The Death Pictures

by Simon Hall

  There was a good crowd in tonight. Already the bar was packed. Beer was being spilled onto the ever-sticky stone floor, and voices rose as they competed for attention. All sorts drank in the Seafarer’s. By the bar stood a line of muscled men with short hair and tattoos peeking out from beneath tight T-shirts. Every time the door opened their eyes snapped to it. Military, probably, Dan thought.

  In the corner a knot of men leaned together in a huddle around their pints. The table was almost full of empty glasses. Some wore waterproofs, others thick woollen jumpers. All looked ruddy and weatherbeaten, their hair untended in spraying styles. Fishermen, celebrating a good week’s catch most likely. A couple tucked into plastic trays of chips.

  There were a few younger lads in loud shirts, their weekend best, jeans fashionably faded, hair spiked and gelled. They were edging imperceptibly towards a group of young girls, all dressed in a uniform of figure-hugging tops and short skirts. The girls had formed a protective circle, just like in the old Westerns, Dan thought with a grin. Draw the wagons up in a ring to try to keep the enemy at bay.

  Dan pushed his way back to El, who was aiming a vacant grin all around.

  ‘What’s the plan for tonight then, El?’ he shouted.

  ‘Drinking,’ said El simply. Dan gave him a look that said he wanted more detail. ‘Heavy drinking,’ he added helpfully.

  ‘I got that bit from the state of you already. What I meant was are there any plans to go anywhere else?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said El. ‘I’ve got a naughty little idea you might just like.’

  Dan woke on Sunday morning feeling slightly thick-headed, but remarkably well considering the two nights running on the beer. Those couple of shandies and the water had kept an angrier hangover at bay. And he’d only had a couple of bottles of lager in the lap-dancing club. He didn’t know whether to feel ashamed or amused. How had El got him in there? He’d become caught up in the moment and the beer had yet again oiled his path to another fate he shouldn’t have known.

  So what, he thought? They’d agreed to work together on the Death Pictures riddle and El was the kind of man to have on your side. He knew how to get things done. Dan had no idea how he planned to find the two mystery women from the pictures, but El clearly did. He’d been cryptic as ever, and what did he want with a fancy dress shop?

  Yes, it’d been a fun night and he had all day to recover. A Dartmoor walk would be good, he’d been neglecting Rutherford lately. A walk, combined with some research. He fumbled the lead out of the darkness of the hallway cupboard and Rutherford whirled circles around him, jumping up and yapping in that puppy-like way of his. He’d never grown up, that dog. Perhaps it was something to do with his master’s influence?

  They passed Merrivale Quarry, a deep granite scar in the rising emerald moorland. Death Picture two lay next to him on the passenger seat. They rounded a corner and there it was ahead, Vixen Tor, the tall, multi-layered, grey granite stack. Dan checked the picture again. It was unmistakeable. His guess had been right. He indicated and pulled in to a small car park hollowed from the hillside. They crossed the road and headed down onto the open moor.

  Dartmoor was awakening from its winter hibernation. Above him a brown speckled skylark fluttered and trilled, an eager invitation to a mate. We’re not so different, us humans and the rest of the animal kingdom, Dan thought, revisiting last night, the lap dancer and his pompous chat-up lines about being on television. ‘I wish you better luck than me,’ he called to the bird.

  Gorse sprayed the grass with flashes of yellow, the hillsides were freckled with contented white sheep. A thin worn track wound through the thorns of the jabbing bushes. He followed it, his boots slipping on the occasional emerging plate of glassy granite. Above, the sky stretched a dull white, a benevolent covering of cloud. Ideal walking weather. Dan took deep lungfuls of the pure upland air and felt it fill and relax him. It reinflated him with life. The residual headache waned.

  A leat gushed ahead of them, gorged by April’s showers. He found a narrowing to jump, steadied himself and leapt, one foot slipping into the freezing water. Rutherford watched, then plunged into the icy, frothing torrent, wading upstream against the current, then turning and letting it carry him back down the hill. He found a stick stuck firm into the muddy bank and head shaking, growling, wrestled it free. He clambered out of the stream and ran for Dan who jumped instinctively back, tried to reach a safe distance, but the dog was too quick. A rain of droplets sprayed from his coat as he shook himself into a spin.

  ‘No tea for you tonight hound, and you can sleep in the garden too,’ he shouted, laughing and wiping the water from his face.

  Dan took the picture from his pocket and unfolded it. ‘Over that hill,’ he called to Rutherford, pointing ahead. He found himself panting as the gradient wound against them. Could the answer to McCluskey’s riddle really be here, he wondered? Surely it wouldn’t be as simple as where the dog was digging? And what was the meaning of the vicar and the plane? And the banner with ‘goodbye number one’ written on it? Real clues? Or more iron pyrites, as the infuriating artist had put it?

  Dan scanned around him. It was classic Dartmoor. Tumbled granite boulders, pyramid tors, grassy hills, winding streams, defiant gorse, squelching mud and pervasive bracken, an abstract canvas of green, silver, yellow, grey and brown. The road ran behind them, the tiny dark blocks of a couple of farmhouses on the horizon. There was nothing to suggest any link to the second Death Picture.

  ‘He’s taking the mickey out of us dog,’ Dan panted to Rutherford. ‘I bet you any amount of dog biscuits the answer’s not here.’ But we’ll keep looking, won’t we? he thought. Because McCluskey’s got me hooked up in his riddle in exactly the way I said I never would be.

  They reached the top of the hill and Dan stopped and breathed out heavily in gratitude. He loosened his coat. The sun had forced her way through the clouds, warming the moorland. Rutherford sniffed around a pile of rocks, then sat down on a flat granite slab. Dan was glad to see the dog was panting too. He fumbled the print from his pocket, but before he could study it, a noise from down in the valley stopped him.

  He walked on a little, topped the hill, then stopped again. A Dartmoor ranger was surrounded by a group of a dozen people. Ugly brown scores marked the green spread of the moor grass around where they stood. Dan checked the picture. Yes, this was the spot, as near as he could tell. He looked up at the thinning clouds. Why did he have the feeling McCluskey was laughing himself stupid again?

  He walked over to the crowd. Some held mud-coated spades in their hands. They were getting a stern lecture on how it was illegal and immoral to damage the fabric of the moor and how they were too late anyway. The Rangers had been patrolling constantly since Death Picture Two was revealed. They’d turned dozens of people away as they came to dig in the same spot as the dog. There was no answer here.

  Dan slipped the lead over Rutherford’s head and put the print quickly back into his pocket before anyone noticed. He kept walking, past the group, pulling the dog to heel. It was only when they’d climbed a tor and reached a safe distance that he burst out laughing. Even Rutherford seemed to find it funny. He had that mouth open, tongue hanging out look that Dan always thought of as his smiling face.

  The image of the group searching Dartmoor to dig for the answer to McCluskey’s riddle kept him amused for the rest of the day. Even come Monday morning, his most detested time of the week, he was still smiling at the thought. But the smile died quickly when a man was arrested on suspicion of murdering Joseph McCluskey.

  Chapter Nine

  The story broke at ten past six. Dan felt his body tense with a flush of adrenaline and annoyance. Perfect timing to maximise the stress for his poor heart. Just 15 minutes to find something sensible to say for the programme.

  Adam phoned him with the tip off. ‘This didn’t come from me, but I thought I should warn you. I
know you’re on air in a mo. It’ll go on the force’s website in the next half hour anyway. There’s a limit to what I can say, but this evening we’ve arrested a man on suspicion of murdering Joseph McCluskey.’

  Shit! ‘Who?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Kid?’

  A pause. ‘Might be.’

  ‘How might?’

  Another hesitation. ‘This didn’t come from me.’

  ‘OK, OK. I got that. It never does.’

  ‘A lot might.’

  A hasty scribbled note. ‘Why?’

  ‘Some new evidence.’

  Dan checked the clock. 6.15. Shit.

  ‘What evidence?’

  Another pause. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Adam!’

  ‘OK, strictly not for broadcast, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Strictly.’

  ‘OK!’

  ‘The knife that killed McCluskey had Kid’s fingerprints on it.’

  Shit! 6.17.

  Dan hung up, dropped the mobile on his desk and ran down the stairs. He leapt the last couple and barged in to the broadcast gallery, panting hard. They were rehearsing the headlines. The red glowing clock above the wall of television screens ticked on. 6.20.

  ‘Really!’ exclaimed Eddie, the director. He looked round accusingly from his bank of flashing buttons. ‘So unprofessional! We’re preparing for on air you know…’

  ‘Shut up!’ cut in Dan. ‘Monica… Monica… urgent one,’ he puffed, struggling to get the words out. ‘There’s been an arrest in the McCluskey case.’

  ‘What?’ She swivelled in her producer’s chair. ‘What?! Can you do something?’

  ‘Yeah, just give me a minute to think. Let’s get a cue ready, then I’ll go into the studio to do a live bit.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, opening a file in the computer. ‘You’ll be the top story. Dictate, I’ll write it in.’

  ‘Some breaking news for you as we go on air tonight,’ Dan said quickly. ‘Within the last few minutes, a man’s been arrested on suspicion of the murder of the famous artist Joseph McCluskey. Our Crime Correspondent Dan Groves is here and can tell us more. That’ll do. Now I’ll go work out what to say.’

  6.23. Dan’s mind spun with what he could report. He strode into the studio and sat down heavily at the desk with Craig, the presenter. No more running, he had to save his breath for the live broadcast. Jerry, the floor manager clipped a microphone onto his tie, wiped the sweat off his forehead and began dabbing some powder on to his face to stop him shining under the banks of lights.

  6.24, four minutes to on air. He could feel his heart pumping, his brain racing. Dan grabbed his notebook and started scribbling some words. Careful, must be careful, he warned himself. You’ve got to tell the story, but an arrest means the case is legally underway. We’re at risk of committing contempt of court if we say anything that could prejudice the investigation. Jerry filled a glass with water and Dan took a grateful swig, let its coolness calm him. He carried on writing, fast.

  6.26. Just two minutes to go now. A couple of engineers slid the cameras into position to take shots of him and Craig together at the desk. Lights above them flared and died as Eddie checked they were both evenly lit. Dan crossed out a couple of sentences on his pad, added some other words. He took another gulp of water. ‘What do I ask you?’ said Craig calmly.

  Dan looked up from his notes. ‘Two questions. First, what more do we know about what’s happened. Second, what’s the background to it?’

  ‘Thirty seconds to air. Stand by,’ called Jerry. Dan scanned through the words he’d written for the last time. They’d do. They’d have to.

  The opening titles of the programme played and Craig came in.

  ‘Good evening, and welcome to Wessex Tonight, with me, Craig Watson. The headlines...’ A pause, waiting for Eddie’s cue as the pictures rolled.

  ‘Tourist tax shock; charge condemned for putting visitors off.’ Another pause, another cue. ‘In urgent need of a bypass; when will Cornwall’s biggest bottleneck be eased?’ Another second’s wait, the pictures changing again. ‘And the Dorset hamster who can play cricket…’

  The rest of the titles ran, artistic images of some of the region’s most recognisable landmarks. An aerial shot of the Advent Project, the St Ives lifeboat crashing through waves, Dartmoor’s Hay Tor, Land’s End, the lonely Isle of Portland stretching into the sea. The music faded and Craig picked up with the cue Dan had dictated a few minutes before.

  ‘But we begin tonight with some breaking news...’ Dan didn’t hear the words, was concentrating on going through his lines. Deep breath. Don’t gabble, sound rushed or excited. Just keep it calm and professional. He could feel a sweat spreading from the base of his back.

  ‘Craig, I can tell you that detectives have arrested a man on suspicion of the murder of Joseph McCluskey. He is Lewis Kiddey, widely known as Kid, who is also a famous artist from Plymouth.’

  Dan had been tempted to go into the colour of their relationship, that they’d had a feud until the reconciliation prompted by McCluskey’s terminal illness. But he knew that would be pushing his luck. It could be prejudicial, imply a motive to kill. He stuck to safer ground.

  ‘Mr Kiddey was friends with Mr McCluskey and his wife Abi and often used to visit their home. It was he who found Joseph McCluskey’s body on the night he died. Now, as we know, the police weren’t sure whether Mr McCluskey had committed suicide, so they began an investigation. That inquiry has just taken a dramatic turn with the arrest of Mr Kiddey.’

  That’ll do, Dan thought. It told the story without being legally dangerous. That bit about Kid going round and finding the body was slightly dodgy, but it didn’t in any way imply guilt, so he thought it’d be OK.

  ‘And what’s the background to what happened?’ Craig asked.

  Safer ground now, he could relax a little. ‘Joseph McCluskey was terminally ill with cancer. When he discovered he was dying, he began painting what became known as the Death Pictures, a set of 10 works containing a riddle. They’ve become very famous, but so far no one has solved it. The last picture was unveiled only this week. Mr McCluskey clearly did like to create a stir and a mystery and he succeeded. Now, even though he’s gone, another mystery surrounds him. Exactly how did he die?’

  ‘Dan, thank you,’ said Craig, turning from him to the camera to read the introduction to the next report. ‘Other news now, and plans for a tourist tax in Torbay have caused uproar today…’

  Dan walked slowly back up to the newsroom, getting his breath back, letting his heart settle. He noticed his hands were shaking. Lizzie stood by her desk, her eyes on the door, waiting for him. An eyebrow was raised like an arch.

  ‘Are we really saying he could have been murdered?’ A three-inch heel ground into the carpet. ‘What the hell’s the point of killing someone who’s going to die in a few days anyway?’

  ‘The very question the police are asking themselves,’ replied Dan, sitting on the edge of a desk opposite her. ‘And I don’t know is the answer.’ She gave him one of her looks. ‘No, really, I don’t. I don’t think the police do yet.’

  ‘Then you’d better go find out, hadn’t you? I want wall-to-wall coverage on this.’

  She was off, into full flow. It didn’t take long. Nought to breathless in a couple of seconds, he thought.

  ‘I couldn’t have created a better story myself,’ Lizzie fizzed. ‘It’s got everything. A famous artist, dying, sets an unsolvable mystery, apparently kills himself and then the police find out it’s actually a murder. The viewers will love it.’

  The heel got to work again. ‘They’ll be glued to their sets. Glued! Absolutely glued! So go on then, what are you waiting for? Go join their investigation, like they asked. I want all the inside track. I wan
t every in and out. I want each little detail. I want a story a night, if not more.’ She paused, raked him with another machine gun stare. ‘But remember, you’re a hack, not a detective. I want stories. I don’t want you disappearing for days like you did in the Bray case. Stories are what you’re paid for, stories…’

  Dan turned and headed for the door.

  Suzanne Stewart sat in the MIR, staring out at the ruined church and thinking back over the day. Had she been talking to the rapist? Was it Will Godley? Should she have arrested him? No, of course not, not yet anyway. They had no evidence. So he didn’t have an alibi and wouldn’t take a DNA test, so what? That didn’t mean it was him. But it did make him their main suspect.

  His attitude had made her suspicious from the start. ‘Mr Godley, I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s only a couple of routine questions.’

  ‘Don’t disturb me then. I don’t like you slaves of the stinking State and I don’t like women and you’re both.’

  She’d had a moment to study him as he made a cup of tea at his office in the dockyard. Yes, he just about fitted the description. Medium height, the women had said, probably about five feet nine or ten. Godley was a little taller than that, but she knew from long experience the descriptions given by traumatised people were often only vaguely accurate. Stocky build? Well he wasn’t fat, but he was going that way. That was all they had. That, and the faint smell of tobacco. And here was Godley, rolling himself a cigarette.

  ‘What do you want me for anyway? Haven’t you got a rapist to catch?’

  Godley talked with a sneer, the ever present hint of an impending outburst of anger. She backed off a little, warily. Suzanne had come alone. They didn’t have enough detectives for them to double up and she thought there’d be plenty of people around in the dockyard. But it was lunchtime and there were just the two of them in this Portakabin office. She tensed herself, ready to fight or flee. But he just sat down on a desk and glared at her.

  ‘That’s exactly what we’re trying to do Mr Godley.’ She kept her voice level, firm but reasonable. ‘Please understand, this is just a routine inquiry.’