Archer isn’t sure if she feels revulsion or pity at the sight of Billy Perrin’s naked, twisted corpse. His dead, half-lidded eyes stare back at her with a helpless expression and she looks away.
Then there’s the crunching of glass underfoot and the clicking of camera phones.
‘Shit!’ says Archer.
‘Stop filming!’ shouts Quinn.
One of the roadies doubles over and throws up.
More people approach and gather in a circle.
‘Stay back. This is a crime scene.’
Archer calls to the roadie who has managed to keep his breakfast down. His face is grey. ‘You. Find me something to cover this man’s body.’
He nods and disappears.
Archer is relieved to hear the sound of police sirens. The roadie returns with a large dirty dustsheet. Archer and Quinn help drape it over Billy’s body. The scene is beyond contaminated now, but at least Billy will have his dignity.
A gap opens in the crowd as two uniformed officers barge through. One is a young Indian woman. Her partner is a younger dark-haired man, clearly not long out of Hendon, whose face begins to pale at the smell.
‘What’s going on, Harry?’ asks the female officer.
‘Neha, could you and Junior there move these people on and then cordon off this area.’
‘Sure thing.’
‘What’s your name?’ Archer asks the young officer.
‘Nesbitt, ma’am.’
‘PC Nesbitt, take a few deep breaths and just keep the crowd back. Understood?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Something flashes at the corner of Archer’s eye. Frowning she turns to see a man photographing the cabinets from all angles.
‘Sir, please stop what you are doing.’
The man has a mop of untidy grey hair and looks like he has slept in his clothes. He has either not heard her or is ignoring her.
‘Get away from those cabinets. You are trespassing on a crime scene.’
‘It’s a bit late for that. Half of London has been through here already.’
‘I won’t ask you a second time,’ says Archer.
‘Mike!’ says Quinn.
The man called Mike second-glances Archer before looking over her shoulder.
‘DS Quinn, how are you?’ asks the man, his eyes flitting back to Archer.
‘Goodbye, Mike,’ replies the sergeant.
‘Anything you’d like to say on this matter, Harry?’
‘I just said it.’
The man’s staring unsettles Archer, but she focuses back on the job. Through the thinning crowd, she notices a second squad car pull up by the pavement. Two male officers step out of it, deep in conversation and in no particular hurry.
‘DS Quinn, could we get some help from those two?’
Quinn follows her gaze. ‘Oi! You two! Tape off this entire area. Make sure no one gets inside.’
Archer hears the click of a camera.
‘Get out of here, Mike,’ bellows Quinn.
‘Leaving now,’ he replies, retreating quickly. ‘I know when I’m not welcome.’
‘Who is he?’ asks Archer.
‘Mike Hamilton.’
‘The Daily Mail reporter?’
‘The same.’
‘You’re on first-name terms. Nice for you.’
‘He can be useful, when the time is right.’
‘A tabloid reporter isn’t what we need right now. Tell him not to publish those pictures.’
‘It’s a little late for that.’ He nods at the crowd watching from a distance. ‘This rabble’s pictures will have gone viral already.’
Of course they have, thinks Archer. ‘We need to get them taken down.’
‘That may take some time.’
‘Detective Inspector Archer?’
Archer turns to see a recovered Manly supported by one of the roadies waving at her from behind the tape.
‘DI Archer . . . thank you . . . I have a very important event to run today, so do you think we could please hurry along and remove these things?’ He swirls his hand at the cabinets.
Archer bites her tongue. ‘Mr Manly, did you take delivery of these cabinets?’
‘I certainly didn’t.’
‘Then who did?’
‘No one. They were here when I arrived.’
She feels Quinn standing behind her.
‘But you knew they were coming?’ asks Quinn.
Manly’s face pales. ‘I’m finished. Oh my God, I’m finished.’
‘Did you know the contents of these cabinets prior to their arrival?’ asks Archer.
‘No! That was part of the surprise.’
‘What surprise?’
‘The Mayor is supporting the work of up-and-coming artists. There are street exhibitions across the capital. There are sculptures of cows, snails and dogs appearing all over the streets of London.’
‘Who commissioned a dead persons’ exhibition?’ asks Quinn.
‘No one. I mean . . . someone, yes. But I didn’t know, I swear! He assured us his pieces would be the most talked about of the show.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He’s an up-and-coming artist. He calls himself Anonymous but spells it with an “@” sign for an “a”. It wasn’t meant to be an exhibition of dead people! It was something for the homeless.’
‘Have you met this artist?’ asks Quinn.
‘No, nobody has. He only communicates through different email addresses. He’s like Banksy – keeps his identity secret.’
‘I think it might be a good idea if you come with us to Charing Cross Police Station to make a statement,’ Quinn tells him.
&n
bsp; Manly’s expression is grave. ‘There’s something else. In his last email, he, @nonymous said: MORE WILL FOLLOW.’
Archer and Quinn exchange concerned glances.
‘What did he mean by that?’ asks Quinn.
Manly shrugs. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Tell me what you think it means?’
‘I would assume in light of these that it means that if this is the first part, then there will be further cabinets containing more bodies to come.’
‘During your email communications did you ask him to confirm what he meant?’
‘I told him that was very exciting and asked when we could see the next wave of the exhibition, but he didn’t respond. Our exchange was over at that stage.’
‘Mr Manly, we would like to see all communication and paperwork you have relating to @nonymous and this exhibition.’
‘Of course.’
Archer notices a man dressed in a hi-vis jacket, watching them from behind the tape. A street cleaner. She has a thought and walks towards him.
‘Hello,’ she says.
He is holding a cap in his hand and looks away, a worried expression on his face. ‘Hello,’ he responds. His accent is Eastern European, but she cannot place it.
‘Were you working earlier this morning?’
The street cleaner wrings his hat. ‘No . . . erm, yes. I did a few hours.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Dimitri Novak.’
‘Mr Novak, did you see the cabinets arrive?’
The street cleaner pales as he glances at the cabinets. ‘Yes, I saw them arrive.’
3
‘I
DON’T WANT NO TROUBLE,’ SAYS Novak nervously.
The Art of Death Page 2