Archer watches Elaine Kelly’s estranged parents approach the boy with gifts of chocolate, fruit and books.
The nurse leaves them to it and joins Archer. ‘They’re applying for custody.’
‘I’m happy to hear that.’
The leave together through the coded door and in the corridor Archer notices a second coded door opposite. Beyond it she sees two uniformed guards standing outside an ICU room. She feels her skin prickling.
‘Are you OK?’ asks the nurse.
‘Never been better,’ she replies.
Archer makes her way to Charing Cross Police Station and joins the others in the incident room where she is warmly welcomed and applauded.
Klara hugs her tight. ‘I’m just so relieved.’
‘Thank you, Klara. For everything.’
Pierce, Quinn and Hicks stand at the front of the room. Hicks leads the meeting and informs them that he and DS Quinn have questioned and charged Jamie Blackwell in the comfort of his hospital room.
A cheer fires up the energy in the incident room.
‘We couldn’t have done it without DI Archer,’ says Quinn.
‘Yes, there is that,’ replies Hicks.
Quinn takes over and summarises the facts to the team.
‘Jamie Blackwell aka @nonymous has been charged with the murders of Billy Perrin, Stan Buxton, Noel Tipping, Elaine Kelly, Megan Burchill, Chau Ho, Josef Olinski, Herman Olinski, Thomas Butler, Lewis Faulkner, Mike Hamilton, Ben Peters and Oliver Merrick. The latter two we found on Blackwell’s premises. Peters was the “hanged man” in a tank in the basement where Jordan Kelly was imprisoned. Merrick was in the boot of Blackwell’s car.’ Quinn pauses; the silence in the room is palpable. ‘Blackwell has also been charged with the attempted murders of Jordan Kelly and Detective Inspector Grace Archer.’
Archer feels all eyes in the room fall on her.
‘The trial date has yet to be set.’
Quinn looks to Archer.
‘Thank you, Harry. I’d also like to thank you all for your hard work. Without your support and persistence, we would not have caught Blackwell.’
As the team congratulate each other, Archer leans across to Quinn and Klara. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe,’ replies Quinn.
‘Count me in,’ says Klara.
They head to the Garrick on Charing Cross Road and sit on the high stools at the window with a pint of beer each, staring out quietly at the evening commuters.
‘Let’s not talk about the case,’ says Archer.
‘Fine by me,’ says Klara.
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Quinn raises his pint.
‘So how’re you doing?’
‘I’m OK.’
‘I’ve wanted to say for a while how sorry I am about your son.’
Quinn’s eyes slide to the passing pedestrians. He takes a sup of his beer. ‘Joshie passed away two years ago.’
‘Oh God. I’m sorry.’ Archer regrets bringing it up. She glances at Klara, who gives her a reassuring nod.
‘We were on holiday in Spain. We were at the beach on our first day. Joshie and Sophie, my ex, were paddling in the water laughing and having fun. Out of nowhere a rogue wave springs up and drags everyone within ten feet of the water’s edge into the sea. They were unable to swim against the undertow. Seven people drowned. Joshie was one of them. Sophie, too, but she was resuscitated. But, well, it was like she’d died too that day. We struggled for a while but, you know how it is with this job and everything. In the end, it was easier to make the break.’
‘I’m sorry, Harry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’
‘Sorry, Harry,’ adds Klara.
‘That’s OK. I like talking about him. It keeps him alive. He was a good kid. It’s been a tough two years, but I’m getting there.’
They sit in silence for a moment before Klara breaks it with small talk. After the second round they are in full flow and Quinn makes them laugh with stories about working with the team. In particular, Hicks and Felton.
It’s getting late.
‘I have to go. Got a hospital appointment with Grandad early tomorrow morning.’
‘How’s he doing?’ asks Klara.
‘Much better, thanks.’ Archer pulls on her coat.
‘I might have one for the road. Klara?’
‘Why not.’
Archer smiles. ‘See you both tomorrow.’
55
T
HE WALLS ARE A BLEACHED white under the brilliant fluorescent light, the ceiling a landscape of textured ivory tiles. Sixteen in total. He counts them. Every day. Familiar smells are all around him: latex gloves, hand sanitiser and sheets that have been boiled clean. If he closes his eyes he can imagine being back in his studio. But he doesn’t. He will save those dreams for another time. A pale curtain surrounds the right side of his bed shielding him from curious eyes that pass in the corridor outside his room. He hears the squeaking sound of small wheels and the soft tread of slippered feet. Through a crack in the curtain he sees a faded hospital gown float past like a ghost wheeling an IV stand.
He is tired and wants to sleep but the mumble of tinny chatter draws his attention to the television on the wall opposite where a news channel is running a discussion panel on him, of all people. He sees pictures of his work: ‘The Forsaken’, ‘The Marshland Martyrs’, ‘Father, Son and Ghost’. The faces of his muses have been pixelated, so as not to distress the daytime viewers. The panel comprises artists and curators from the Tate and Saatchi galleries. He is pleased there are no police, no criminologists, no shrinks. He places his elbows on either side and tries to shift himself to an upright position but an icy pain jabs his stomach and for a brief second, he sees her unforgiving eyes burning like different-coloured opals. His mouth dries and he falls back, clutching the controller. The pain has awakened a sweat over his skin. He trembles, clicks the button to increase the morphine dose from the drip feeding into his body and closes his eyes as the drugs wash away the pain. His eyes cloud over and within moments he is sleeping.
The sweep of plastic rings on a metal rod wakens him from his slumber sometime later. He blinks the sleep from his eyes and he hears the snapping of rubber gloves. A slender figure is looming over him, a lady in white with shoulder-length dark hair.
‘How are you feeling?’ asks Doctor Sarah Jones.
‘Hello, Sarah. Nice to see you again. I’m doing very well, thank you.’
‘Good.’
He is pleased to see her. Doctor Jones isn’t like the others. She isn’t afraid of him. She isn’t jittery like the nurses and support staff and cares only for his well-being.
She places a thermometer in his ear, measures his heartbeat, checks the monitors by his bed and begins to write on a form attached to a clipboard.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something,’ he says.
‘What would that be?’
‘You’re a learned woman.’
‘I have my moments.’
‘You have an appreciation of art.’
Her eyes flicker to his. ‘Is that a question?’
‘Tell me. When you look at a piece of art do you wonder if it’s an imitation of reality or an expression of the artist’s emotions?’
She peers at him over the clipboard. ‘That would depend on the art. I would say that great art is a combination of both.’
‘Mmm. I thought you might say that.’
‘Then why ask?’
‘I wanted to hear your opinion.’
She slips the clipboard under her arm. ‘I hope I have not disappointed you.’
‘Not in the slightest. I was also wondering . . .’ He holds her gaze and smiles. ‘Gunther von Hagens . . .’
‘Who?’
‘German anatomist. Invented plastination, a technique for preserving flayed bodies and body parts. All above board and academic too. There is a returning exhibition of his work at Tate Modern next week. When I get out of here I thought perhaps you
’d like to come with me?’
‘That’s very considerate of you, however, I expect as is the norm I will have precious little time off and you might be relaxing at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’
‘Yes, that might impede our plans.’
‘If you need anything, please call the nurse.’
‘Thank you, Sarah.’
She checks her wristwatch and leaves, passing the two uniformed sentinels that guard his room. One of them looks in at him with wide bunny-like eyes. It’s the heavy officer with the awkward gait.
‘Hello again, PC Simpson.’
PC Simpson winces and quickly looks away.
‘Did you pass on my message to her, PC Simpson? I hope you did.’
PC Simpson doesn’t reply. Instead he pulls the door closed.
He wakes sometime later to a dimly lit room and the deafening silence of hospital night-time. He senses a tremor in the air. Something is out of place. He listens and hears the soft measured breathing of another person.
He isn’t alone.
He blinks and turns to his right. Someone watches him from the shadows. The knife wound in his stomach seems to burn and he shudders.
‘I didn’t think you would come,’ he says.
Detective Inspector Grace Archer steps closer to the bed and looks down at him with a cold expression.
‘I hope you won’t get into trouble for paying me this unusual night-time visit?’
‘What do you want?’
He smiles at her. ‘First, I wanted to congratulate you, and second: what did it feel like with Bernard Morrice?’
Archer sighs. ‘I knew this would be a waste of time.’
‘Indulge me, DI Archer, and I will reveal something unexpected to you.’
‘Go on.’
‘Poor little Bernard. Such a promising future. So many died by his hands yet he was murdered by a – please excuse my tabloid quote – a feral twelve-year-old Grace Archer. That must have felt good, Grace.’
He can see her jaw tighten. She turns to leave.
‘Before you go, Grace. I should tell you “The Forsaken” wasn’t my first collection.’
Archer stops at the door but doesn’t look back at him.
‘There are several more individual pieces dotted around London. In the basement of a derelict church, the subject from one of my videos – The Reader – floats in the darkness without her beloved books to keep her occupied.’
‘Hilary Richards?’
‘Very good, Grace.’
‘Where is she?’
Blackwell ignores her question and continues, ‘In the attic of an abandoned North London townhouse, the body of a missing troubled teenage boy floats without a care as his parents continue their unrelenting search for him. In West London, there is small high street left behind with the advancements in online shopping. On that street is an old pound shop, closed with the shutters down. Behind them is a delightful Syrian refugee couple floating forever in a lovers’ embrace. No one has any idea they are missing.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Why would I lie to you?’
‘I want the details of all of them,’ she says, turning to look at him.
‘Sorry, that’s all you get. This is just between you and me. If your colleagues come asking for more information, I shall deny all knowledge.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘There are many more, Grace . . . many more.’
A nurse appears at the doorway. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Inspector. Please leave.’
‘Goodnight, Grace. Sleep tight.’
Acknowledgements
First on the thank you list is Mr David H. Headley. Without your support, patience and enthusiasm, this book would not have become a reality. As you know, The Art of Death is partly inspired by an afternoon in the pub when you told me how, as a boy, you became terrified of using telephone boxes after watching the classic Spanish thriller, La Cabina. For those that don’t know, this short movie is a macabre story of a man who becomes trapped forever in a telephone box. I wanted The Art of Death to have a similar impact on you. Maybe you can tell me if I succeeded.
A massive thanks to my editor, Katherine Armstrong at Bonnier, for believing in this book. Your passion, commitment and attention to detail have been outstanding and it has been terrific working alongside you.
Thank you also to the brilliant Elise Burns for championing this book at Bonnier. I must also call out Ciara Corrigan, Nick Stearn for the stunning cover and Annie Arnold for the wonderfully creepy end pages. Thank you so much to everyone else at Bonnier and beyond who helped create this book.
Thank you to everyone at the DHH Literary Agency for their support and encouragement and thank you to the early readers: Greg Mosse, Broo Doherty, Rebecca McDonnell and Emily Glenister.
Thank you also to my friends and family for your love and support. Finally, this book is dedicated to my big brother, Marty Fennell, who passed in January 2020. You are loved and missed by all who knew you.
Hello!
Thank you for picking up The Art of Death.
Almost all of us have some sort of presence on social media today, either directly or indirectly. If you are someone who does not use Twitter, Facebook or Instagram, then you may not even know that a well-meaning friend or family member has captured your photo at a certain time, at a certain location and tagged you in it. As you know, the serial killer in The Art of Death, the underground artist and self-named @nonymous, uses this public data to profile and catfish his victims. He uses their bodies as works of art that he displays in public and livestreams on social media. Unlike bricks and mortar galleries that have a limited life span, the internet is a digital museum that will house his work in some shape or form, forever. It was a hard book to write and it took me almost two years to complete. As a reader I think the message to take away from this is to be very careful with what information you share on social media. You don’t know who is looking in . . .
If you would like to hear more about my books, you can visit www.bit.ly/DavidFennellClub where you can become part of the David Fennell Readers’ Club. It only takes a few moments to sign up, there are no catches or costs.
Bonnier Zaffre will keep your data private and confidential, and it will never be passed on to a third party. We won’t spam you with loads of emails, just get in touch now and again with news about my books, and you can unsubscribe any time you want.
And if you would like to get involved in a wider conversation about my books, please do review The Art of Death on Amazon, on Goodreads, on any other e-store, on your own blog and social media accounts, or talk about it with friends, family or reader groups! Sharing your thoughts helps other readers, and I always enjoy hearing about what people experience from my writing.
Thank you again for reading The Art of Death.
All the best,
David Fennell
About the Author
David Fennell was born and raised in Belfast before leaving for London at the age of eighteen with £50 in one pocket and a dog-eared copy of Stephen King’s The Stand in the other. He jobbed as a chef, waiter and bartender for several years before starting a career in writing for the software industry. He has been working in Cyber Security for fourteen years and is a fierce advocate for information privacy. David has played rugby for Brighton and studied Creative Writing at the University of Sussex. He is married and he and his partner split their time between Central London and Brighton.
To find out more, visit his website: www.davidfennell.co.uk
Follow him Twitter: @davyfennell
First published in the UK in 2021 by Zaffre
This ebook edition published in 2021 by
ZAFFRE
An imprint of Bonnier Books UK
80–81 Wimpole St, London W1G 9RE
Owned by Bonnier Books
Sveavägen 56, Stockholm, Sweden
Copyright © David Fennell, 2021
Cover design by Nick Stearn
/> Cover photographs © Paik Photography/Alamy Stock Photo
(mannequin); Shutterstock.com (textures)
The moral right of David Fennell to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-83877-346-5
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-83877-342-7
This ebook was produced by IDSUK (Data Connection) Ltd
Zaffre is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK
www.bonnierbooks.co.uk
The Art of Death Page 31