The Death Pictures

by Simon Hall

  He would get him. Adam almost whispered it to himself. He would. Twice before he’d faced these cases, renowned as some of the most difficult to investigate, let alone get a conviction. What was the current statistic? About six per cent of complaints of rape led to a successful prosecution? Not for him. Two out of two.

  But he’d have to be careful. He couldn’t risk another warning, or a closer look at how he’d solved the other cases.

  In the first, it’d just been raised eyebrows from the other detectives and a friendly word in the ear from the Assistant Chief Constable. He could still hear the shouting and screaming in the bar and feel the fist flying into his face, his skin splitting under its clubbing impact.

  ‘We won’t go too deeply into why he assaulted you, eh?’ Hawes had said, an arm on his shoulder in the quiet of a corner of the police station car park. ‘We won’t ask why you happened to fancy a drink in that very same pub he was in. We won’t go into his claims that you’d been following him all day and he lashed out at you in frustration. No one would believe the word of a rapist, would they, eh? We’ll just think it was good luck that you happened to be in the same pub as our prime suspect and he was drunk enough to have a go at you. We’ll overlook our frustration at not being able to take a DNA sample from him because he’d committed no crime. Up until he attacked you that is, eh? We’ll forget how fortunate it was that we could finally take a swab after we’d charged him with the assault. It was just down to luck that it matched the sample taken from the woman he’d raped. No one in the force would ever dream of suggesting you pushed him into attacking you so we’d have grounds to get some DNA from him, eh?’

  Adam rubbed at his right eyebrow and the tiny scar Mick Barwick’s fist had left. He was a squat, powerful man and it had meant four stitches. But it was a price worth paying. He’d gladly exchange it for Barwick’s twelve years in prison.

  The other case had brought a formal warning. WPC Radcliffe was young and keen and had been up for the operation, but Adam had stupidly forgotten to get the required approval from the Assistant Chief. An oversight, he’d assured the raging Hawes as he stood to attention in his office. It was a detail lost in the intensity of the hunt for their man. Just an oversight, nothing more.

  Hawes wasn’t mollified, nowhere close. Jo Radcliffe had been badly shaken by Hill’s attack on her in the park, he ranted. It didn’t matter that there were cops in the bushes, waiting for him and that he’d been arrested before he could do anything more than grab her. It was unacceptable to compromise the safety of an officer without approval from the highest level. DCI Breen would consider himself formally reprimanded and nothing like it would ever happen again.

  That was the only stain on his service record, Adam thought, and he’d gladly take it. Neil Hill had got 14 years. They could prove he’d committed two rapes and suspected him of another couple of attacks. That was enough for the judge. A reedy man in his mid 20s with an odd smell of damp, Hill was a classic inadequate who’d never had a girlfriend. He picked only on very thin young women and used masking tape to strap his victims’ hands together as he raped them. He’d developed a way of working and had got a taste for it.

  He’d have attacked again unless they’d caught him, again and again. Adam allowed himself to relive the memory of how he’d twisted and jammed Hill’s arm behind his back, dislocating his shoulder. How he’d enjoyed the cracking sound and the man’s agonised scream, how it’d tempted him to push the arm just a little harder. He’d expected to feel some guilt, even a little shock at himself, but jubilation was all that came.

  The door swung open, banging into the white wall, juddering on its hinges. Rachel flinched, her eyes widening, looked helplessly across at Adam as though pleading for protection. A young, white-coated doctor stood in the doorway.

  ‘Who’s in charge here?’ he said sharply, jabbing a pen around the room.

  ‘I am,’ snapped Adam. He strode from the side of Rachel’s bed to within a foot of the doctor. The man took a step back. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Adam Breen,’ he went on. ‘And you are?’

  The doctor held his stare, then looked away to Rachel, lying on the bed. She held one hand over her heart as though trying to calm it.

  ‘This woman is far too frail to be questioned at the moment,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t hear of it...’

  Adam reached out an insistent arm and guided the doctor out of the small private room. His words faded and he followed meekly.

  ‘Look, doc, it’s this simple,’ whispered Adam into his ear. ‘I need a description of this guy and the details of what happened, then we’ll leave her alone.’

  The doctor had a callow complexion and a darkly lined face. He hadn’t introduced himself, but a well-worn blue badge said Andrew Lovell. His eyes were framed with blood red circles and his black hair stuck up in spraying patches. Hell, I wouldn’t want him treating me, thought Adam.

  ‘I wouldn’t hear of it. She’s only just come in. We need…’

  ‘It’s like this, doc,’ Adam cut in. ‘This woman has been raped. That’s raped. She hasn’t sprained an ankle, or cut her finger. She’s been raped. The man broke into her home – her own home – and attacked her while her kid was upstairs in bed. That’s upstairs… in bed.’

  He checked the doctor’s hand for a ring and saw the silver wedding band. ‘Now I don’t want to scare you,’ Adam continued, ‘but at best that means there’s a guy out there who doesn’t think twice about busting into women’s homes to attack them. I said at best, because I’m hoping he’s gone home, gone to ground somewhere to feel bad about what he’s done. At worst, he’s wandering around the streets now feeling very good indeed and looking for his next victim. And that could be anyone. My wife, my family...’ He paused. ‘Even yours. So we need a description, and we need it now.’

  He let the words linger. Doctor Lovell met his stare, seemed to have turned paler. He picked at a piece of paper on his clipboard.

  ‘Ok then,’ he said. ‘Ten minutes, no longer. She needs sedation and rest.’

  She’ll need a lot more than that in the days to come, thought Adam. He walked back to Rachel’s bedside, making a point of closing the door softly behind him.

  Back in his flat that night, Dan read through the briefing notes on the Death Pictures. He hardly needed them, knew the story well enough, as did most of the country now. He had one of Joseph McCluskey’s prints on his wall, a silkscreen of a cracked rainbow with a silhouetted female angel above it and a faceless man kneeling below. It was number 377 of 450, signed in pencil by the artist. He’d bought it years ago after an unexpected tax rebate, in the days when they were just about affordable.

  An original was out of the question on a journalist’s salary, particularly now McCluskey was close to death and had become so very famous. Eighty-five thousand pounds, the most recent of the Death Pictures had sold for, according to his notes. He patted Rutherford’s back as the Alsatian lay by the side of his great blue sofa, scratching hard at a floppy ear. ‘That’s plenty more than double our pay, mate. No more doggy treats for you if we wanted a picture like that. And stop scratching, or your ear’ll drop off.’

  The briefing went back to McCluskey’s early life, more detail than he needed but it was interesting to read. Born in Plymouth, undistinguished years at school, went on into the sixth form for a year, didn’t like the idea of more education, left and began painting. No formal training, he just decided to have a go. His work was quickly recognised as having what the cuttings of the time called ‘great potential’, and for once that wasn’t the usual journalists’ hype. He started off in portraits – the briefing implied that was a sure way to fund your living expenses, flattering the pompous who desired immortality on canvas – then moved into more abstract work.

  One cutting detailed his first London exhibition, a minor gallery but it was a start. More followed, the venues growing progressively
bigger and better known and his paintings began to sell around Britain. His lifestyle was as colourful as his works, making lurid stories for the tabloids.

  ‘The Dishonourable Lady’ read one photocopied headline. A minor titled member of the local aristocracy had posed naked and highly suggestively on the steps of a National Trust home for one work, causing a predictable outcry. She was barely 20, he 40. An affair had duly followed, outraging her family. It was all good publicity and the painting had sold for a record sum for a McCluskey. There was a string of women, his technique apparently a simple one. Paint them, then bed them.

  Dan couldn’t suppress a chuckle. He put down the notes and got up to fetch himself a beer from the kitchen, thinking what a creative way of working McCluskey’s was.

  He pondered what ale to have from the multicoloured collection of cans in his cupboard and thought of Kerry, whether she would be interested in a call or text message from him. Stour, he decided, pulling the red tin from the plastic netting of its pack of four, good Kentish ale. It reminded him of his college days. A thought of Thomasin in her tight yellow summer dress lingered teasingly too, like the beautiful ghost she was. Dan pulled open the tin and poured it quickly, watched bubbles fizz through the amber liquid. He forced his thoughts back to Kerry. It wasn’t a night for sinking in memories of a lost past.

  ‘Either commit to giving it a chance, or leave me alone,’ she’d said, and he hadn’t heard from her for ten days now. There’d been no sex since, and he wouldn’t mind a quick bout, but after that, then what? He knew he’d lie there, feeling guilty about the implicit promise he’d made and not sleep, then spend the next few days trying to avoid her. It was a well-worn path. Maybe the flowers could stay in the vase in the hall. They brightened the place up.

  His mobile rang and he jogged back into the lounge, shifting a sniffing and curious Rutherford away from the phone with his knee.

  ‘Hi, Adam, how you doing?’

  ‘OK, Dan, just about OK.’ He sounded tired, his voice thin and hoarse. ‘I’m off home, but I just wanted to call you first. She’ll do it. She wants a couple of days to compose herself and recover a bit and she wants me and Suzanne there too, but she’ll do it. Oh, and she wants to be anonymous as well. Is that all OK for you?’

  ‘Sure, Adam, that’s fine. I’ll be sensitive with her, don’t worry. You going to call me when you’re ready to do it?’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  Dan waited for Adam to say goodnight and hang up, but nothing came, just the hum of the phone.

  Finally he asked, ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Yes.’ The phone rattled with a sigh. ‘And Annie and Tom.’

  He’d fancied a night in on his own, a couple of beers, reading up on the interview with McCluskey and a decent sleep, but Adam was a good friend… Well, at least it would stop him trapping himself with Kerry again.

  ‘There’s beer here if you need one.’

  ‘I’ll be there in 20 mins.’

  Dan sat back down and scanned through the rest of the briefing. McCluskey’s paintings begin to receive national acclaim. A series of major exhibitions. The odd tabloid story about broken relationships and spirited feuds with other artists. Becomes a Royal Academician, to the horror of some of the older art establishment, some very spicy quotes there. ‘This is the Royal Academy, not a sordid Soho Drink and Porn Club you know…’

  Dan chuckled again and patted Rutherford’s head. He was beginning to like the man more and more.

  Married to Abigail Duggleby, ten years younger, met when she modelled for him. Much cynicism about the chances for the relationship in the press, all confounded. Twenty-two years on they were still together and apparently happy and devoted, even as he prepared to die.

  Ten months ago diagnosed with cancer of the oesophagus, a secondary tumour in his liver making it inoperable, given nine months to a year to live. Decides to spend his remaining months finding reconciliation with all his enemies – quite a number according to the notes – and raising money for charity. And here’s how, the idea that captivated the country.

  ‘Ten pictures I will paint,’ a newspaper article quoted him as saying, ‘roughly one for each month I expect to remain on this planet. Each will be auctioned off for a charity of my choosing. Each will have a very limited number of prints made, also to be sold for good causes. I will keep one of each of the sets of prints which will be exhibited on my studio wall. Hidden within the sequence of ten pictures there is a coded message of great importance to me. The answer to the riddle has been left in a safety deposit box in my bank in Plymouth, to which only my wife Abigail has the key. From the moment of my death, you have six months to solve the riddle. The person who does will be given the original of the last of my pictures. If it’s not solved, it’s up to Abigail what happens to the painting.’ There was a photograph of the artist standing by an easel, moodily glaring at the camera.

  They’d become known as the Death Pictures, and the rest of the folder contained images of each of the nine so far revealed, along with notes on what had happened to them. The first original had sold for just under thirty thousand pounds, the money going to a grateful St John’s Hospice in Plymouth. From there, the values had risen fast. The final picture was expected to be worth more than a hundred thousand and there had already been countless attempts to solve the riddle. None had been successful.

  Tomorrow, Joseph McCluskey would unveil the last of the Death Pictures at his studio on Plymouth’s Barbican and Dan, along with scores of other journalists, would be there to interview him. Not just a quick chat though, as Lizzie had made clear.

  ‘I could send anyone for that,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve no idea why, but people seem to open up to you. He must be nearing his time now. I want you to do a proper interview with him, a good long and detailed one that we can use as an obituary when he does die. His wife Abi is a friend of a friend of mine. She asked if we could do something like this. She even asked for you. She said Joseph liked some of the other reports you’ve done, particularly on the Bray case. It’s a huge story, so don’t balls it up. I want it long, I want it good and I want it poignant.’

  One final note in the file, from another reporter who’d interviewed McCluskey after the unveiling of the first Death Picture. ‘Man’s an arsehole. Full of himself. Horribly arrogant. Answers questions with questions. Thinks he’s cleverer than everyone else. If interviewing, be prepared for a rough ride, and don’t bank on getting anything useful.’

  Dan rolled his neck and stared out of the bay window. Interesting. Was that why Lizzie wanted him to go? Because they hadn’t got a good interview from McCluskey in the past? He felt himself starting to look forward to the meeting.

  The doorbell buzzed. Rutherford jumped up sleepily, managed a half-hearted bark and gave Dan a questioning look. ‘Ok fella, no worries, it’s just a friend in need, lie back down,’ he reassured the dog.

  He opened the door to find Adam leaning against the wall outside. The top of his shirt was unbuttoned and his tie drooped forlornly down his neck. Dan handed him a can of Bass and he walked heavily in, taking off his suit jacket, which he flung at the coat stand. It missed.

  ‘Shall I stick a duvet on the spare bed, mate?’ asked Dan, picking the jacket up and dusting off some fluff. He must get round to doing the hoovering sometime, he thought. That, or get a cleaner in, more likely.

  Adam flopped down on the sofa and nodded.

  ‘Yeah. Duvet, bed, and some whisky beside it.’ He took a deep draw on the beer, then another, while Rutherford sniffed at his impeccably polished shoes. ‘What a bastard of a day,’ he groaned. ‘And I know there’s worse to come if we don’t get this guy soon. Much worse.’

  He couldn’t sleep. He’d expected that, but wondered why it would be. Guilt or excitement? Now, at last, he knew.

&n
bsp; His naked body cuddled up around the second of his calling cards, like a child with a precious Teddy Bear. He stroked it, his fingers toying with the plastic point of its peak, rubbed it through the tingling hairs on his chest. Those ecstatic minutes earlier wouldn’t leave his mind. They played again and again, the memory never losing its sharpness or thrill. He wouldn’t sleep at all tonight, he knew that now. He was too awake, too alive. Too eager for the next time.

  Chapter Two

  Heavy snoring was grumbling through the door of the spare room, so Dan whispered ‘shhh’ to Rutherford, slipped the lead around the dog’s neck and they edged quietly out of the front door. He could do with a good run to clear the thickness in his head after the beer and Adam’s outpourings of last night. He had a big interview to do today and wanted to feel fresh for it. He suspected he’d need to be sharp to handle Joseph McCluskey.

  April had brought with her a fine morning, the awakening topaz sky bisected by the single white vapour trail of a lonely jet. A pair of magpies hopped and chattered to each other on the roof of the garage next door, oily rainbows shining in their blue-black feathers. Wasn’t it two for joy? That’d be good, he could do with some. Spring was warming the world but there was still a nudge of chill in the air, so he broke into a jog. Rutherford matched the pace effortlessly beside him, the pads of his feet beating a soft rhythm on the tarmac.

  They headed down the hill from Hartley Avenue into Thorn Park and Dan freed Rutherford from the lead. The dog shot off through the watchful chestnut trees, skidded across the dewy crystal grass to stop to sniff a scent, ambled back, then sprinted off again, just missing his master’s legs. Dan nodded to another dog owner who smiled understandingly at Rutherford’s antics, then began running laps of the park. A couple of miles would do, to wake him up and give him time to go through the competing thoughts jostling in his mind.