The Death Pictures

by Simon Hall

  He forwarded it to all possible accomplices in his numbers list. Within five minutes, three responses came back. He decided to go to Bigwigs bar, just down from the law courts where a group of barristers were having what they called a quiet drink. Dan had never seen lawyers have a quiet drink in their lives. The cheering and shouting he could hear from a hundred yards away confirmed his suspicion. It would suit him perfectly. He was feeling bloody-minded and in a mood to drink himself into surrender.

  He woke the next morning with a throbbing head and the flat heavy with the smell of a greasy kebab. Bad news. He had two measures of being drunk. If he started to think he could dance, or if he fancied a kebab, he knew he should go home. The thought that he’d ignored his own rule cheered him. He smiled, then winced as his headache pounded with renewed enthusiasm. It felt like a pneumatic drill hammering in his mind.

  He got up to find some tablets in the bathroom and slurped gratefully at the cold tap as he swallowed them. His mouth felt painfully dry. The TV was on in the lounge so he switched it off, retrieved his shirt from the back of the door, noted the beer and chilli sauce stains and threw it in the washing bin. He let Rutherford out into the garden, then went back to bed. It was only nine o’clock. He was planning to get to the Waterside for mid afternoon. El would join him later.

  He suffered a nudge of guilt for the thought, but he felt liberated and light with relief. Kerry was a good woman, just not good for him. He slept on with a smile.

  Chapter Eight

  Dan had never believed in an afterlife. He’d been brought up without religion and was young enough not to have thought seriously about it. He tended to see it as something older people did, often more in hope than belief.

  He could understand why. It was a chance of something where otherwise there was darkness, void, silence and vacuum, simply cold, frightening nothing. But as he sat in the Waterside Arms, a pint of ale in hand, he found himself hoping there was an afterlife and that Joseph McCluskey had settled in comfortably. Because if there was, he would be rocking back and forth in a fine chair and laughing himself stupid, at him, Dan, and the thousands of others he could watch hopelessly trying to solve the riddle of the Death Pictures. The joke was very much on them.

  He’d been going through the prints for an hour now and his progress was summed up by the sheet of paper on the table in front of him. It was optimistically headed, ‘Death Pictures ideas,’ but apart from that it was blank.

  There were clues in there, he was sure of that. McCluskey had promised it and Dan believed him. But he’d hidden them amongst a mass of distractions and deviousness, and one pint in Dan had no idea what the answer could be. The numbers kept nagging at his mind. Why else would they be there? But he couldn’t see any hint of a pattern in them. There was just one thing to do. A time-honoured solution. Another pint.

  Barry the landlord stood behind the bar. Dan settled on one of the wooden stools and reached out to stroke the weatherbeaten black and white cat curled up on the neighbouring seat.

  ‘Any ideas what McCluskey’s picture in here means?’ Dan asked.

  Barry grinned as he pulled the pint. It frothed darkly into the welcoming glass. Dan wasn’t planning to have such a feisty beer so early, but his brain was being sullen and unforthcoming and needed a kick.

  ‘Not a clue,’ replied the landlord. In one way I wish I did have. I wouldn’t mind that picture. In another I’m glad I don’t and hope no one else does either. I can’t count how many new customers we’ve had come in ask that very question. It’s been great for business.’

  Dan sipped an inch off his beer and wandered over to the dartboard. Picture five, a double two, a nine, a 13 and a bull’s eye. Three cherries on the fruit machine next to it. Some hints that something here would be a winner? He stared at the board, aware a couple of people in the pub were watching him and smiling. Locals, they’d seen this routine more than a few times no doubt.

  Assume the bull’s eye means this picture is on target, so take that away. A double two then, could that mean 22? Or just four? Then the nine and 13. Or could it be the whole lot, making 224 913? That was more like it. It sounded like a grid reference, but for where? And what? Some landmark? A place something was buried or hidden? He’d have to check the office Ordnance Survey maps when he got back to work. He sat back down at the table, glad at last to have one idea to mark down on his paper.

  Back to the start, picture one. Who was the flame haired woman? That was one for El, they could talk about it later. And why was she riding a mobile phone? Was it a confirmation that numbers were important, that they would carry you somewhere? And what about that number on the phone, the Plymouth code followed by 225? Another part of a grid reference? Or could it mean Plymouth, two to five? What could that indicate? Postcodes? PL2 to PL5? Perhaps that could link in with the grid references to give a location? He noted the idea down, with an admiring glance at the beer. No one could ever tell him it wasn’t inspirational stuff.

  Picture two then. That would take a bit more work, as it seemed to show a place. Dan was sure it was somewhere on the west of Dartmoor, the scene an annoyingly familiar one. He still had friends among the Rangers in the National Park Authority from his days covering the environment. He could ask them. But what about the symbolism in the picture?

  Could the vicar indicate some religious connection? Dartmoor was full of ancient sacred sites. There was even a church on the top of Brent Tor. Why was he pointing at that plane? Goodbye number one... Could that simply be a reference to Abi, a way of saying farewell? Or did it mean remove a one from some numbers in the picture? But there were no numbers in this one, so the previous picture perhaps? And what did the digging dog indicate? That something was buried on the moor? In that location, or somewhere else defined by the grid references he might have uncovered? Ideas, ideas... Dan knew he was flailing around, but at least he had some ideas.

  The street in number three didn’t look familiar, but he was willing to bet it existed somewhere in Plymouth. McCluskey had planned his little game carefully. Could that mean it was important? And if so, how the hell to find it? Could the postcodes from picture one help? There was a jumble of letters and numbers on the cars. Did they mean anything? And what of the chough? It was the symbol of Cornwall, so perhaps a clue that the answer was in the county? Could that tie in with some of the numbers, another indication of a grid reference?

  Dan wondered if the child lifting the manhole cover was symbolic of discovery. But discovering what? Surely it’d be too literal for something to be hidden under that cover? He jotted the thoughts down for more research when he got back to work.

  Number four reminded him of Salvador Dali’s painting, The Persistence of Memory. Was that deliberate? A cryptic way of saying forget it? Again he saw grid references, the snake perhaps signifying an S, the 9.15 on the clock giving the number. If so, where was the other half of the coordinates? In one of the other pictures? Dan sat back from the table and shook his head. Talking of puzzles, his glass had mysteriously emptied itself. Thinking was thirsty work.

  ‘Getting anywhere?’ Barry asked, scratching his balding crown.

  ‘Not that I can tell,’ replied Dan thoughtfully. ‘The man knew how to set a puzzle.’ He tasted the beer. ‘Mmmm, excellent.’ He had another sip. Better take it easy, he wouldn’t make the evening at this rate.

  ‘You could help me with something, though,’ Dan went on. He walked back over to the table, returned and showed the landlord the pictures of the two women, the redhead and the blonde. ‘Any idea who they are? My mate’s trying to trace them.’

  Barry shook his head. ‘A couple of his women?’ he said. ‘McCluskey used to come in here every month or so, but he was always on his own. I’ve no idea I’m afraid. It’s a pity, I wouldn’t mind seeing ladies like that here.’

  Dan couldn’t help but agree. There had only been a pitifully small rash of guilt fr
om last night with Kerry, and it had cleared up already. His brain had obviously adjusted to being back on the market. He imagined himself with a ‘For Sale,’ sign around his neck. Or perhaps ‘To Let,’ might be more appropriate, given what she’d said about his attitude to commitment.

  On to painting six, the blonde woman. More numbers here, the bingo ones. Grid references again? But there were seven numbers. Was it meant to read 222 to 739? That would be a hell of a spread. Or was it a six-figure reference, with one of the numbers designed to mislead? And then there was the ‘It’s a Fiddle’, headline. A clue the answer wasn’t here? And what about the boat? Did the 98 refer to a page number? But a page of what? The bible was the classical answer when dealing with codes designed around books. But religion and McCluskey? It didn’t sound likely. Well, it was worth a look. He’d have to check when he got home.

  Abi dominated painting seven, crying for the loss of her husband? Key 09 on her shirt was interesting, perhaps another page number? Or more cunning than that, how about Quay 09? How many quays were there in Plymouth’s harbours? Or one quay with a mooring number nine? And was there a boat there with a number 98 on it? He liked the sound of that idea, probably his best yet. Mind you, there wasn’t a great deal of competition.

  Dan drummed his fingers on the table and stared at the sleeping cat. He was about to get up to visit the toilet when his phone rang. Adam.

  ‘Dan mate, just a quick call.’ He was whispering, his voice echoing. It sounded like he was talking from inside a tin box.

  ‘Where are you?’ Dan asked, pressing the phone closer to his ear. ‘The signal’s awful.’

  ‘I’m in the toilet at home. I mean old home, Annie’s. Listen, I’ve only got a few seconds so I wanted to let you know. There’s been another rape, the same guy. He left another witch’s hat.’

  Dan grabbed his notebook. ‘Where? When?’

  ‘Plymouth again, this morning. It’s a different area this time though, down in Stonehouse. A couple of miles from the others. It’s another young woman with a kid. The boy was away spending the weekend with his dad, thankfully. Suzanne’s handling it. I’ve got to go mate. Call me Monday morning.’

  There was the sound of a toilet flushing, then the line went dead.

  Dan rang the newsroom and passed on the details. They could cover it. He deserved some time off after last week. Besides, there were only very short bulletins on a Saturday, he’d had a couple of beers, couldn’t drive and didn’t want to be handling a story like that without a clear head. Well, that was what he told them and the excuse seemed to work. It was lucky Lizzie was on holiday for the weekend or he’d never have got away with it.

  Another rape. That was three of six then, the man half way through his mission, despite the efforts of the police. The women of Plymouth would be in a state of fear, jumping at every creak in their own homes. They’d have to get this guy, and soon. Just what Adam was thinking no doubt, sat secretly in the toilet at Annie’s, trying to coordinate the investigation while pretending his attention was devoted to his family.

  How had the man managed to strike again, evade the extra police patrols? Simple. He’d chosen a different area of the city this time and carried out his attack when most attention was on McCluskey’s place and the possibility of him being murdered. What to conclude from that? Simple again. He’d planned his attacks well. He must have known the police would be putting officers into the area where he’d struck twice and so he’d moved on to somewhere else.

  He’d had some luck too, taken advantage of the McCluskey distraction. That was, if he was nothing to do with McCluskey’s death. The police hadn’t ruled that out, had they?

  Enough of work, this was the weekend and he had some beer to drink. Dan got up, walked across to the bar and pondered the pumps. He asked for a pint of water as well; the beer was going down too fast. He needed something to check its befuddling passage into his head.

  Back to the Death Pictures then, while he could still think reasonably clearly. Three more to go.

  Number eight was baffling. There was no other word for it. What was a goldfish tank to do with anything? Some symbolism of it being a world and McCluskey fishing around in it? And those soldiers? Was he looking for a castle or stately home with some kind of military history? Dan let out a long sigh. Under the heading Picture 8 on his piece of paper he wrote ‘no bloody idea’. At least it was an honest answer.

  Number nine was equally impenetrable. Numbers again, it all seemed to revolve around the numbers. The clock said five to ten. Was that supposed to mean 5210? Could that be some kind of combination, or PIN number? If so, to what? Something hinted at in one of the other pictures? But what? And why was there no 11 or 12 on the clock? A pointer to some place where there were no such numbers? A street perhaps? But where? What kind of street would have numbers 11 and 12 missing? One preserved with the bomb damage of the war?

  There were such places in Plymouth he knew, but couldn’t remember where. And what did the chessboard mean? Some sort of game? Or just McCluskey’s playing with the rest of the world? Dan took another deep draw of beer and, with an afterthought, some water too. The cat stretched, hopped down from the stool and slid out of the pub’s back door.

  So to the last picture. Good job he thought, he’d had enough of McCluskey’s riddles. It was clear there were two self-portraits here and there was another clock too. Indicating time was running out on him? It said five to 12. Did that mean 5212? Another possible combination? But again, to what? And what did the planets below the young McCluskey and above the older version mean? Symbolism of the passage of time, one day the world at his feet, the next it’s beaten him? And what did that river of numbers at the bottom of the picture indicate? He couldn’t see any patterns in there at all.

  Dan pushed the pictures away. He sat back on his chair and drank some more beer. Enough.

  Had he made any progress? He had one or two ideas, but… The word no kept coming back to him. It was joined by an annoying vision of McCluskey reclining in a Sedan chair, at a fireside in a warm and comfortable heaven, looking down at him and laughing helplessly.

  Enough. Time for some easier puzzles, like what beer to have next and what pie from the excellent home cooked menu. Probably the minty lamb he thought, and with chips too. It was the weekend after all. Maybe even a pudding to follow. He didn’t get one last night after that screaming match with Kerry. His brain needed fuelling after all this thinking, however ineffectual.

  Every boat trip brought back a hated memory. Dan had been on a brief school holiday to France when he was ten years old and it still ranked as one of his top five worst experiences. The seas were mountainous and the eight hours on the water had all been spent vomiting. The deck was freezing cold and soaked in rain and sticky sea spray, but he’d had no option other than to stand there and wait for the next bout of retching. It’d taken days to recover and was still a living memory, more than a generation on. But he enjoyed the water taxi ride back from Turnchapel to the Barbican. It helped sober him up.

  It was coming up to eight o’clock and the sky had dimmed to an inky velvet. Green and red jewels of navigation lights shone and shimmered in the oily water. The boat chugged in its acrid fog of diesel fumes. Two swashes of waves from its prow cast a cone of white in its wake. Dan registered the handful of other passengers pulling coats up around their necks, but he didn’t feel cold. Beer was a wonderful insulator.

  Two tower blocks of flats shone with chessboard patterns of window lights at the Barbican’s southern edge. He stood up from the boat’s hard wooden bench and gazed out across Plymouth Sound. The silhouette of Drake’s Island rose like a dark fist breaking from the steely water. A sleek warship slipped menacingly alongside, as if guarding the harbour. The rocky cliffs of the Hoe towered behind it, topped by the blunted obelisk of Smeaton’s Tower lighthouse.

  A change in the easy wind ushered away the
engine’s diesel cloud and the air around them was filled with the tang of salt. They were near the Barbican now, and Dan could hear the scrapes of uncertain stiletto heels on the cobbles and shrieks of laughter. Above, the wheeling gulls joined in with their mocking cries. He breathed in deeply, then again, leant over the side of the boat and trailed a hand in the caressing water. Its sudden chill made him shiver.

  El was waiting in The Seafarer’s Arms. He’d sat himself on one of the benches opposite the bar and cuddled a fresh pint of beer along with what looked like a double whisky. He must have realised Dan had been out for a while and was making a noble effort to catch up.

  ‘Evening, mate,’ said Dan, pushing his way through the crowd. He was pleased at how steady his voice sounded. ‘You got a thirst on?’ He pointed at the two drinks, ‘or are you celebrating something I should know about?’

  El produced his usual sleazy grin. ‘It’s kind Mr McCluskey. He’s been very good to poor El. First there was that little unauthorised snap I got of the last Death Picture. That was lucrative.’ The grin widened. ‘Then he did me the favour of dying in a dodgy way! The national papers loved it. The pictures at his place made me some very good money.’

  ‘And what about the women you’ve got this commission for?’ shouted Dan over his shoulder, as he made it to the haven of the bar. ‘You want another drink?’

  ‘Whisky and beer,’ came back the reply. In the same glass, wondered Dan? El would be wasted by nine at this rate. He quietly bought himself a shandy.

  Billy the landlord was on his usual stool at the far end of the bar. Dan caught his eye and he nodded. The Seafarer’s was famous as a spit and sawdust place, but trouble was rare. Billy was a landlord with countless years’ experience. He could sense a fight coming and it was dealt with quickly. Dan had seen it. It wasn’t pretty. The Seafarer’s was a pub where most of Plymouth’s Commando officers drank and an unwise place to start trouble.