The Death Pictures

by Simon Hall

  Adam raised his voice again. ‘So go for it team, and remember. We’re up against the clock on this one. We’ve got an embittered man out there who plans his crimes and fully intends to continue with his game. It’s a game which wrecks lives. He won’t stop, so we’ve got to stop him. He’s taking the mickey out of us and I know you’re not going to stand for that. So let’s go get him. I don’t want to be standing here again telling you about victim number three. If I am, we’ve failed.’

  To freshen his report for the lunchtime news and Wessex Tonight, Dan and Nigel went filming some of the remaining house-to-house inquiries. ‘Do some chats with local people too,’ Lizzie had said, a four inch stiletto grinding into the long-suffering newsroom carpet. She was never satisfied. They were the only ones who had the interview with Rachel, yet still she wanted more. Dan sometimes thought of her as like a nest of baby birds. No matter how many juicy worms you brought, the beaks were still open and squawking, always wanting more.

  The thought cheered him and eased his tiredness. One man wanted to know what was in it for him if he was interviewed. Dan wrote ‘Present this for 10% off your next TV set’ on the back of one of his business cards and signed it. The man laughed and talked about his fears for his 15-year-old daughter and how he insisted on giving her a lift everywhere now. The poor teenager must be chewing glass with embarrassment, Dan thought, being delivered to meet her cool friends in Dad’s rusting Ford Estate. But it was a good interview. It made the point.

  Another man gave them the familiar earful of abuse about being parasites. It was an occupational hazard of being a reporter. Dan couldn’t be bothered to argue, just told him he quite understood and that when he got back to the studios he would tell the engineers to lock out the TV signal to his house if it was such an evil. He left the man at his gate, glancing up at the aerial on his roof and looking an entertaining mix of angry and worried. Suddenly he was feeling better.

  He did a little address to camera himself with the police inquiries going on in the background. To stamp his authority on the story was the official reason, to grab his slice of the glory was the truth. Many a beer he’d been bought on a night out just for being on the TV. He told the viewers how to contact the police if they had information, through the Crimestoppers number or direct to the MIR at Charles Cross. The graphics unit could generate the number to appear across the bottom of the screen as he talked.

  Nigel drove them back to base, and Dan found his mind again drifting to the Death Pictures. Could the riddle be something to do with the Waterside pub? It featured heavily, after all. It was almost the weekend and perhaps Saturday would be well spent with a research visit?

  He could pick up copies of all the pictures in town, get a paper too, take the water taxi across the River Plym to Turnchapel, then sit, read and think. If he timed it right, he could spend a few quiet hours in the afternoon getting nicely lubricated, see what he came up with, then be in the mood for the live music they had on a Saturday evening.

  The last time there’d been an Elvis impersonator, and didn’t he get up on stage to help perform that version of ‘I Just Can’t Help Believing’? It was a memory he’d buried, and no wonder. All he could remember was a mass of laughing faces. It was always a bad sign when you got a text message from your friends in the morning saying ‘Do you remember what you did last night?’

  Yes, the Waterside sounded like a fine idea for Saturday. But then he remembered, he’d promised to take Kerry out. A surge of annoyance needled him. But it was his own fault, wasn’t it?

  The edit was simple. The new pictures they’d just shot first, the house-to-house inquiries going on and commentary from Dan about investigations continuing. Then a long stretch of the interview with Rachel. After that, some pictures of the night time patrols, then a clip of Adam, finally his piece to camera.

  Lizzie bustled in to the edit suite to watch the report and professed herself ‘pleased’, quite an accolade. She’d changed her shoes and her heels were lower, perhaps only a couple of inches. She kept around half a dozen pairs in a cupboard in her office and had been known to change them several times a day. Dan wondered what had happened to improve her mood. Good viewing figures for last night’s programme was the most likely explanation. She always spent fifteen minutes at lunchtime studying the overnight figures. If she was feeling mellow, perhaps he could he push his luck?

  ‘Lizzie, I was up most of last night covering the story and I’m feeling whacked. I was wondering if…’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ she cut in. ‘I wouldn’t want to burn you out. You never know, we might need you. We’ll call you if anything comes up. Don’t turn your mobile off.’

  He made for his car before she changed her mind, drove back to the flat and was greeted by the ecstatic ball of flying fur and yelping that was Rutherford. He was planning to have a sleep but didn’t feel too bad, so he decided to take the dog for a run and pick up a copy of the Death Pictures. He could always go to bed early tonight. Rutherford deserved some fuss and he wanted to start thinking seriously about McCluskey’s riddle. The postman had been and Rutherford had chewed a couple of the letters. Dan was amused to see it was only the bills he’d attacked.

  He changed into his trainers, shorts and old polo shirt, trying to ignore the smell of stale sweat. He’d have to do some washing soon. Maybe if he charmed a cleaner, she could help with that. They jogged down the hill to the shops on Mutley Plain.

  ‘Rape Victim Speaks out,’ was the banner headline on one of the Standard billboards. Dan stopped and scanned the paper. They’d lifted all the quotes from his interview with Rachel. He wasn’t annoyed. Imitation was flattery, and cannibalism was one of the most common ways journalists found stories. He’d been tipped off by enough of their reports. The newsagents also had a folder of the Death Pictures as they’d been set out in McCluskey’s studio, so he bought one. The quality of the colours was poor, but the detail and the numbers were clear enough. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking the numbers were the key. Why would they be there otherwise?

  They ran back up the hill and into Hartley Park, found a stick and played the fetch game for ten minutes while Dan got his breath back. A Dalmatian came sniffing over to Rutherford, who treated her with lofty disdain. At least one of us has some discipline with women, he thought.

  ‘Go on boy, don’t upset her, she’s keen,’ he shouted at his dog, who came trotting back over with a total lack of interest. Shame, he thought, an Alsatian-Dalmatian crossbreed would be quite a sight.

  Back at the flat, Dan took Rutherford down into the garden to brush him. His guilt at neglecting his friend waned as the dog’s eyelids drooped in ecstasy and he began that funny low whine of delight. A gang of sparrows squabbled noisily in the pine tree at the end of the lawn.

  Tea was a cheese and ham frozen pizza, which tasted of nothing. He must get to the supermarket sometime soon, he thought. But where was the time? A chore like that would always be at the bottom of the list of things to do. The evening passed easily, Wessex Tonight and his report, lead story again. No matter how many times it happened, he always enjoyed watching himself on the television. Then it was Cream on the stereo, a contented dog at his feet and some looking through the Death Pictures. It scarcely mattered that he had no meaningful thoughts of any kind about the solution to the riddle.

  At about half past eight, Dan decided to have a relaxing bath and then an early night. He ironed a china blue shirt for tomorrow while it ran. Most of his shirts were varying shades of blue. They went best with his eyes, so a past girlfriend had said. Her words had always stuck with him. It was odd how little things like that sometimes did.

  Just as the tub was full and topped with foaming bubbles his mobile rang. Adam. He knew it was trouble before he answered, could sense it. The evening had been too simple and pleasant.

  ‘Dan, can’t speak for long but you’d better get moving.’

 
; ‘Another rape?’

  A brief pause. ‘No, thank God, it’s not a rape. It’s McCluskey. He’s dead. In his bath. Wrists cut.’

  Dan felt his body tense. He pulled the plug out of the untouched bath and made for his bedroom and the clothes he’d laid out for the morning.

  ‘In the bath you say? Suicide?’

  Another pause. ‘It looks like it. But I’m not sure. His wife says definitely not. She’s distraught. And there’s evidence of a break-in. A window’s been forced.’

  Chapter Six

  Dan secretly thought of it as his equivalent of those dashing young World War II pilots, hearing the wailing of the siren and sprinting from their mess room, across the airfield grass and into the waiting Spitfires. He knew it was ridiculous, that his little rush to a breaking news story didn’t come anywhere near comparison with the bravery and sacrifice of those who’d died for his freedom, however he couldn’t help but like the image and it was an analogy that always drifted into his mind whenever a scramble call came through. Dan pulled on the newly ironed shirt and some trousers and wedged his mobile under his chin.

  He had a well-planned procedure, all about priorities. First, the call to Nigel. He could do nothing without his cameraman.

  ‘Urgent story, central Plymouth. Get going, will call you en route with details and directions,’ was all Dan needed to say.

  ‘On my way,’ came the reply.

  Then Rutherford into the garden for a wee. You never knew when you’d be coming back. The dog could hold out for up to twelve hours, plenty of time to call his downstairs neighbour if Dan was going to be away for longer. Grab his satchel and into the car. He always kept a coat, maps, some snacks and water in the boot, along with a basic overnight bag. There was a black tie and jacket too, in case the scramble was a Royal death. He could call the newsroom on the way to let them know what was happening, but the priority was to get to the scene.

  It was only a few minutes to Royal Gardens. Dan remembered nothing of the drive, his mind full of Joseph McCluskey and what could have happened to him. Was it something to do with the riddle of the Death Pictures? Whatever, it was going to be a hell of a story. He’d heard the panic at the end of the line when he’d called the newsroom to tell them.

  A line of three police cars and a van were parked untidily in the road, a cordon of blue tape already set up around the house, a couple of constables on sentry duty. Dan pulled up opposite and clambered out of the car.

  A gang of neighbours had gathered at the end of the street, some pointing, some shaking their heads. The number of police here said the death of Joseph McCluskey certainly wasn’t being treated as suicide. Dan checked his watch. 8.45 it read, so it was probably just before nine. The outside broadcast van was on the way, a report and live broadcast demanded for the 10.25 bulletin. They’d have to shift.

  A familiar face bobbed up from behind a car, a camera slung around his neck. Dirty El, grinning as ever at the scent of a big story. Dan had expected him to be first on the scene. He was a keen scanner of police radio frequencies.

  ‘Evening, El. So what’s the low-down? Doesn’t look like a suicide to me.’

  The smile broadened.

  ‘Suicide my arse,’ said the photographer gleefully. ‘They’ve scrambled a load of detectives and all the Scenes of Crimes lot, along with forensics. Kerching! El can hear the cash register calling.’

  As if on cue, a couple of white-overalled figures emerged from the door of the house, knelt down and started checking over the porch. Their fingers brushed across the steps and probed the cracks in the paving. They were frozen in jerky strobes of flashlight as El instinctively raised his camera and loosed off a series of snaps.

  Two cars pulled up fast, a journalist from the Standard and another from the Western Daily News. The pack was gathering. Word got around fast on a big story like this. Dan heard a familiar voice and turned, saw Nigel jump out of his car, run around to the boot, fish his camera out, hoist it onto his shoulder and come running over in time to get some shots of the forensics men. Dan stood behind him, watching his back. They could work up a plan in a minute. For now, they’d see what pictures they could get.

  The white-suited figures rose and walked carefully back inside. Nigel put down his camera and turned to Dan, who couldn’t help but burst out laughing. He was wearing a blue, paisley swirled pyjama top.

  ‘You said scramble, so I scrambled,’ Nigel said huffily. ‘I’ve got a T shirt in the car.’

  Dan patted his friend’s shoulder and just about managed to control his laughter. ‘Thanks for moving so fast,’ he said soothingly. They walked back to the Renault to get the tripod and microphone and give Nigel a chance to change. Dan tried Adam’s number as he stood by the car, but it was engaged.

  ‘We don’t know much, apart from that McCluskey is dead and although it looks like a classic suicide, there are some suspicious circumstances,’ he said, as they walked back to the edge of the cordon. ‘So whatever it is, we’ve got a story. If he’s killed himself, it’s just a big one. If it looks like he’s been murdered, it’s very big indeed.’

  ‘Understood,’ replied Nigel, slotting his camera onto the tripod and pointing it at McCluskey’s house. ‘What’s the plan then?’

  ‘The outside broadcast truck will be here in a minute. We’ve got to cut a report and do a live bit.’

  They’d got enough pictures of the scene, Dan thought. A few bits of interview would be useful, even if it was just neighbours voicing shock. They walked over to the gang of onlookers and got a couple of clips of exactly what he’d expected, ‘Oh, it’s terrible something like that could have happened here. Who’d have thought it? Such a lovely man.’

  As he finished the interviews, Dan noticed a flash of colour lingering at his side. Loud Jim Stone, the outside broadcast engineer had, arrived. ‘I was about to go off shift,’ he grumbled through the thicket of his twitching beard. ‘Bloody inconvenient time for a death.’

  Dan hid a smile. Loud’s nickname came from his love of wearing Hawaiian shirts and his unrelenting grumpiness. In full, it was ‘Loud and Furrow-Browed’, but it was usually shortened for simplicity.

  ‘Yeah, I was just about to get in a bath,’ Dan replied. ‘But we’re stuck with it, Jim, so we’d better get on with it. Park the truck as close as you can to the cordon and set up the satellite link. We’ve got to edit a report and do a live.’

  He checked Nigel’s watch. Nine twenty. Allow 20 minutes for the edit, another 10 to get ready to go on air. That gave them about another half hour’s filming. ‘I’ll be in the truck by ten at the latest.’ Loud huffed again and lumbered sulkily back to the van. Dan thought he looked like a caveman with a toothache.

  They rejoined the pack. All the journalists were comparing speculation and rumours. It always happened on a big story. What they didn’t know, they invented, and usually with wishful thinking. The Standard reporter told them he’d heard McCluskey had been knifed by someone who’d knocked at the door and went mad when the artist refused to give him another clue to the riddle. Dan replied he thought it was a harpoon.

  What they really needed now was some reliable information and a brief interview with Adam. Dan could call him, but knew the detective would be busy setting up the initial investigation and would come out when he could. Give it a few minutes.

  El was back, beaming this time. He beckoned to Dan who stepped away from the pack to share the secret. The paparazzo loved mystery.

  ‘What have you got then?’ asked Dan.

  ‘A double whammy I think you’d call it mate. I’m in clover.’

  Dan had long given up trying to interpret El speak. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Got a lovely snap round the back. All the lights are on and I got some silhouettes of what looks like forensics people through the frosted glass of the bathroom. That’ll be worth hundreds to the nati
onals.’

  ‘How’d you get round the back? Haven’t the cops got it all sealed off?’

  El bounced from foot to foot as if he was about to lift off.

  ‘Yeah. But I knocked on a neighbour’s door and asked if I could use their garden. And they wanted to know what was in it for them?’

  ‘I dread to ask,’ said Dan, ‘but what did you tell them?’

  ‘I saw a wedding list in the hall. Their daughter’s getting married. So I asked if they’d got a photographer and the bloke said no, not yet, they’re so bloody expensive, hundreds of quid a go. I offered El’s services for nothing more than a few beers at the do and the use of their premises now. They couldn’t get me into the garden fast enough.’

  El cradled his camera like a Crusader with a holy relic. He began warbling a tune to himself, grinning all the while. Dan sensed one of the photographer’s bizarre and usually dreadful limericks was about to be born. After a few seconds thought, El spread his arms in the manner of a thespian and burbled,

  ‘There once was a snapper named El,

  Who was devious and scurrilous as hell,

  He spotted a tree,

  Thought – that’s for me,

  And clicked off some piccies darned swell!’

  Dan just shook his head.

  ‘Got to be off now, going to file the snaps, and collect the cash,’ El chirped. ‘Wanna meet for a beer at the weekend?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied Dan. El was generous with his money when he’d had a good week and a blow out sounded great. Then he remembered Kerry and the date he’d promised. Well, he could work something out. Probably. But he knew what would give if he couldn’t.

  ‘Hang on El, you said a double whammy. What was the other bit?’ Dan asked.