The Art of Death

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The Art of Death Page 15

by David Fennell


  ‘I’ve been trying to build a story behind these images.’

  On the screen are a series of photographs showing a black Range Rover Vogue with Lewis Faulkner’s messy blond mop visible behind the driving seat.

  ‘These shots show Faulkner in his Range Rover just after 11 p.m., driving through Central London.’

  ‘That was after his bust-up with Melanie Suskind.’

  Klara flicks through the images. ‘You can see in this picture Faulkner has put on a baseball hat.’

  ‘He doesn’t want to be recognised,’ says Archer. ‘Where is he going?’

  ‘He ends up in Bethnal Green and disappears. He may have parked somewhere away from the ANPR and CCTV. We don’t get a sighting of him at all after that.’

  ‘So he could be holed up somewhere there?’ asks Quinn.

  ‘It’s possible. I’ve gone through the CCTV and don’t see him anywhere. However, his car appears back on ANPR.’

  Klara shows a series of pictures with Faulkner’s Ranger Rover. Behind the wheel is a young white man and in the passenger seat is a similar youth. Both are smoking and appear to be having fun.

  ‘They stole his car,’ says Archer. ‘But where is he?’

  ‘Maybe they can help us. I was able to trace their whereabouts and get an identification. Kevin Furlong of Bow and John Tighe of Bethnal Green. I’ll forward their addresses.’

  ‘Great work, Klara.’ Archer turns to Quinn. ‘I hate to do this, but I need to bail for a few hours. Do you mind if I leave you to pick them up? I need to see my grandad.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll get Phillips and Tozer to help out.’

  ‘I’ll speak to Pierce and get her authorisation for backup. Let’s bring those two in tonight.’

  *

  Because of unanticipated administrative problems getting the required police backup at short notice, Archer’s hopes of leaving early were dashed and now she is running late. There are only ten minutes of visiting time left as she rushes across the bright, wide corridors of University College Hospital. As she enters the ward, she sees Grandad is sitting up in bed with his head down, snoozing. She nods a hello at the nurse, a woman with mousey hair tied back in a ponytail.

  ‘I’m here to see Jake Archer.’

  The nurse checks her computer system.

  ‘Are you his granddaughter?’

  ‘That’s right, Grace Archer. How has he been?’

  ‘Generally, he’s been fine, but he seemed to lose it with the delivery man today.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A hamper arrived for him.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘I don’t know. I assumed a friend or a relative.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Jake just seemed to change and he pointed his finger at the delivery man and accused him of being the man who knocked him over on Oxford Street.’

  ‘Who was this man? Did you get his name?’

  ‘He was just the delivery man. I’m sure his name is on the delivery receipt. He was quite shocked. Listen, it’s not the first time Jake has done this. Yesterday evening he accused one of our male nurses too.’

  Archer feels a twist in her stomach.

  ‘Don’t worry too much. He’s had a stroke and is also bound to be a little stressed and unsure after his fall.’

  Archer sits on the chair by Grandad’s bed and takes his hand, which seems unusually cold considering the ward is so warm. His eyes blink open, they are watery and clouded with confusion. He turns to look at Archer, and after a moment, smiles.

  ‘Hello, my dear.’

  ‘Hi, Grandad.’ She leans across and kisses him on the cheek. ‘How’re you feeling?’

  ‘A little tired but right as rain.’

  He pushes himself up into a more comfortable sitting position. It’s then she notices the tabloid under his left arm and her heart sinks. His eyes follow her gaze.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of that hack,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t normally read that rubbish but someone gave it to me.’

  ‘I won’t. I’m sorry you had to see it.’

  ‘Don’t be. You know this kind of horseshit comes with the job. People use to write mean things about your father, especially with him being mixed race.’

  ‘That was a different time.’

  ‘Was it? I don’t think much has changed in fifty years.’

  ‘I’d like to think that’s not true.’

  Grandad smiles and squeezes her hand. ‘Let’s hope so. Did you see my hamper?’ His eyes brighten.

  ‘Not yet.’

  He points to the other side of the bed. ‘It’s down there. Could you get it for me?’

  Archer lifts the heavy basket onto the bed and Grandad opens the lid. Inside are two bottles of wine, cheese, crackers, jars of all sorts of spreads and pickles. ‘It’s very nice, isn’t it?’

  ‘Who sent it to you?’

  Grandad blinks and stares blankly across the ward. ‘He was here yesterday. That nice chap. He brought me to the hospital.’

  ‘Jamie?’

  ‘That’s him. What a kind and generous man.’

  The nurse appears. ‘Hello, Jake, that’s a smashing basket of goodies.’

  ‘Seems to be missing a bottle opener.’

  The nurse laughs. ‘I think that had better wait until you get home. Time to turn in.’

  Archer lifts the hamper onto the floor. ‘I’d better go, Grandad.’

  She bends over and kisses him on the forehead.

  ‘By the way, my phone is out of action so you won’t be able to contact me for a day or two. I’ll give you the number of my colleague, Harry Quinn. We’re working together on the case.’

  ‘Thanks, darlin’. Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out with this killer.’

  ‘It would seem so.’

  He holds her gaze. ‘You can outsmart this guy. You’ve done it before.’

  Archer says nothing for a moment. ‘I hope so. Goodnight, Grandad.’

  25

  T

  HERE ARE NO WINDOWS TO count when the sun rises or sets, only a long tube of bright white light on the ceiling or total darkness. Jordan has had two long, difficult sleeps filled with nightmares and the bucket he found to use as a toilet is almost half full. He estimates he’s been here two days.

  He sits in the corner staring wide-eyed at the tank. He doesn’t want to look at it but can’t seem to help himself. Inside, a man hangs upside down by one foot tied to a metal hook. His other leg is bent at the knee and his arms are fixed behind his back. He is wearing jeans torn at the knees. His chest is pale and bare and he has a bird tattoo on the top of his right arm. There is a fist-sized hole over the top left side of the mask and peering out from it is a pale glassy eye surrounded by scarred red flesh. The eye on the other side of the mask has an upside-down letter ‘a’ with a circle around it painted red. It is like something from a horror movie. He trembles, turns away, leans his cheek against the rough concrete wall and thinks about his mum.

  How can he not? She must have been taken by Ben Peters, her old schoolfriend from Facebook who she didn’t remember. The same man who was supposed to take them both to dinner. The same man who . . . he cannot bring himself to say it. His heart is shattered, he has never felt so alone, so terrified. He pulls his arms to his knees, hugs them to his chest and shudders at the chain as it slithers on the hard floor like an iron snake.

  An ache in his bladder pulls him from his thoughts. He desperately needs to pee. With his free hand he stretches across and grabs the red plastic bucket with the tips of his fingers. Unzipping his jeans he feels an enormous relief as his pee storms into the bucket. He looks across at the thing in the tank. There is something familiar about the figure that he cannot place. Its pale glassy eye stares back at him from underneath the torn mask. Jordan shivers and looks away.

  He sits back down on the cold floor. His head swirls and he rubs his eyes as he recalls the last time he spoke with his mum. He asked her not to go out th
at night. He had an odd feeling in his tummy about it and more than anything wanted her to stay at home with him. But she wouldn’t listen and he lost his temper and shouted at her just like his dad always does. Guilt surges through him and he wants to cry again but for some reason the tears won’t come. Perhaps he has cried himself dry.

  His stomach grumbles with hunger though he has no appetite. He rubs his arms and feels a sharp pain around his wrist where the iron clamp binds it. His skin has started to blister. The band and the chain are the only things that are keeping him here. If he were to free himself maybe he could find a way of breaking out of here. He starts to tug at it, pushing and pulling to try and release his hand, but it just won’t budge.

  He can’t stay here. He has to get out.

  He starts to shout, ‘Help! Help! Somebody help me!’ His voice is dry and broken.

  And then he hears a noise and freezes, his heart in his mouth. He looks across at the thing and is relieved to see it hasn’t moved. The noise is coming from above, behind the green door.

  Footsteps.

  Jordan feels his body swimming with cold terror.

  He hears a bolt slide across the door and then it creaks slowly open.

  The dark silhouette of a man is framed in the opening.

  Jordan feels the small hairs on his neck rising.

  ‘Where’s my mum?’ he croaks.

  26

  A

  CCORDING TO HER LATEST INSTAGRAM post to her 1.2k followers, Lumberyard Café barista and proud Vietnamese ‘fugee’ Chau Ho is recovering from the previous night’s party celebrations marking the end of tenure for her and her ‘roomies’ as live-in-guardians at the Steel’s Lane Health Centre, an abandoned East End maternity hospital in Shadwell.

  He has no clue what a live-in-guardian is so he uses Google to learn more. Apparently, for a below average rent anyone can apply to live in deserted, derelict buildings such as schools, offices and hospitals, and help look after them while also keeping squatters at bay. A charming concept that resonates with his aesthetic.

  As for Chau, forsaken by the country of her birth and living in a forsaken building, she was made for this collection.

  Returning to her Instagram, he watches last night’s video stories.

  Chau is filming herself: ‘So the motherfucking length of my rental period has been short but beautiful and now we must leave. Join me and the rest of the Steel’s Lane Maternity crew down at the Hungerford Arms so that we can drink our sorrows and toast a harsh death for the landlord who will take our home, repurpose and gentrify it and sell it to wealthy motherfucking Russian and Chinese investors. Let’s drink and get high, motherfuckers!’

  Her leaving party was also filmed as a series of live Instagram stories: Chau laughing and filling her face with cake; Chau popping sneaky pills; Chau and her roomies necking beers and shots in the Hungerford Arms; Chau drunk and singing with ‘her bitches’.

  It’s the day after and her roomies have packed up and moved out. Chau has one more night to herself and has posted several sad memes about being hung over and leaving home.

  Tedious.

  In a dark corner, opposite the old hospital, he shuts down his smartphone and slips it into his backpack. He looks across at the large brown-brick Victorian block, which seems more of a workhouse than a maternity hospital. Chau’s room is next to the large green memorial clock on the first floor. All the lights are out except for hers.

  He loosens the nylon chest harness to make it more comfortable, pulls up his hood and covers the bottom half of his face with a black bandana.

  She appears at the window and looks out, but doesn’t see him.

  He circles to the rear of the building, crosses the old car park and descends a set of worn concrete steps to the basement. Removing his backpack, he peers through the grubby glass of a lead sash window.

  It’s too dark to see anything.

  From the backpack he removes a torch and shines the beam inside. The room is wide and desolate with peeling green paint on the walls, an ancient ward bed with a stained mattress and a battered steel gurney tipped over onto its side. Hanging from the damp, infested ceiling are the remains of a broken light bulb, a mouth of shard-like transparent teeth open wide and howling a silent scream.

  Here is a derelict beauty that only he can appreciate.

  The window lock is old and rusty and breaks easily with the screwdriver he retrieves from his bag.

  He slides the window up, climbs inside and closes it quietly behind him.

  From the backpack he removes the GoPro camera, attaches it to the shoulder mount on his chest harness and switches on the device.

  He climbs the stairwell to the ground floor and walks across the reception area, wrapping wire around the handles of the adjoining doors.

  He hears the sound of music blast from a speaker. A crashing guitar riff and tapping drum beat echoes throughout the building, shattering the silence.

  He shakes the doors, ensuring they are secure, and then follows the sound of the loud gothic punk music coming from Chau’s room on the first floor. His soft black shoes step in line to the funeral-pace bass which begins to gather as a sliding guitar echoes like the scratching of undead fingernails on glass throughout the vast bleak corridor.

  He glides down the hallway, melding into the shadows, and through a crack in the door sees Chau’s slender back. She is folding clothes and placing them into an old suitcase.

  His heart beats fast in time to the rhythm and guitar riff.

  Her neck is pale and soft.

  He swallows.

  He stands at the entrance and pushes the door gently. It creaks but she seems not to hear.

  Chau sings along to the music.

  She stiffens suddenly.

  He looks across at the dark night outside the window and smiles at his reflection in the glass. He is perfectly framed in the doorway like a twenty-first-century Grim Reaper.

  Chau’s head turns slowly to look at him, her face drains of colour and is a picture of abject terror. He glances at the GoPro to ensure it’s filming.

  Chau’s scream startles him and she charges at him, kneeing him swiftly in the balls. The pain is like lightning and surges through him. He grunts and stumbles backward as she clambers past him. He grabs her ankle but loses purchase as she kicks back and scrambles down the hallway.

  Ignoring the pain he bolts after her, the music drowning her screams.

  She runs to the ground floor and predictably to the front doors where she pulls and pulls.

  ‘There’s no escape, Chau,’ he says, descending the staircase and switching on the GoPro’s light. The narrow beam catches her pretty face, her eyes wide, her cheeks wet with tears.

  She begins to batter the doors with her arms as he approaches.

  ‘Help! Somebody help!’

  ‘No one is listening, Chau. You live in a forsaken place.’

  She trembles and then surprises him by darting away from the doors and nimbly dodging him, scarpering like a frightened rabbit to the rear of building, and the basement.

  He hurries after her, the beam of his GoPro slicing through the darkness like a swinging blade. He can hear the creaking sound of steel and Chau’s exertions. He follows the sounds to the room through which he entered the building. Chau has pushed the gurney to the window and stands on top of it trying the push the sash up. She stops when the beam finds her.

  She turns to look at him. ‘What do you want from me?’

  He watches her, savouring her growing unease.

  He doesn’t respond.

  Her face pales.

  ‘Help me!’ she screams.

  He removes his backpack, reaches into it and takes out his most recent purchase from the Dark Web.

  A Taser gun.

  He walks towards her.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she whimpers.

  ‘I’ll make it quick.’

  She screams as he straightens his arm and fires the pistol.

  He wa
tches her body shake uncontrollably as it falls from the gurney to the floor. Within moments, she settles, but still there is the smallest of tremors. He crouches beside her and runs his finger gently across her lips.

  ‘Poor little rabbit.’

  In life, Chau posted filtered celebrity-like photographs for her friends and followers to enjoy. In death, there will be no filters. Chau’s true beauty will be revealed for her 1.2k followers and the rest of the world to enjoy too.

  27

  A

  RCHER CATCHES AN UBER FROM the hospital and makes her way back to Charing Cross still fuming at the moped rider who broke her phone and left her cut off from the investigation and any news of Quinn’s progress. First thing tomorrow morning she will get a replacement sim. The isolation is becoming intolerable.

  She enters a dimly lit third floor, which seems both tranquil and desolate. The only sign of life comes from Klara’s hub which is lit up like the Mothership. She sees the analyst’s head down behind her bank of monitors.

  ‘Hey,’ says Archer as she enters Klara’s domain.

  ‘Hi, Grace.’

  Archer takes of her coat and drops it on a chair. ‘What’s the latest?’

  ‘Tighe and Furlong were not at home. Harry and the team are on their way to Bethnal Green to stake out one of their dealing haunts. How’s your grandad?’

  ‘He’s doing OK, I think.’

  ‘Are you worried about him?’

  Archer feels a chill and rubs her arms. ‘I’m trying not to be.’

  ‘He’s in the best place. It’s a good hospital.’

  ‘I know.’

  Archer looks across at Klara’s monitors and notices one with an open police report containing a photograph of a similar moped used by the phone thief.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘Yes . . . but . . . the owner is a young woman, who reported it missing three weeks back.’

  ‘Oh well. It was worth a shot.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Grace.’

  ‘Don’t be. Besides, it’s not like we don’t have enough on our plates.’

  ‘True. So do you think Faulkner is the killer?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Hicks seems to think so.’

 

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