The Death Pictures

by Simon Hall

  ‘It really made an impact that did. I won’t apologise you know. I happily admit it, but I won’t apologise. It was just what we needed to get some attention to the corruption and prejudice against fathers in our system. I’m going to stand for parliament in the next election and I bet I get some good support. At the very least it’ll force the other candidates to think about children and access issues. And another thing…’

  ‘Mr Rees!’ Suzanne cut in. ‘I’ve told you. I’m not here to talk to you about that.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I thought when you said you were from the police…’

  ‘It’s your work as co-ordinator for Fathers for Families I’d like to talk to you about.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked at her again, his expression relaxing. ‘In that case, would you like a cup of tea?’

  Suzanne accepted. It would give her a break to think. He got up from the chair in the kitchen of the advertising agency in Plymouth city centre and put the kettle on. He had receding blond hair, nearly gone at the temple, and was a tall man, six feet plus. He was thin with it, almost gaunt. No superhero this, she couldn’t imagine him filling a Batman costume convincingly. No rapist either, the description didn’t match.

  ‘Mr Rees, I appreciate your help,’ she said, taking the mug, but refusing the offer of sugar. She usually liked a spoonful but had cut it out from her diet. She was trying to lose weight, keep trim for Adrian. ‘And I’d appreciate your confidence,’ she went on. ‘As I told you, we’re hunting this rapist and we believe he may have a dislike of women.’

  Suzanne leaned forwards towards him and lowered her voice like a fellow conspirator, a trick she’d learnt from Adam Breen. ‘Could you tell me if anyone has recently joined your group and seems particularly angry? Or if anyone who has been a member for a while has suddenly changed, become more embittered perhaps? Said something odd? Particularly against women?’

  Matt Rees had copied her lean forward, but now shifted back on his chair. ‘You’re asking me to talk about some of my friends here,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s difficult. I have a duty of loyalty to them, but I’d also do anything I could to help you catch this man.’

  He looked down at the ground, interlaced his fingers and stretched his hands. ‘Difficult,’ he repeated.

  Suzanne said nothing. She could see the man had something to tell her, but wasn’t sure whether he needed pushing, persuading or just being given time. An unexpected nudge of nerves hit her.

  ‘Look,’ he said, raising his head. ‘All of the people I know in Fathers for Families are non-violent. We only break the law because we feel we have no choice, and we only do so peacefully.’ She nodded, sensed this wasn’t the time to begin a debate. ‘So I think it’s OK to tell you. There is just one man I worry about. Do you need a name?’

  Suzanne nodded again, trying to disguise her excitement. She scribbled quickly on her notepad.

  ‘He’s called Will, Will Godley. He works at the dockyard. He’s always the one we have to keep an eye on. He’s been in a bitter dispute with his ex-wife over access to his sons. He’s full of rage and just lately it seems to have got worse, quite a lot worse. He’s been saying we should step up our campaign and do something that really gets noticed.’

  Matt Rees hesitated as though wondering whether to let the words go. Finally he blurted out, ‘He said it was time we showed women we can fight back against them.’

  He’d had to argue hard to hold on to both reports, but Dan didn’t want anyone else writing them. It was his story. Plus he didn’t have a great regard for the other reporters. Most of his colleagues were competent in putting facts together in a pattern, but couldn’t make the elusive jump between information and understanding. They could tell you what happened, but struggle with why it was important. He hushed the sarcastic voice in his mind that said it was because he wanted all the glory too.

  ‘Are you sure you can do both stories?’ Lizzie had asked sharply, a heel wearing away at the carpet by her desk. ‘The ratings are going to be massive tonight. I want top quality coverage. I could easily put someone else on McCluskey’s obit, or the investigation into his death.’

  Dan noticed a couple of other journalists hovering hopefully nearby. Everyone wanted a slice of the action on a big story. He edged to his left to block them from Lizzie’s view.

  ‘Absolutely. You know how fast I work. I’ve done all the interviews and filming. I know all the material. I know the story inside out. It’d be a waste of time someone else trying to get up to speed with it. I might as well go and get on with it now. I want the reports to be as good as possible, too, you know.’

  She’d studied him for a few seconds, the stiletto still scraping another hole in the patchy carpet. He could see she was wavering on a decision.

  ‘And don’t forget I’ve got the contacts with the police,’ Dan added quickly. ‘It’s me they want to shadow the investigation. It’s me they trust. If they see someone else working on the story, it might scare them off and stop us from getting any more exclusive insights into the case.’

  She’d looked at him for another second, then an eyebrow arched and he relaxed. ‘Go on then,’ Lizzie said. ‘What are you waiting for? Get on with it. But you’d better make sure they’re good.’

  The first report was on the investigation into Joseph McCluskey’s death. It began with the bluebells and messages, then had some of the people who’d come to pay their respects. Dan had discovered the bluebells were inspired by one of McCluskey’s paintings, Blue Bella, a young woman sprawled naked in a field of the flowers, one small bunch covering her modesty. The story went that the model hadn’t retained them for long enough for McCluskey to finish the painting. It had been completed from his imagination.

  Dan added his piece to camera, telling the viewers about the details on some of the messages. It was poignant, he thought. And in a big story it was only right he should appear.

  He finished the report with some of last night’s pictures of McCluskey’s house and the police activity around it, recapping on how the artist had been found dead in suspicious circumstances. Adam talked about the investigation continuing and appealed for anyone who knew anything that might help the police to come forward. It was straightforward and took Jenny an hour to cut.

  The second report was longer and needed more time. They used the material Nigel had shot of the Death Pictures, with slow, artistic mixes between the paintings. Dan added few words of his own. The story didn’t need them. It was almost all McCluskey talking about his life and how he wanted to be remembered. As Dan sat at the computer, entering the details of the two reports into the Wessex Tonight running order, he felt the excitement of the day ebb and his tiredness return. He stifled a yawn.

  He thought about the Waterside Arms and how welcome a few hours there would be. It’d been a hell of a week. He needed some recharging time. A lie in bed, a Dartmoor walk with Rutherford and a few beers would be ideal for the weekend. Then the memory of tonight’s unwanted date with Kerry intruded, like an uninvited guest. He slapped the computer mouse, spilling the remnants of a cold cup of tea. There was no way out. He’d have to go.

  It was a powerful report he thought, as he sat at home on his great blue sofa, Rutherford at his feet. He’d done McCluskey justice, whether he deserved it or not. Dan realised he still wasn’t sure about that.

  On the coffee table in front of him lay a copy of each of the Death Pictures. He missed the rest of the programme as he leafed through them, looking for clues to the solution. Still nothing came. It was only a phone call from his parents that snapped him back to reality. 7.20, time to get in the shower. Could he summon up some enthusiasm for seeing Kerry? He tried, but felt nothing except a desire to stretch out here alone, drink some beer and study the pictures. It was going to be a long night.

  Detective Chief Inspector Breen was going to be plain Adam and Dad tonight. He was due
round for dinner with Annie and a game of football in the park with Tom, and he was damn well going to make it. They were his family. They needed him and he needed them. He wasn’t running the rape inquiry any more, so he could afford to spare some time. The Assistant Chief Constable had made it clear, despite his protests.

  ‘It’s not negotiable, Adam. Get on with it.’

  ‘Sir, with respect, this rapist could strike again at any moment.’

  ‘As could McCluskey’s killer.’

  ‘It’s a totally different scenario. We don’t even know he was killed. And if there is a killer – if – we’ve got nothing that suggests he’ll do it again. It’s a simple case. This bastard rapist is different. He might as well have taken out an ad in the paper telling us he’s going to attack more women. It should be our priority.’

  ‘Other officers can handle it.’

  ‘Other officers could handle McCluskey.’

  ‘DCI Breen, let me make this even clearer. The eyes of the world are on us. You will find out what happened regarding the death of Joseph McCluskey. End of discussion.’

  OK then, that’s the way it would be. Or at least, appear to be.

  Anyway, McCluskey was effectively on hold until he got the results of the forensics and fingerprinting on Monday. Suzanne was in charge of tracking down the rapist, but with strict orders to call if there were any developments. She understood that didn’t need to be mentioned to anyone else. So for now it was time for his family. He hadn’t managed to see them over these last few hectic days. If he was ever going to escape that cold and detested flat then some relationship repair work was needed.

  As he drove the five minutes from Charles Cross to Peverell, he tried to force himself to think like a family man. He concentrated on Annie and Tom, imagined their faces smiling to see him. He trapped the spinning football, sent a shot at Tom, the boy diving to block it. He poured a glass of wine for Annie, chopped herbs next to her in the kitchen. She scooped them up, dropped them in the casserole, planted a kiss on his cheek.

  But a dark, silhouetted figure lurked in the background. A figure without a face. A shape that breaks into women’s homes and attacks them as they sit watching soap operas. Rapes and traumatises them.

  Adam noticed the car’s speed creeping up. His hands were gripping hard at the wheel, the fingers whitening. He’d get this man, whatever his bosses told him about priorities. He’d get him, even if he had to DNA test the whole damn city.

  Surely the McCluskey case wouldn’t take long anyway? It looked straightforward enough. Verdict: McCluskey had committed suicide. He had cancer, was in pain and didn’t have long to live. It made perfect sense.

  That attempted break in was just a distraction. It could have been some hopeless drug addict trying their luck, or a burglar who’d been frightened off. Perhaps even someone trying to find a clue to the riddle. It was a coincidence, nothing more.

  He turned the car around the corner into Rosslyn Park Road. Careful though, careful, he thought. You’re a professional. Don’t prejudge, don’t want the case to be over before you’ve looked at it thoroughly.

  The real concern was what Abi McCluskey had said. She was sure Joseph wouldn’t have killed himself without telling her. But could they rely on that? She’d have to be interviewed again, and in detail. She was distraught and couldn’t tell them much so far. They knew Joseph had other women, something she admitted herself. Did she really know him that well? It looked as though he’d deliberately chosen a time when she’d be out to take his life. And that he would be found by a friend rather than her. To minimise her distress perhaps?

  Adam inched the car into a space, trying not to nudge the van behind. Curtains were twitching. They always did in this neighbourhood. It was pleasant but nosey, classic middle class. He grabbed the bottle of red wine he’d brought, locked the car and turned to catch Tom as he bounded down the path. Annie stood in the doorway, smiling.

  Enough of work. All that was for Monday. For now, it was football in the park and when Tom was in bed, dinner. And perhaps a romantic night too, depending on how it went. Perhaps.

  * * *

  ‘You’re a selfish bastard arsehole.’

  It wasn’t quite a scream, but her voice was loud and acidic and heads were turning.

  ‘Kerry, can you just keep it down a bit please,’ Dan pleaded. Her face darkened and her lips thinned further, just red lines now. ‘Please,’ he repeated.

  ‘What, so you can hold on to your reputation as a nice guy, eh? So people don’t start talking about that bloke off the TV, and how he had a row and his woman went storming out on him. Is that all you care about? Well bollocks to you!’

  Dan looked around him. They were getting glances in that sly way people have of being irresistibly interested, but not wanting to look.

  The ground floor of Etrusco’s Tapas Bar wasn’t full, but there were still about 30 people dining. Worse, it was one of those places where they cram diners in to maximise profits. Their window table was separated by only a couple of feet from their neighbours, a polite and now increasingly embarrassed-looking older couple. The only opportunity to have a private conversation in this place was the new lovers’ way of leaning forward to talk cheek to cheek. There was no chance of that. They were at the opposite end of their relationship. Both sat stiff and upright, arms crossed, faces set hard.

  Kerry’s finger jabbed out at him. ‘You’re a selfish, selfish bastard. And you’re screwed up too. I was stupid enough to think I could help you. I don’t know why I bothered.’

  The woman next to them cleared her throat, got up and headed towards the toilet. Dan caught a look from the man. He thought he saw a fleeting wink of sympathy.

  ‘You just used me, didn’t you?’ Her voice was growing louder again. ‘The other night I mean? You never had any intention of us getting back together! You just wanted a shag!’

  ‘Shhh’, he said hopefully.

  ‘No I will not fucking shhh! It’s about time more people knew what you were like. A shag’s OK eh? That’s fine. But not a relationship. You haven’t got the guts for that. It’s OK when you fancy a quickie, but any form of commitment’s totally beyond you isn’t it?’

  The waitress arrived and hovered uncertainly. She was a young woman, perhaps nineteen or twenty, possibly a student working her way through her degree. She probably hadn’t been through any break ups like this yet. Well, her time would come. ‘No sweets, thanks, just the bill,’ Dan said as politely as he could. She disappeared gratefully.

  Still, at least he’d got the timing more or less right. He knew he was going to have to pay and he wanted to enjoy his meal before the outbreak of hostilities. So he’d told Kerry just as they were finishing their fajitas. The result was predictable. It was just as well he didn’t fancy a pudding.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, but it’s the way I feel,’ Dan managed as soothingly as he could. ‘I tried my very best to give it a go, but it just hasn’t worked for me. I might as well be honest about it.’

  ‘It didn’t stop you giving it another go last week, did it?’

  He knew he’d come to regret that. It wasn’t the first time he’d got himself into such trouble. But what man can’t say that? And anyway, wasn’t there some hypocrisy here? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t wanted to see him. He could feel himself starting to absorb her anger.

  ‘Hang on!’ he growled. ‘I didn’t exactly force you! You seemed pretty keen!’

  There was a sharp cough from the woman next to them. Newly returned from the toilet, she looked as though she wished she’d stayed there.

  ‘I thought we were getting back together!’ Kerry’s voice was louder now, on the verge of a shriek. It was carrying beautifully across the whole restaurant. More heads turned.

  Dan lowered his voice to a whisper, hoping she would quieten too. ‘I never said that.’

/>   ‘Oh no, you wouldn’t would you?’ Kerry shouted. ‘Because it’d spoil your fun, wouldn’t it?! Well fuck you!’ She scraped back her chair, sprung up, and stamped out of the door, her shoes crashing an angry rhythm on the wooden floor.

  Everyone was looking at him now. I wouldn’t be surprised to be featured in the Standard’s gossip column tomorrow, Dan thought resignedly. Other people’s bust-ups were such good entertainment.

  He squirmed a little in his seat, sighed, and gave a mental shrug. What can you do but tough it out? He glanced around the room with what he hoped was his best sheepish half smile. There were some looks of amusement and sympathy from the men, some accusing glares from the women, and some stares of bafflement. But then – thankfully – after what felt like hours, the interest began to wane and the diners returned to their food and conversations. The show was over.

  The bill arrived, the waitress looking more relaxed now he was alone. She was cute when she smiled. Fifty-four pounds. Expensive for a public humiliation he thought, as he gave her his credit card. Dan added a good tip to compensate for her embarrassment and managed to stop himself from asking for her phone number.

  So, what to do now? Part of him said go home, have a whisky or two, watch a film and relax. The other part said he was in town now, so why let Kerry spoil the evening? Find some friends and do some drinking.

  It was an uneven contest. He drew back his chair as quietly as he could and slipped out of the restaurant. He began walking down towards the honey-pot of bars on the Barbican. He’d find sympathetic company and drinking mates there.

  Dan typed out a text message as he walked under the streetlights of Royal Parade. ‘If anyone’s out on the beer in town tonight, and doesn’t mind a wandering journalist for company, please say now. DG.’