The Death Pictures

by Simon Hall

  He was also the first person McCluskey had been reconciled with when the artist was diagnosed with terminal cancer. There was a photo of the two of them together, arms around each other, some quote from McCluskey about thinking of Kid as the nearest to being the son he never had. He didn’t sound much like a killer.

  ‘There’s no chance of a connection with the rapist is there?’ Dan said slowly. ‘He breaks in to houses, and in that area of the city.’

  Adam breathed out heavily, making the phone rustle.

  ‘Now you’re asking. On the face of it I’d have to say I don’t think so, but I can’t rule it out obviously. It’s something we’ll have to look at.’

  If there were a connection, it would make a very big story into a huge one, Dan thought. He couldn’t see it, the rapist attacked women alone in their homes, not men. But as Adam said, it couldn’t be ruled out.

  ‘So what are you doing now?’ asked Dan.

  ‘I’m getting a post mortem sorted, fingerprinting and forensics on the house and the knife. Results expected Monday. In the meantime, we’ll do the sweep of the crescent I told you about last night, talk to all the neighbours and see what we find out. We’ll also have a look at McCluskey’s past to see if there’s anyone who might want him dead. But if he has been murdered, it’d be the most bizarre bloody case I’ve ever handled. Who’d want to kill a man who was going to die in a few days anyway?’

  Rachel Bloom had signed herself out of hospital and was back at home. She insisted she’d had enough sympathy and wanted to get on with her life. Suzanne Stewart sat in the armchair in the lounge of her house and watched as she stalked from table to window, to kitchen, to fireplace, never quite settling wherever she stopped.

  She straightened a photo, flicked some dust off the television, shifted a vase by a couple of inches. Her movements were tentative, nervy, like a bird fearful of a cat. She wasn’t at home in her house any more, Suzanne thought. No wonder, how could she be after what had happened here? It was already on the market, no new home chosen, no possibilities even viewed. Escape was the only motive.

  Suzanne couldn’t tell her so, but her behaviour was absolutely normal for someone who’d been through such an attack. She couldn’t tell her too that it would last for weeks and months and probably years. And some never recovered.

  ‘Rachel, I’m sorry to bother you again, but I know you understand why,’ Suzanne began. ‘Are you sure you don’t know Eleanor Anderson, the other victim? Is there nowhere you could think of that you might have met? Nothing you could have in common?’

  Rachel shook her head, at the window now, smoothing the drape of a blue curtain. They’d been through all the obvious possible connections, where they shopped, went out, friends, who they socialised with, work, families, kids. Nothing had shown up. The two victims – so far, Suzanne thought, with a grimace, so far – didn’t even look alike. All they had in common was they were roughly the same age, estranged from their partners, lived in a similar part of the city and lived alone, apart from their young children. But that could be reason enough.

  If the rapist had been planning his attacks for a while, how long would it take him to follow a woman home, come back a few times, check for a man, then strike? Daytime saw thousands of women out in the city, trailing kids behind them, no wedding or engagement ring, their shopping a sure sign there was no man at home. Just stand behind them for a few seconds in a supermarket to see the food they bought, walk the same way home, catch the same bus…

  A few days perhaps to build up a little list of targets, maybe longer, depending on how many victims he stalked. And for a man like they were hunting, it wouldn’t be a chore. It would be delicious, a savoured mission. He’d enjoy every minute.

  ‘How are you feeling Rachel?’ Suzanne knew there was no point pushing her questions, she’d told them all she could. Done more really, that TV interview took some guts.

  ‘OK. A bit better.’ She was by the sofa now, chewing at a nail. The engagement ring flashed in the sunlight beaming through the window.

  ‘Where’s Martin?’ Suzanne asked.

  ‘He had to go back to work.’ There was an edge to her words. ‘He’s got a big deal on at the moment.’ She paused, stared out of the window, rubbed at an imagined mark on the glass with a sleeve. ‘They’re never there when you need them, are they?’

  So it had begun. The crumbling of the relationship. How long could it survive? Suzanne looked down at the carpet, said nothing, sensed Rachel wanted her to leave. She had nothing left to ask anyway, hadn’t expected to hear anything new, was just checking to see how she was doing. She struggled up from the enveloping chair.

  ‘If you need us, you’ve got my number.’ They’d left a mobile, programmed to call them, an emergency line. ‘We can have a squad round here in minutes.’

  Rachel was at the fireplace now, toying with her hair, folding a lock in and out of her fingers. She nodded and mumbled a low ‘thanks’.

  Back in the MIR, Suzanne went through the information they’d gathered yesterday. She stared at the racks of papers. It was quite a pile. She wasn’t afraid to admit she felt nervous, a little scared even. It was DCI Breen’s inquiry, but the High Honchos’ priorities had changed.

  They wanted him on the McCluskey case, the show attracting the big media interest. He was still nominally in charge of the rape investigation, but had made it clear he’d have little time for it, not unless there was a quick result on McCluskey. She’d sensed an anger in him about that, but she didn’t think it had anything to do with her.

  ‘It’s your inquiry now, Suzanne,’ he’d said, a hand on her shoulder. ‘And I know you’ll do great. Go get him.’

  She’d felt proud and stirred at the time, as if he’d put his personal trust in her. But now… Now she could feel the weight of the two shattered lives, the need for them to have the small compensation of justice being done, the possibility of some closure for their suffering. Look at the man who did this, try to understand why. Hate him or pity him, it didn’t matter. Either was some certainty, a help in the healing.

  And what of the thousands of anonymous, faceless, fearful women out there who could become victims if she didn’t find this man? Had they already been chosen, walking around invisibly marked, not knowing how one man planned to smash his way through their lives? The nerves jangled again. She wasn’t exactly awash with resources either. Most of the detectives had been moved over to the McCluskey case. It was down to her, the newly promoted Claire Reynolds and a few constables. At least they’d left her this room.

  So, where to start? Where would Adam Breen begin? She had a sheaf of papers detailing what the team had covered yesterday. Prioritise, she had to prioritise.

  The obvious connection between the two women was their estrangement from the fathers of their children. Eleanor had been married, the relationship lasting for six years, exactly the age of her daughter. Rachel had lived with her partner for three years before the split. Both women had been asked the necessary question. Could it have been…? A definite no in both cases, but the exes had been traced and DNA tested anyway. Both negative.

  She leafed through the papers. They said both men were bitter about the break-up of the relationships. Both had fought for custody of the kids. No chance. Unless the mother was insane or a drug addict or criminal the family courts always sided with them. Both men seemed to have accepted that and kept in regular contact, visiting their children weekly. Model parents, albeit from a distance. It was the modern way.

  Her mind wandered to the comfort of her own little relationship. Small, but growing by the day. She kept that one secret from all at work. DCI Breen had once said that if you let anyone into your private life one day you’d find it written on the toilet wall the next. Spot on, as ever. Work was work and life was life and the two had a habit of exploding when they mixed, like incompatible chemicals.

&n
bsp; She knew what some of the male detectives thought of her. ‘Lezzer’ was the word she’d overheard. She smiled grimly. Let them have their snide little jibes and gossips. Because she didn’t wear tight tops, loads of make up, flirt with them and join in their pathetic banter, she was a lezzer. No, she was a professional, and proud of it.

  * * *

  Anyway, wasn’t it better that was how they thought? At least then they left her alone. And what did they know? They wouldn’t know was the answer, certainly not how she’d met Adrian. It wasn’t easy, meeting people in her job. The hours were long and unpredictable and some men ran a mile when they found out you were a detective. But he hadn’t. A warm and caring man, handsome too in an odd way. Six months now it’d been, and going strong. She allowed herself a small, warming smile. Buying that computer had been such a good move.

  The case, back to the case. So the ex-partners were out. Where next then?

  They were looking for a trigger. Release from prison, the usual one, had shown up nothing. Anyway, they knew their man wasn’t a registered offender. His DNA profile didn’t match anyone on the database. They knew too now that he wasn’t HIV positive, one small mercy at least for his victims. Known criminals moving into the area had shown up nothing either. All the local sex offenders had been checked and ruled out.

  So they’d gone back over the local divorces and settlements, Family Court custody cases and Child Support Agency claims for the whole of the past year. It was a depressingly long list. The teams had worked through most of it yesterday, but there were still some outstanding names. They would have to be checked. That would be the priority.

  He could be in there, but then again, it was just the list of the broken relationships they knew about. If the rapist was motivated by hate for women, and it grew from a bust up with someone he was living with but had no children, it wouldn’t show up on any paperwork, would it? True, true, but that didn’t help. They’d have to start on the leads they’d got, not worry about those they didn’t have. Not yet, at least.

  Then there was Fathers for Families to be seen. The teams hadn’t got round to them yesterday, but they would have to be a priority too. Today if possible. That was enough thinking for now. Too much could overcome you. It was time for action. She picked up the phone to call Claire.

  * * *

  Lizzie was fizzing.

  ‘I knew it was going to be a good day,’ she buzzed. ‘Listening to that interview you did on the radio this morning was touching.’ Dan wasn’t taking much notice, but did she say touching? The only thing she usually found moving was a surge in the programme’s ratings.

  ‘He was quite a guy. I’m glad I decided to put you on it. I’m looking forward to seeing it,’ she went on, her thin lips almost forming a smile. ‘And the kids got off to school this morning without a single hitch. No lost lunchboxes, or coats or anything. That never happens.’

  Dan sat at his desk in the newsroom, wishing she’d leave him alone to get on with it. He wanted to start thinking about how he was going to put today’s story together. There were two separate strands. The police investigation into McCluskey’s death and the obituary. Two distinct reports probably? It seemed the best way. He noticed the doodle he was sketching on his notebook looked like the mobile in the first of the Death Pictures.

  ‘And wow, what if he has been murdered?’ He realised Lizzie hadn’t stopped. ‘What a story. The ratings will soar. Let’s hope the investigation goes on for ages, and then there’s a court case. That’d be great. I want wall-to-wall coverage. I want daily updates. I want us to be the McCluskey station. I want… Where are you going?’

  Dan hit the log out button on his computer, got up from his chair and reached for his satchel.

  ‘I’ve got to go out. We need some more filming.’ She eyed him suspiciously, a three-inch heel twisting into the long suffering carpet. He’d have to do better than that. ‘As you said, it’s a great story and I want to get on with it. I want to make sure we do the best we possibly can. I’ve got a feeling that McCluskey’s fans will have started gathering at his studio.’

  An eyebrow arched. ‘Go on then. What are you waiting for? We’ll talk again later.’

  It had become the fashion in grieving and as Nigel drove them onto the Barbican, Dan saw his guess was right. It wasn’t yet half past nine, but there was already a crowd of thirty or forty onlookers outside McCluskey’s studio. A couple hugged each other. Several people were staring up at the building in silent reflection. Others laid flowers or copies of the Death Pictures with messages attached to them. Most of the flowers were bluebells, creating a necklace of living colour around the grey stone of the studio walls.

  Dan wandered over to the surf shop while Nigel took some shots from the ground. ‘Same deal as last time?’ he asked the manager. ‘Done,’ came the instant reply. They were given a coffee each too as they looked down on the crowd which had now swollen to about a hundred. ‘Come back anytime,’ the man said as they left. ‘We had quite a few people popping in after the last report.’

  Nigel got down on his knees to film some low shots of the bluebells and prints. Dan overheard someone saying that the flowers featured in one of McCluskey’s best-known paintings. He jotted it down to check and put in his report. He read a couple of the messages while Nigel filmed, and had an idea. It was a big story. Tonight’s programme would get a great audience, so… It was only right he should appear in person.

  Dan clipped the small radio microphone onto his jacket and tucked the cigarette packet sized transmitter into an inner pocket. Nigel manipulated the receiver into place on the back of his camera. Radio microphones were great for the flexibility of being able to talk while walking around unrestricted by cables.

  ‘Hearing you loud and clear,’ called Nigel, adjusting his headphones. ‘Go ahead.’

  Dan knelt by the flowers. ‘It’s a spontaneous tribute to a much-loved artist,’ he ad-libbed. ‘Some of the messages are touching. One says simply ‘You brought colour to my life.’ It’s signed Louise. Another, ‘Your riddle has stumped me, but I’ve enjoyed many happy hours trying to crack it. Thank you. Andy.’ And here, this one, from Sue says, ‘Go paint the heavens in peace great artist.’’

  Nigel shot a couple more close-ups of the flowers and cards, then they did a quick interview with some of the people. It took three, all talking rest in peace and what a great man before Dan got what he expected. As if on cue, a young woman broke down into sobs. The image, and her words, summed up the shock and loss of the story.

  As Nigel drove them back to the studios, Dan debated what to do about Kerry. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He’d have to call her. She was expecting commitment, romance, wining and dining, and he didn’t want to. It was as simple as that.

  He looked down accusingly at his nether regions. Another fine mess you’ve got me into, he thought, shifting uncomfortably in the car’s seat. Some ‘research’ at the Waterside, with the Death Pictures and a session with El was what he fancied. But if he didn’t take Kerry out, it wouldn’t exactly look good, would it? ‘I’ve had my fun, thanks. Now goodbye,’ would be what she’d think. And would she be so wrong?

  He called her number and the phone rang. How about a compromise? Take her out tonight, get it out of the way, do the beer thing tomorrow? He’d rather have a quiet night in, but he had promised. Damn what remained of his conscience.

  ‘Hi, Kerry, it’s me.’

  ‘Hi! Great to hear from you.’

  Oh balls, he thought, she sounds delighted. But he noticed he still didn’t feel any guilt.

  ‘So, you fancy some dinner then?’ Dan thought he managed to make his voice sound passably keen.

  ‘Lovely! When?’

  ‘Tonight?’

  A slight hesitation. She’d been expecting tomorrow when she had more time to get ready, perhaps even wanted to spend some of the day w
ith him. It was what they’d done when they were newly together, enjoying the excitement of discovering each other. But that hadn’t lasted long.

  ‘I was hoping to do tomorrow so we could have more time,’ Dan added hurriedly. ‘But I’ve got to work on the McCluskey case. It’s a big story for us.’

  A familiar excuse he thought, but at least this time it contained a slice of truth.

  ‘Sure,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll get a taxi and pick you up on the way. About eight?’

  ‘Great. Look forward to seeing you.’ He was relieved to hang up.

  Dan heard a giggle building beside him. He tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t stop.

  ‘Yes, Nigel?’ he said warily.

  ‘She doesn’t know you very well, does she?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You sounded like you were arranging your own execution, not a date.’

  ‘Just drive us back to base,’ replied Dan.

  Matt Rees had been the South-west’s biggest news story for half of January. A low pressure system hung over the country and the wind and weather were being sucked in from Siberia. The temperature lurked just above freezing in the daytime, a few degrees below at night. It was the middle of the month, the time psychologists say is the most depressing of the year. The long, sweet holiday and celebrations of Christmas lingered only in extra weight on thousands of waistlines. The bills for the fortnight of excess were ominous in the post. The days were short and rejuvenating sunlight scarce. Summer was a distant and unconvincing prospect.

  Rees had added to the gloom of motorists by bringing them a New Year’s present of long and frustrating traffic jams. He’d spent 10 days on top of one of the concrete towers of the Tamar Bridge, the main road link between Devon and Cornwall, dressed as Batman. One of the three lanes had been closed in case he fell or dropped some of the tins of food he carried. The tailbacks, particularly in the rush hours, had lasted for hours. At a time of year when other stories were scarce, journalists had been secretly delighted by his protest. He’d filled hundreds of newspaper pages and hours of radio and TV airtime.