by A J Waines
‘What are you doing here?’ she called out.
‘Hello, Sam,’ came the melodious Scottish accent, as he stepped out into the light.
‘Are you okay?’ I burst out, striding towards her.
‘Of course I’m okay,’ she snorted.
‘That’s because Miranda understands,’ said Kurtis, his hands covered in white latex gloves.
‘Understands what?’ said Miranda, fiddling with her earring.
‘All this.’
‘What is all this, exactly?’ she asked, turning her nose up. ‘It smells foul.’
‘Welcome to my latest project,’ he said congenially. ‘A tribute to those who make the lives of artists like me a misery. You understand, I know you do.’ He threw his arm out towards me. ‘Tell Sam how they drove my sister to suicide…’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Miranda. ‘His sister was a brilliant painter. She died earlier this year – heroin overdose – totally tragic.’
‘It was the critics who made her life hell,’ snarled Kurtis. ‘They are the ones who killed her. Zena had everything going for her – she’d even got herself clean. That was until she got that crappy review in a national paper. She was about to be shown at a newcomers’ exhibition at the Tate Modern, but they withdrew the offer.’
‘That’s terrible, isn’t it, Sam?’ said Miranda. She turned to Kurtis. ‘I do understand. They drove her to it. Anyone can see that.’ Miranda folded her arms. ‘So, where’s the surprise?’
He turned to me, ignoring her. ‘Same thing happened to me. My commission for Canary Wharf was withdrawn after that cow Pippa French wrote an appalling item on me in that blasted magazine. My career went up in smoke. She called me a pale shadow of Giacometti. Then a gallery in Chelsea did a U-turn – that snotty bitch, Craig-Doyle, didn’t give me a chance to explain. Since then, I’ve been reduced to the status of “craftsman”.’ He stamped his foot. ‘I don’t think so. I’m an artist.’ He bellowed the words, punching the air with his fist.
Miranda went to him and touched his cheek. ‘I know – you’ve had a terribly rough ride. You’ve been treated like shit by people who hold all the power.’ She turned to me. ‘He’s brilliant. He’s working on a bronze statue of a diver for a couple in Dorset.’
‘But that’s just the point, isn’t it?’ hissed Kurtis. ‘My work shouldn’t be beside a rockery or hidden inside some pokey conservatory. My sculptures should have pride of place on plinths you can see from the motorway – on the top of high-rise buildings or on the beach – seen and admired by everyone.’
‘I know,’ said Miranda soothingly. ‘And maybe, one day, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s too late. The damage is done. Don’t you see?’
She looked like she was trying to, but hadn’t yet worked out the gruesome truth like I had.
‘I had to do something to fight back,’ he said.
Kurtis strode purposefully towards me and ushered me out of Miranda’s line of sight. I tensed my body ready to run.
‘May I borrow your phone?’ he said, snatching my bag from my shoulder. ‘Don’t even think about screaming,’ he hissed in my ear. ‘There’s no one else around to hear you.’
‘The police are on their way,’ I said, trying to tug the phone away from him. He got the better of me. He gave me a disparaging look and tapped several words into a text on my phone, pressed send, then pocketed it.
‘By the way, the police are looking for Honoré Craig-Doyle, but you know exactly where she is,’ he said tauntingly, out of my sister’s earshot. ‘She was all set to take me on, then had the nerve to send me packing. You’ve been walking past her for the last few weeks.’ He waited for my reaction. I blinked hard. ‘Not worked it out yet? Here’s a clue. Let’s say it was quite a transformation.’ He laughed and walked back to Miranda.
Transformation… oh my God, the new fountain outside CCAP. The figure of Poseidon. It couldn’t be, could it?
Kurtis took Miranda’s hand and led her round to the sofa. As soon as she saw the outstretched figure, she screamed and pulled away. Then, just as I’d done, she took a step closer, convinced the figure must have been cleverly constructed.
She laughed. ‘Kurtis – it’s amazing!’ She stared in awe. ‘I thought it was real.’
They both looked down at the preserved corpse of Pippa French, who, with her arms stuck straight up above her head, was destined to be encased in metal and forever dive into a rock pool in a couple’s garden in Dorset.
‘Miranda, come away,’ I said.
I glanced over at the door. The police should have been here by now. ‘Kurtis has killed people. That’s not a sculpture, it’s a real body. It’s one of the women who went missing.’
She scoffed at me. ‘Don’t be silly. Kurtis is an artist. He’s done all this by himself.’
I thrust my hand towards the huge vat in the centre, which gurgled and popped as bubbles broke the surface with a splat. ‘Look at what’s in here, Miranda… it’s wax…’ I edged closer to her, hoping that as soon as she twigged the truth, I’d be able to drag her free from Kurtis. ‘He’s been using a funeral parlour to–’
She laughed again. ‘He needs the wax to make the figures, don’t you?’ she said, rolling her eyes at him.
I wanted nothing more than to run for it, but not while Miranda was still being so clueless about what was going on. I couldn’t leave her with this maniac.
‘Sit down, Miranda,’ said Kurtis, pulling up a wooden chair for her, ‘and let me tell you the whole thing. I think you’ll be rather proud of me.’ She took a seat and wrapped her arms loosely around her knees, totally at ease.
He cleared his throat. ‘A guy called Henry Dodd and I used to be in the navy together, many years ago. He skipped duties once and was having a sneaky ciggy in a strictly no-smoking area of the ship – and by the time he got back to our cabin, the whole place was on fire. I didn’t give him away and ever since Henry’s owed me one. When I was organising Zena’s funeral I found out he was based in London, running a funeral home. So I dropped in on him. Henry agreed a deal so I could use his premises overnight. I had this place, but it was the embalming equipment and freezers I needed.’
Miranda was chewing her nail, looking bewildered. ‘Embalming equipment? Why would you need that?’
I wandered over to her chair and stood behind it protectively, waiting for the moment she finally understood. I kept glancing towards the door, expecting a storm of blue uniforms to come charging in.
I was trying to think back to the message I’d left on DI Fenway’s voicemail. I’d given him the number of the workshop and said it was behind the Kentish Town baths. I’d told Kurtis I’d called the police, so why hadn’t he fled by now?
‘What better place to hide a body than inside a statue,’ he continued. ‘The main concern is the smell and the possibility of – not to put a finer point on it – leaks. Wouldn’t want Pippa seeping out all over the conservatory carpet now, would we? Or Honoré attracting the Camden rats?’
My toes curled taut inside my sandals, my fists throbbing; every muscle in my body coiled into a spring. We had to go – now.
Only, Miranda had her mouth wide open, but she still hadn’t grasped the truth.
Chapter 49
I watched helplessly as everything began to unfold in slow motion.
Kurtis went over to the wall and unhooked a heavy chain that was attached to a pulley above the steaming cauldron. ‘I know you’ll understand about Kora,’ he said, returning to my sister.
‘Kora?’ said Miranda.
‘It was very unfortunate. She started asking questions about how I made my statues. She was a sculptor herself, of course, and I think she was scouting for tips. I was working late at CCAP and she found me trying out fixative on the leg of a horse. I was trying to get the right strength of embalming fluid. She laughed and accused me of being a second-rate Gunther von Hagens – you know, the guy who sets up preserved bodies to play chess and
throw the javelin?’
Miranda looked puzzled. ‘The artist who preserves real bodies…?’
He went on. ‘She started asking too many questions and threatened to talk to Simon.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘She had to go, I’m afraid.’
The disbelief took the colour from her face. ‘You… killed Kora?’ she whispered, slowly rising from her seat.
‘She laughed at me,’ he said. ‘She was going to tell Simon, then my whole scheme would have collapsed. So I set up the wire and sent her off down the towpath. It was all very quick and tidy. Or it should have been. She wasn’t meant to survive.’
‘You killed my best friend!’ Miranda was glaring at him, her eyes bulging, her hands shaking.
‘Hey, hey,’ he protested, reaching towards her. ‘You’re supposed to understand, remember?’ She recoiled. ‘You know how I’ve suffered at the hands of people who didn’t value my work.’
He took hold of her arm, but Miranda snatched it away from him, sobbing in convulsions. ‘I can’t believe you did this… I can’t…’
Kurtis carried on. ‘That Polish woman was a fly in the ointment, too. She found me at Dodd’s mortuary preparing Pippa and started screaming the place down. I had to stop her.’
Miranda’s legs gave way under her and she sank back into the chair. She’d been reduced to a crumpled wreck, incapable of speaking. I put my hand on her shoulder.
‘Don’t touch her,’ said Kurtis, his words stabbing the air. I kept my hand where it was. ‘Don’t you want to know all about it? The surprise?’ He looked over appraisingly at Pippa’s body on the sofa. ‘For long-term preservation, not just for a twenty-minute viewing at a chapel of rest, you have to use an embalming fluid containing concentrated formalin with glutaraldehyde and phenol. It’s a brand-new formula and I’m the first to use it. I’m a pioneer!’ He thumped his chest with his fist. ‘The fluid is injected into an artery under high pressure to swell and saturate the tissues. I don’t like the “embalmer's grey” discolouration, so I added a stain to give Pippa a healthy tan.’
Miranda glanced over at the sofa with revulsion. ‘It’s disgusting,’ she wailed. ‘What you’re doing isn’t art – it’s monstrous!’
‘I’ve got a bronze cast all ready for Pippa, at the foundry. She’ll be put inside, just like Honoré in Poseidon at the fountain. The statue is in two parts, the joins will be welded together afterwards.’ He allowed himself a chuckle. ‘Pippa French said my work was derivative and passé – but now she’ll become part of one of my pieces. Some sort of poetic justice, don’t you think?’ His mouth curled into a smug grin. ‘Like Honoré, her flesh will rot, but she’ll forever have perfect bones.’
Miranda had stopped crying and was staring at him. I could feel her entire body shivering through the back of the chair.
‘You disgust me,’ she spat.
He leant towards her and before I could stop him, he gave her a sharp slap, so hard that she toppled off the chair. I dropped down to her, checking she hadn’t been injured by the fall.
‘I’m okay… I’m fine,’ she mumbled, looking startled.
As I straightened up, I scoured the trestle tables behind her, searching for something I could use as a weapon. Before I could grab anything, Kurtis came up behind me and kicked the back of my knees. As I went down, my head struck the chair Miranda had been sitting on and the world turned into the inside of a coal bunker.
Chapter 50
I heard my ring tone and, still dazed, patted my pockets for the phone. But, of course, it wasn’t there. I sat up and watched Kurtis take my mobile out of his overalls. He let my voicemail take the call, then listened to the message.
‘It’s Fenway,’ Kurtis said cheerily. ‘They’ve found a light-blue Mazda in my ex-wife’s garage, the car I borrowed for Kora, and Dodd has finally told them I’m the one leasing his mortuary.’
They were onto him – thank God. I tried to get up off the floor, but he was over me before I could move. ‘You stay where you are,’ he snapped.
I looked over at Miranda curled in a foetal position on the floor, her cheek turning a deep shade of purple. While I’d been out cold, her hands and feet had been bound with cable ties, her mouth covered with brown tape. I certainly couldn’t leave her now.
‘I knew it would only be a matter of time,’ he admitted. ‘Looks like poor old Henry is going to be charged with obstructing the police. They’ve also sussed that my alibis were porkies as well.’
‘They’ll be here any second,’ I told him defiantly.
‘Er, not exactly,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Fenway also said they’d turned up near the swimming pool, like your message instructed, but there are two swimming pools in Kentish Town and it looks like they went to the wrong one. They couldn’t find the workshop. Shame.’
‘But, they’ll realise, soon enough, that there’s another pool.’ I wanted to push him aside and get to my feet, but my head was spinning.
‘It will be too late by then,’ he clucked.
Kurtis gave me a shove that sent me back down to the floor again. He pulled my hands together behind my back and tied them with another self-locking cable tie. It cut into my wrists. The duct tape smelled of vomit as he wrenched it from the roll and slapped it across my mouth. I couldn’t work out why he was so unconcerned. The police were closing in on him, they knew he was the killer – he knew they knew – and yet he was acting like he had all the time in the world.
Kurtis disappeared behind a long velvet curtain and came back dragging a typist’s chair behind him. I gasped when I saw there was another figure sitting on it, bound and gagged.
‘Mr Blake hasn’t been feeling too well – we can’t trust him to stay conscious. Never mind, saves me a job.’ Aiden’s eyes were red and puffed up, his head lolling against his chest, blood dribbling from his nose.
‘You’ve hit him!’ I tried to shout, but it came out like three feeble moans through the duct tape.
Kurtis dragged Miranda and I towards the bubbling vat and pushed us into two wooden chairs before clipping my ankles together with more black ties. He went back for Aiden and wheeled him beside us.
‘As soon as this liquid wax is at the right temperature, all three of you are going in it,’ he declared. ‘That’s the surprise! You will all be saved for posterity inside my work. What an honour.’ He ran his hand through his clown-red hair, the latex gloves covering the tattoos I’d so admired on his hands the first time we’d met. He looked down at Aiden. ‘The talented artist-of-the-moment can become a piece of art in his own right. Let’s see how things are cooking.’
Taking a small wire basket, Kurtis tested the temperature of the wax by dropping my phone inside.
While he was preoccupied watching the bubbling liquid I took a look at Aiden. One eyelid slid open and he lifted his head slightly so he could see me. He’d only been pretending to be out cold; he must have heard Kurtis’s footsteps. His ankles were bound like mine, but his hands were tied in front of him and his fingers could move a little. He extended his hands into a prayer position. I stared at him. Was this a signal? Did he have something he wanted to say? He nodded as if answering my questions. I waited.
He made both hands into fists, then extended a finger – the one he’d cut recently. Then he looked deliberately down at his left foot, hitching up the leg of his chinos, then rubbed the finger against his other hand. It was certainly some kind of message. A knife… in his sock?
‘Not quite ready,’ said Kurtis, examining the gooey mess that was my phone. ‘A few more minutes.’
Using his index finger, Aiden jabbed four or five times in the air in a little square and stared down at his pocket. Kurtis glanced over and straight away Aiden’s head went down.
What was Aiden trying to tell me? That he had a knife in his sock and a phone in his pocket?
Kurtis dragged the three of us together in a line with Aiden in the centre, his head flopping against his chest.
‘Who’s going to be first?’ he said, s
lapping his hands together as if we were all playing a party game. ‘Of course, I’m going to have to ask you all to be naked.’
He was utterly deranged. When I’d first met him, I thought his mild-mannered approach and lightness of touch was natural charm. Now, I could see it was a well-practised act, a superficial crust covering a sadistic paranoia. In his mind, art critics and connoisseurs had killed his sister. They were out to bring him down, too. He, in turn, had to punish them. For him, it all boiled down to a petty game of tit for tat.
And us three? We had just got in the way and needed to be disposed of.
Kurtis turned to me with a smile. Normally I’m pretty good at anticipating what people are about to do, but I was totally out of my depth. ‘By the way, I forgot to say,’ he said conversationally, ‘when I used your phone earlier, I sent a text to Fenway to say that you’d found nothing at the workshop, but you’d moved on to the foundry in Surrey and had found me there – up to no good. I left him the exact address.’
The police weren’t coming. They were miles away.
I had to act now before things got any worse. Aiden had given me a lifeline; I had to use it.
Slipping off the chair, I flopped forward as if I was fainting, landing just in front of Aiden.
‘Whoops-a-daisy,’ said Kurtis, glancing over. He was using a large spatula to stir the boiling liquid, wafting the rising steam towards him with his other hand as if it was a delicious soup. ‘Feeling a bit faint, are we?’ I was horrified by his mounting psychotic flippancy.
In the split second his back was turned, I reached towards Aiden’s trouser leg.
Kurtis bundled me back onto the chair and I worked quickly. Squeezing the knife I’d managed to grab from Aiden’s sock, I tried to rub the blade against the plastic cable tie behind my back. My fingers were slippery with sweat so I wiped my palms against my backside, desperate not to drop the blade. As Kurtis stirred and sniffed the mixture, I rubbed to and fro, to and fro, trying not to make it obvious. The knife was sharp and I kept catching my skin with painful slashes. There was a little jolt as I finally broke free, but I kept my arms rigidly behind me to hide my achievement.