The Art of Death

by David Fennell

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Grace. I’ll patch that up for you in a moment.’

  Archer’s skin crawls at his touch.

  ‘I remember that day I saw you at the Lumberyard Café on Seven Dials. Some of the others were there too. Elaine, Chau, Megan, but then you walked in. I couldn’t take my eyes—’

  ‘Where’s Jordan? What have you done to him?’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about Jordan. Just relax, Grace.’

  He eases her up and begins to gently towel dry her hair. Archer realises the tapping noise has stopped.

  ‘Serendipity. You were all there at the same time. Very clever of you to work it out. I sat at a discreet table and waited. I found some of you online and on social media and tracked you down through Jake and Mike Hamilton. Of course, stealing your phone was very helpful too. It was easy. So easy.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘It was meant to be, Grace. I’d bought the house in Roupell Street and met Jake a couple times during my visits. And then one day, through the veil of the previous occupant’s grubby net curtains, I saw you and Jake walk down the street. I was intrigued, but you were gone as fast as you appeared. The next time I saw you was that morning in the Lumberyard Café, but I hadn’t realised you were Jake’s granddaughter until Victoria and I saw you that night in Roupell Street. Funny how fate has a way of throwing people together. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  He runs the top of his hand across her cheek.

  ‘You are the prize of my collection. Grace Archer. The girl who survived. Everything about you is perfect. Your sublime racial mix. Your history. Abandoned by your mother. Left by your dead father.’

  Jamie’s words chill Archer. ‘Then let me go. Why kill me?’

  ‘Don’t think of it as death. Think of it as preservation. You will be forever here with me in my home.’

  Archer’s stomach turns over. She needs to try something to buy some more time.

  ‘Why did you do it? Why kill those innocent people and exhibit their bodies in that way?’

  ‘Artists must always push boundaries, Grace. One should strive for greatness by inventing new ideas and expressing one’s art in a way that is representative of one’s character.’

  He looms over her, his eyes roving across her body. His fingers brush across her chest but she shoves them away with her bound hands.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’

  ‘You need to get dressed now.’

  Archer frowns. Is he going to let her go? Is this just some sick joke?

  ‘Just one more thing,’ he says, before turning and leaving the basement.

  Archer scans frantically for something to release her bonds but finds nothing.

  Jamie returns moments later with a black dress. He hangs it up.

  ‘Remove your underwear and put this on please, Grace.’

  He takes out a double-edged knife from the pocket of his suit.

  She freezes.

  Holding firmly onto her hands, he cuts the bonds of her feet. ‘Please don’t try anything. This knife is razor sharp, as Merrick just discovered.’ He chuckles and cuts the bonds around her wrists. She rubs away the numbness. It’s good to feel the blood flowing again. Despite the knife, Archer feels a jolt of confidence. A possibility.

  ‘Why the dramatics last night? Why risk your own life?’

  ‘I was never going to die. I knew that. One of you would have freed me. I should also say the vitrine was rigged to collapse anyway. However, I was in a difficult situation with Merrick. I had offered him the boy as payment, yet that wasn’t enough. He wanted more. I anticipated him leaking something to the police, so I needed to redirect that scent. I knew you would come to me eventually.’

  With the knife hovering close he watches her undress. His eyes flare. He is aroused.

  Archer feels sick as she puts on the dress. It’s a slim fit and highlights almost every contour and curve of her body.

  The knife jabs at her ribs and he caresses her breasts and runs his hand down to her pubis.

  She is repelled by his touch, which fills her with dread, and uses her anger to hold herself still.

  His fingers caress her throat and then he tosses the knife behind him and with two hands squeezes her neck. Her hands reach for his and she tries to prise them off.

  He lifts her off the floor, his red eyes boring into hers.

  ‘How beautiful in death you will be.’

  She reaches across and tries to scratch his face but his arms are long and strong. She feels herself weakening, her head spinning. She can’t let it end this way.

  No.

  Please.

  Not like this.

  The room darkens momentarily and the walls seem to close in. Despair washes over her but deep down she feels her anger burning. A swelling rage rises inside her. With all her strength she swings a kick at his balls. His grip weakens by a small measure but it’s enough for her to wrench herself free and gasp for air.

  His fist swings and lands clumsily on her mouth. Her lip is split; she tastes blood but the punch lacks power. She steadies herself.

  Frowning, he cries, ‘Now look what you made me do!’

  He raises his arm but not before she launches a punch at his Adam’s apple.

  He makes an odd gurgling noise and staggers back choking, clutching at his throat.

  Her neck sore from his grip, her breathing shallow, she shoves him aside and tries to sprint away, but his foot slides across, tripping her and she falls forward, her arms spinning in front of her.

  She lands on all fours.

  Glancing behind, she sees him moving after her, his face purple with fury. The knife is almost a metre away and she scrambles for it, but it’s not close enough.

  His hands grip her ankle and he wrenches her back along the cold concrete floor.

  She screams angrily, kicks back at his face and hears his nose crunch. His grip loosens and she hauls herself forward quickly to grab the edge of the blade, which slices into her palm. She feels no pain, just warm blood. She runs to the steps but he’s right behind her and grabs her hair. She spins around and faces him.

  Their eyes lock.

  She feels no fear.

  She has faced a monster before.

  And she doesn’t hesitate.

  She thrusts the blade into his stomach. It slides effortlessly through the rubber suit and into his belly.

  Jamie blinks, his face losing colour. He runs the tips of his fingers across her cheek and steps back, the blade still inside him, a look of confusion on his face, as he slowly drops to his knees.

  Archer wastes no time in climbing the stairs. As she steps into the doorway, she emerges into what looks like a utility room. Inside is a worktop and various tools fixed to the wall. A drill, a hammer, a saw and an axe, a torch.

  Exiting the space, Archer’s bloody handprint smears the door as she hauls herself through it. Her eyes squint at the natural light that floods in from the kitchen and she winces at the bleeding wound in her hand, a pain on a par with her crippling headache.

  She feels her lip beginning to swell and wipes blood from her mouth with her uninjured hand. She makes her way to the hallway but the tapping noise starts again and begins to increase with an intensity before slowing again.

  Her heart skips.

  She looks behind her. It’s coming from the utility room.

  Could it be . . .?

  She hurries back and glances down at Jamie who is still on his knees, staring down at the knife in his stomach.

  The tapping is coming from behind the wall on which the tools are fixed. She searches the wall and finds an inset door handle hidden amongst the tools. Lifting it out, she pulls open a hidden door.

  The stench of faeces assaults her and she almost gags. It’s dark and she cannot see anything. She unhooks a torch from the back of the door and points the beam into the darkness. She sees a small stairwell leading down to a stark concrete cell of a room. At the bottom is a weary, skinny blond boy with a heavy shackle fixed around
his wrist.

  Jordan.

  Her heart pounds. He is pale and sickly-looking. She barely recognises him as he slowly bangs the shackle against steel steps.

  ‘Jordan!’ she calls but he doesn’t seem to hear. A fury implodes inside her and she grabs the axe and climbs down the rungs.

  She crouches to face him. ‘Jordan, I’m here to take you home.’

  Slowly, he lifts his head. ‘Mum?’

  Archer feels tears threatening to break through.

  ‘Jordan, place your hand on the ground.’

  He obeys without any resistance.

  Ignoring the pain in her palm, she raises the axe and slams it down once, twice, a third time on the chain until it breaks and he is free. She tries to help him up, but his stamina is depleted.

  ‘Jordan, stay with me. We’re going home, OK?’

  With all her strength, she hauls him up and fixes his arms around her neck. She is surprised at how light he is.

  ‘Hold tight and wrap your legs around me, sweetheart.’

  ‘Tired,’ he says, sinking into her warm body.

  ‘Let’s get you to bed.’

  ‘Where’ve you been, Mum? I’ve missed you.’

  His lips are dry, his voice is a croaking whisper. Archer’s eyes well but the tears do not come. Her fury at Jamie Blackwell burns.

  She climbs the steps with the boy. His hold is loose and he keeps sliding down.

  ‘I’ve missed you too. Squeeze me tighter, darling.’

  His weak limbs embrace her and she makes the climb upward.

  She crawls up the stairwell. Jordan is clinging on with every ounce of his strength.

  She hears a noise from the kitchen and peers round the door.

  Jamie is stumbling toward the hallway.

  ‘Shit!’ she whispers.

  ‘Grace, where are you?’ he calls.

  ‘Mum,’ says Jordan, his voice trembling.

  Jamie halts and turns around. Archer retreats inside and grabs the torch. She hears him shuffling toward the utility room.

  She needs to act fast.

  She pushes open the door, rushes out and slams the torch against Jamie’s head. He is already weak and falls backward. Holding tight to Jordan, she skips over Jamie’s body and runs across the kitchen.

  The rest seems like a blur as she races up the hallway and out of the house.

  She is barefoot and bloody. Adrenaline pumps through her body as she sprints down Swains Lane dodging traffic and ignoring the honking horns of cars. All she can think about is survival and to do that she must run and get her and Jordan far away from here.

  In the distance she hears sirens. Her head is spinning. Through her blurred vision she sees a line of twinkling blue lights speed toward her.

  She hears her name being called.

  ‘Grace! Wait!’

  She recognises that voice. That accent.

  ‘Get an ambulance now!’ he barks to someone.

  He is close by.

  ‘Grace. It’s me, Harry.’

  She stops.

  She feels the warmth of his jacket as he puts it around her shoulders. An Indian female officer arrives. She recognises her. Neha.

  ‘Let me take him,’ she says kindly.

  Archer nods and lets her take the boy.

  52

  T

  HE FIRST AMBULANCE ARRIVES FOR Jordan, whose condition is critical after losing consciousness. Archer feels numb and helpless as she watches the paramedics skilfully treat him and make him comfortable before whisking him away.

  Please let him get through this. Please.

  PC Neha Rei’s police radio crackles with Quinn’s voice. ‘We have Blackwell. He’s losing a lot of blood. Where’s that friggin’ ambulance!’

  Archer turns to Neha. ‘Take me there.’

  ‘But, ma’am, shouldn’t you wait for the medics?’

  ‘Let’s go,’ replies Archer as she climbs into the passenger seat.

  Rei pulls up behind a bank of police vehicles and an ambulance parked outside Jamie’s house. Archer stares at the glass box and feels her stomach twist.

  ‘Ma’am, are you OK?’

  Archer steps out into the cold afternoon air. ‘I’m fine.’ She wants to see him. She wants to see his face and make sure he is still alive. Death is a liberation he doesn’t deserve.

  She sees him being wheeled on a stretcher through the front entrance, his face pale, his unnerving red eyes searching the line of police officers.

  He is looking for her.

  When he finds her, he holds her gaze with a perplexed expression. Archer feels a furnace roar inside.

  ‘You did it,’ says Quinn.

  Archer hasn’t realised Quinn is by her side. She feels the furnace fade.

  ‘We did it,’ she replies.

  The wail of the third ambulance’s siren interrupts their exchange.

  ‘Ma’am,’ calls Neha.

  ‘Your carriage awaits you,’ says Quinn. ‘I’ll come by and see you later.’

  Quinn steps toward the killer. ‘You and I are going on a wee trip to the hospital, Mr Blackwell, aka the artist formerly known as @nonymous . . . oh and what is with that name? With that so-called “artistic talent” you could have at least come up with a name that wasn’t so . . . I don’t know . . . pedestrian!’

  Jamie turns away and ignores Quinn.

  The Irishman climbs in after the paramedics and handcuffs Jamie to the rail. ‘Now, no funny business from you, Leonardo. If you behave yourself I’ll ask the nice ambulance lady if she has some crayons and paper for you to draw some pretty pictures. Would you like that?’

  The doors slam on the ambulance and it leaves with the siren screaming.

  *

  Fatigue ripples through Archer as she sits on the edge of a hospital bed in a curtained cubicle in the A&E department of the Whittington Hospital. Despite that, she is eager to move on and get back to work. She hasn’t finished with Jamie Blackwell yet.

  The pain from her wounds is slow to subside. Her hand throbs. It has been cleaned, stitched with nine sutures, and bandaged. The side of her head and her neck are both tender, her lip is cut and swollen. She swallows a second lot of painkillers and washes away the chalky residue with a swill of tepid water from a flimsy plastic beaker.

  She is wearing an over-bleached hospital gown that feels like sandpaper on her skin. The black dress – her death gown – has been removed and taken away in an evidence bag.

  Beyond the private space is the squeaking tread of rubber soles and the calming voices of nurses talking to patients. She hears a drunk man who seems to be complaining but his words are incomprehensible, and a distressed older lady telling a nurse she doesn’t want to be a bother.

  Archer is eager to get out of here. She wonders about Grandad and hopes no one has told him she is here. She is about to call the nurse when she notices the stainless-steel cabinet opposite her bed depicting her distorted reflection. She appears small, almost child-like, and has a jarring sense of her younger self looking back at her. She shudders and looks away as a cold wave of a déjà vu engulfs her.

  This isn’t the first time she’s sat alone in a room after a stand-off with a killer.

  That was eighteen years ago.

  Ancient history.

  She wishes.

  The fatigue claws at her willpower, weakening her resolve. She lies back, closes her eyes and jolts as the image of Jamie Blackwell’s face burns behind her eyes. She bolts up, grimacing at the sharp pains from her protesting body and catches her breath.

  The curtain of her cubicle opens and the nurse who treated her earlier peers in and smiles. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Better, thank you,’ she lies.

  ‘Good. You have a visitor.’

  She pulls the curtain open further to reveal DCI Pierce, who is carrying a canvas tote bag. Pierce thanks the nurse and steps inside.

  Archer flinches in pain as she shifts to face the DCI.

  Pierce c
lears her throat. ‘How are you?’

  Archer opens her mouth to speak but isn’t sure what to say. For some reason the words won’t come.

  ‘Silly question,’ says Pierce as she looks around the cubicle. ‘I’ve always hated hospitals. Spent so much time in them when I was young.’

  Archer doesn’t know what to say to that and Pierce doesn’t elaborate.

  ‘Can I get you anything? A coffee or a tea?’ asks Pierce.

  Archer shakes her head and asks, ‘How is Jordan?’

  ‘He’s in ICU. The doctors seem to think he’ll be fine. He’s got some fight in him, they say.’

  Archer swallows and closes her eyes. ‘That’s good,’ she replies in a hoarse whisper. She feels tears welling behind her eyelids and turns away from Pierce’s gaze. She gives herself a moment and asks, ‘Blackwell?’

  ‘Also in ICU and thankfully out of danger.’

  Archer glances across at the reflection of her smaller self and feels her heartbeat increasing.

  ‘I want to interview him.’

  ‘You know I cannot allow that.’

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  ‘He tried to kill you, DI Archer. You had a prior relationship of some degree. There are protocols to adhere to.’

  ‘I need to do this.’

  ‘You’re not thinking rationally.’

  ‘Without me this case would not have been solved! Jamie Blackwell would still be stalking people in cafés looking for his next victims. The Met owes me.’

  Pierce folds her arms.

  ‘Let me finish this,’ Archer implores, ‘I need closure, ma’am. I never got it with Bernard Morrice. I need it now. Give me this . . . please.’

  Pierce sighs. ‘DI Archer . . . Grace . . .’

  Archer levels her gaze at the DCI. ‘You owe me,’ she adds.

  Pierce’s eyes flare. She knows how favourably the arrest of Jamie Blackwell will look for her career, but Archer senses she has overstepped the line. ‘This isn’t all about you, DI Archer. There are other people who have made a significant contribution to this investigation. This is about the team. We are a team.’