The Art of Death

by David Fennell

  His mouth begins to dry and he starts to shake uncontrollably.

  It’s him. But it can’t be. Why would he be here?

  Standing in front of him is a man dressed in a dark hoodie. He wears a pale expressionless mask with a large bleeding red ‘@’ sign daubed over one eye. He is holding Hamilton’s phone with a gloved hand and taking pictures of him in bed.

  ‘Who are you?’ asks Hamilton. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Time to pay for your sins, Mr Hamilton.’ The voice is deep, guttural, cold.

  Hamilton shakes his head. ‘No, please. They made me do it. I didn’t mean to write that stuff. Please don’t hurt me.’ He slides across the bed with an idea he might make a run past him but the man is blocking the door as he fiddles with his phone. After a moment he sets it on the dresser with the camera lens pointing toward them.

  Hamilton moves finally and makes a dash for the door, but @nonymous grabs him. He is strong.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me!’

  The killer spins him round to face the camera. Hamilton can see his own terrified expression in his bedroom mirror.

  ‘Apologise for that article. Apologise to the people for writing that trash about me,’ he whispers into Hamilton’s ear.

  ‘I’m sorry for what I wrote. I won’t do it again. I promise.’

  ‘Tell them how wrong it was to write that article and how pathetic you are.’

  Hamilton trembles and feels warm piss flow down his legs. ‘Oh God, please!’

  ‘Tell them!’ he hisses.

  ‘I was wrong for writing that article. I’m a pathetic hack. I should have known better.’

  @nonymous drags him back to the bed and shoves a pair of underpants from the floor into his mouth. He then gags him with one of his ties, which he secures with a tight knot. Hamilton tries to break free but he is frightened and weak. The killer straddles him and lifts one of his hands in view of the camera. He produces a pair of garden secateurs and pinches Hamilton’s thumb with the razor-sharp blades.

  ‘Say bye bye!’

  ‘Nooo!’ shrieks Hamilton, his voice muffled by the gag.

  The intruder squeezes the blades on his thumb, the skin breaks and warm blood flows down his hand and wrist. The pain intensifies, Hamilton screams as the intruder squeezes harder cutting into the bone and tugging at his thumb. He tries to pull away but his assailant laughs and tugs harder until the thumb is wrenched from his hand. Blood splashes on Hamilton’s damp face, electric white pain surges through his body. Sweat saturates his skin, tears stream from his eyes as he stares up at the bloody hole where his thumb once was.

  ‘One down. Nine to go!’

  The blades of the secateurs bite into his index finger. He screams at the blinding pain which sends shock waves through his system. His head begins to spin and he, mercifully, passes out.

  42

  A

  RCHER AND QUINN RETURN TO Charing Cross and process the evidence from Faulkner’s apartment. They meet with Klara and begin ramping up their efforts to find him. Settling in for a long night, they make calls, search databases and trawl meticulously through all the reports and files to do with the case, and with Falkner.

  It’s almost 3 a.m. when the call comes through.

  ‘The victim is Mike Hamilton,’ says PC Neha Rei.

  ‘The reporter?’ asks Archer.

  ‘The very one. The killer uploaded the video of his murder to Hamilton’s social media.’

  Klara fires up a browser and opens Hamilton’s Facebook page. She narrows in on the recording and watches the sequence of events with a terrified Hamilton apologising to the world as his fingers are being snapped off by secateurs. Archer turns away, unable to watch the entire video.

  ‘The recording was made at his flat. We’re here now.’

  ‘Thanks, Neha. We’re on our way.’

  ‘I’ve started the process to have it taken down,’ says Klara. ‘Might take some time. It’s late and there are copies floating around other accounts, including dozens of pictures on Hamilton’s Twitter and Instagram.’

  ‘All posted tonight?’

  Klara scans the pictures. ‘They all seem to have today’s date.’

  ‘See what you can do and good luck. Call me if you need anything.’

  Archer gets into the back of the car. Quinn sits up front. Archer looks through the pictures on her phone.

  Quinn says, ‘We have a team of uniforms at the scene now. One is talking to the landlord, a Mr Bahadir, who says Hamilton arrived home alone around four o’clock today. Uniform have done a door-to-door but no one saw or heard anything, apparently.’

  In ten minutes, they are in Hackney and Archer sees the flashing blue lights of police cars parked outside what looks like a kebab shop called AbraKEBABra.

  ‘Whoever came up with that name deserves a rosette,’ says Quinn.

  The cold night air pinches Archer’s skin as she removes her coat. She gets dressed in her forensic suit and glances up and down the road. It’s a typical working-class London high street with a grubby-looking pub, a betting shop, charity stores, an all-night grocery store and the kebab shop, above which Hamilton lived.

  They ascend the narrow staircase where there is a strong lingering smell of kebab meat and enter the small flat. The smell seems to follow them inside. On the kitchen worktop she sees five crushed beer cans. Another sits on the floor by the sofa.

  ‘Hamilton liked his beer,’ says Quinn.

  They make their way through to the bedroom, where a medic is examining the body. The floor is littered with unwashed clothes and bloody severed fingers.

  Hamilton lies dead on his bed, his mouth gagged, his face contorted.

  ‘His heart gave out in the end. The stress of the pain, I reckon,’ says the medic.

  Archer scans the room and sees Hamilton’s mobile phone on the dresser. Quinn sees it too and bags it into an evidence bag.

  ‘Hamilton woke and saw the killer standing at the foot of the bed, holding his phone. He got scared and tried to run and wasn’t strong enough to overpower his assailant.’

  ‘Hamilton was unfit and judging by the empty cans in the living room he was drunk too.’

  Archer studies the scene. ‘It seems our killer is the sensitive type who doesn’t like criticism,’ she says.

  ‘Hamilton went for the jugular and has paid the price. He’d made quite a few enemies in his day. To be honest, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.’

  There is no sign of a break-in from any of the windows, although Archer notices one window is slightly open. Peering through it, she sees it leads to a fire escape which is a rusting, unsafe construction on the verge of collapse.

  ‘I’d say that was his entry and exit point,’ says Quinn.

  Below is a dark back alley. The perfect place to not be seen.

  ‘Yeah. It would seem so.’

  ‘The landlord is waiting next door in the wondrous meat emporium that is AbraKEBABra.’

  The SOCOs arrive. As Quinn briefs them, Archer leaves the flat to talk to the landlord. She removes her forensic suit and folds it into the boot of the car. Through the shop window she can see the landlord, a rotund man with a grave expression, sitting with a female officer.

  Archer enters the shop, which has an unpleasant combination of smells that include old meat, onions, garlic and domestic bleach.

  ‘Mr Bahadir, I’m Detective Inspector Grace Archer.’

  ‘Hello.’

  She sits on the white plastic chair next to him.

  ‘Did you know Mr Hamilton well?’

  Bahadir shrugs. ‘We were not friends. I was his landlord for four years now. He was my tenant. We were polite to each other. Never arguing.’

  ‘When did you last see Mr Hamilton?’

  ‘Yesterday around four o’clock. He was home early from his job. He’s a reporter, you know.’

  ‘I do. Did he seem stressed or upset?’

  ‘No more than usual.’

  ‘Why do you say th
at?’

  ‘He always seem unhappy, you know?’ Bahadir waves his hand in the air. ‘It’s like sun never shine for him.’

  ‘Did you talk to him yesterday?’

  ‘I try but he no want to speak. He doesn’t pay his rent on time, so when he see me, he hurry upstairs. Like yesterday.’

  The kebab shop front door opens and Quinn steps inside.

  ‘Has anyone visited him yesterday or recently?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Have you seen anyone hang around outside or watching the flat?’

  ‘I saw no one. He never have visitors. One night he come home drunk and I hear him talk to Yusuf.’

  ‘Who is Yusuf?’

  ‘My brother-in-law. He works here. So Mr Hamilton is drunk and waiting for his kebab, which Yusuf is fixing. His mouth is jabbering on and on and Yusuf and I look at each other. So he says to Yusuf this place – his flat – is a shithole and that one day he will write his book, make a fortune and be out of here. Yusuf laugh, give him his kebab and he leaves without paying. I see him like that with other people too.’ Bahadir leans across and whispers conspiratorially, ‘He’s not a popular man, Detective.’

  ‘Does anyone else have the keys to Mr Hamilton’s flat?’

  ‘No. Just me.’

  ‘Would I be right in thinking the flat is accessible from the rear fire escape?’

  ‘Yes, but tenants are not allowed on it. It’s not safe.’

  Archer takes out her phone and opens up a browser and searches for Lewis Faulkner. She clicks on a picture and shows it to Bahadir. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

  Bahadir leans in for a closer look. ‘Yes, I see him on the television.’

  ‘Has he ever been to visit Mr Hamilton?’

  He considers this for a moment before saying, ‘I don’t believe so. I would remember.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bahadir.’

  It’s almost 5 a.m. when Archer and Quinn leave the kebab shop and get into the car.

  ‘So we’re none the wiser,’ says Quinn.

  ‘We learned a few things. Our killer, Lewis Faulkner aka @nonymous, is the sensitive type who doesn’t like being mocked. All serial killers want to be recognised for what they do. They crave notoriety and recognition. The difference with him is he sees himself as an artist. He lives for praise and he seeks it out wherever he can find it: online, on the news and in the papers.’

  ‘Woe betide anyone who criticises or humiliates him or his work. Safe to assume our killer didn’t finger Hamilton as part of an exhibition?’

  ‘Nice pun,’ says Archer.

  ‘Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘Hamilton was forced to apologise live on his Facebook page. He was murdered because of the articles he wrote about the killer. This was a revenge killing.’

  ‘I must say I wouldn’t have pegged him as a Daily Mail reader.’

  ‘Me neither. I’d say he’s more the broadsheet type. Anyway, indulge me and for the moment let’s set aside the fact that the victims are people. Think of them as works of art. They are full of contradictions. Each piece contains a semi-naked body. Simple, striking and disturbing with an otherworldly beauty.’

  Quinn shrugs. ‘They’re a mixed bag.’

  ‘The subjects all have a common denominator. Billy Perrin, Stan Buxton and Noel Tipping were all homeless. They were rejects from society. He called them “The Forsaken”. Maybe he saw his victims first and decided what part of his collection they would become. Elaine Kelly was an abused wife, shunned by her parents and pushed around by shits like Jason Armitage. Her friends described her as sweet, innocent, yet her life was tragic. She was like Billy, Stan and Noel. She was forsaken. Chau had been a Vietnamese refugee and Megan was alone in the world, single and lonely.’

  ‘That’s quite a theory. I think you might be on to something there.’

  ‘It’s all conjecture at the moment. Like I said, it’s a hunch.’

  ‘OK. All plausible theories.’ Quinn yawns. ‘I’m knackered.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Where to next?’

  ‘Let’s go back to the station.’

  Archer’s phone rings. It’s Klara. Archer answers on the speaker.

  ‘Hi, Klara.’

  ‘I found the Prius that took Elaine and Jordan.’

  ‘Give us some good news, Klara,’ says Quinn.

  I tracked it down on Jamaica Road the same night that Elaine and Jordan disappeared. I’m looking at the pictures now and can see Elaine and Jordan. I can’t make out the driver much. I think he’s wearing a disguise.’

  ‘Can you see the reg?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve done a search on it. The car is registered to an Oliver Merrick.’

  ‘I know that name,’ says Quinn. ‘I interviewed Merrick in relation to a suspected child abduction two years back. We had nothing on him and had to let him go. On paper he seemed innocent but I never believed him.’

  ‘Were you able to track where the car ended up?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. It looks like he knows which roads he can use to avoid ANPR cameras.’

  ‘That’s not difficult,’ says Quinn.

  ‘We need to get Merrick in,’ says Archer.

  ‘Phillips and Tozer are at his home now. There was no answer. They’re going to watch the place and wait for the search warrant.’

  Quinn starts up the engine.

  ‘Thanks, Klara. We’re on our way back to Charing Cross. See you soon.’

  43

  A

  RCHER GLANCES AT THE DIGITAL clock on the dashboard. It’s 5.47 a.m. On the streets outside, stragglers trickle from clubs and walk in pairs or groups, some making the journey home, others to another all-night drinking hole. In shopfronts, the homeless, wrapped in coats, the lucky ones in sleeping bags, lie on makeshift beds fashioned from layers of thin cardboard.

  Hamilton’s murder and his recent attempts to contact her turn over in her mind. She unbuttons her coat and reaches across to turn the heat to a more comfortable temperature. She notices Quinn has been quiet for the past twenty minutes; the only sound he makes is the disconcerting rumble of his stomach.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ she asks him.

  ‘I think the expression is “hangry”, ma’am. I haven’t eaten in twelve hours.’

  ‘Me neither. Let’s fix that. I know I should eat, but a corpse and bloody dismembered fingers can screw up a girl’s appetite.’

  ‘I’m trying to erase that image from my mind.’

  ‘Sorry . . .’

  ‘Don’t be. The thing is I really fancy right now is sausages. Do you think there is something wrong with me?’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ smiles Archer.

  ‘I know a place close to the office that is just about to open. We can eat there quickly and then head back to the madness.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  Archer’s mind turns back to Hamilton. His voicemail and follow-up text puzzled her. She takes out her phone and looks at his message.

  Dear Grace, as per our last conversation please tell me when we can meet. I’m getting grief from my editor. Mike

  What the hell was that about? Did he mean that piece-of-shit article he wrote? Why on earth would she give feedback on that? Even if her life depended on it she would never talk to Hamilton. She exhales and drops the phone back into her coat pocket.

  Fifteen minutes later they are sitting at a table in the window of Café Verona, an Italian greasy spoon situated under the shadow of a monstrous 1970s block that is presently a Travelodge.

  Archer taps her phone on the edge of the plastic table and thinks. Something is bugging her but she can’t put her finger on it. She senses Quinn watching her as her mind forages for the missing piece of the puzzle, and then it comes to her. It’s her phone. When the moped phone thief tossed it away, there was no sim card inside. She hasn’t made the connection until now.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘What’s up?’ asks Quinn.

  Archer
hesitates before answering. ‘Mike Hamilton had been trying to contact me. He wanted info on the case and other information from my past.’

  Quinn listens and she is grateful he doesn’t press her about her history. She assumes he already knows, as most people do. After all, there are a dozen articles on the Internet, including one ropey true crime podcast.

  ‘I ignored his texts and calls because he’s the last person I’d talk to about my private life.’

  She explains about the moped rider who stole her phone, opens her message and slides the phone across to him.

  Quinn reads the message. ‘Is that your personal phone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you certain that the phone the moped rider tossed to the ground was yours?’

  ‘It was broken but it looked like mine.’ Archer has a sinking feeling. ‘The sim was missing.’

  ‘Then it’s possible the thief got lucky and switched phones. Smartphones contain banking, credit cards and links to apps with your credit card details. The right person can easily download hacking software from the Internet.’

  ‘But why would the thief talk to Hamilton?’

  ‘Perhaps Hamilton was being persistent and the thief didn’t want to raise suspicions. Who knows? Perhaps they wanted to screw with him in some way too?’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense.’ Archer is troubled but has other more important things to think about and pockets her phone.

  Breakfast arrives. Everything is fried: the bacon, the sausages, the eggs, the tomatoes, the mushrooms, the bread. Even the beans have a disconcerting oily quality. Archer picks at her eggs and nibbles at the fried bread, which is tastier than it looks.

  ‘Breakfast of champions!’ says Quinn, who eats heartily.

  ‘Breakfast of cardiac arrest,’ replies Archer.

  Quinn smiles. He is broad but also lean, yet she wonders just how he manages to not be twice his size if this is what he eats.

  As if reading her mind, he says, ‘This is a rare treat.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. For a moment I thought I could hear your arteries furring up.’

  ‘I keep myself in shape. I come from a country where heart disease and suicide are ever present like evil Jehovah’s Witnesses constantly knocking at the door. Both have visited the Quinn family over the years. One will claim me. One day.’