The Death Pictures

by Simon Hall

‘Let’s really build it up,’ Lizzie continued, her voice rising. ‘I want us to trail that we’ll be doing something big on the Death Pictures on the lunchtime news. I want the actual thing live tomorrow night. The OB truck will be fixed by then. I want you down in McCluskey’s studio with the other pictures. I want you to interview Abi and let her give the clue out live on air. That’d be brilliant. The viewing figures will soar.’

  He had to hand it to her, Dan thought begrudgingly. It was a hell of a good idea. But there was just that little tingle of annoyance that he’d wanted to hear the clue first. To see if it meant anything to him, just in case it gave him a head start in the final effort to solve the riddle.

  The excitement was back. Suddenly he couldn’t wait to get home tonight and go through the Death Pictures again.

  He’d played World Cup football on the Playstation with Tom and been soundly thrashed, but he’d hardly seen a single goal. His son had been delighted with the victory over Brazil – he’d been England of course – but even he had noticed by the end of the match.

  ‘You OK, Dad?’

  ‘Yes, fine son.’ Adam shook himself. Whatever he was feeling, it shouldn’t impact on Tom. He’d learn about the agonies of adulthood soon enough. ‘Come on, haven’t I taught you the game’s never over until the final whistle goes?’

  A seven-year-old, spotting his Dad was preoccupied. How about that? He felt a nudge of pride. The boy could go on to become a detective. But he wouldn’t know why Dad wasn’t quite there with him. No one would.

  He’d gone through it countless times today. Only Dan knew he was the source for the paedophile allegation against Godley. No one in Greater Wessex Police was aware where the story had come from. Dan didn’t know that he had no evidence for it, that it was just his way of getting revenge on the man. And now that revenge had gone as far as it possibly could.

  So he was safe, he knew that. His job, his reputation. He could trust Dan. And he’d done the right thing, hadn’t he? The man was a cold and vicious rapist. And he’d caught him, and... The thought echoed in his head. And he’d sentenced him too, hadn’t he? Sentenced him to death.

  No. No, no, no. He had no idea why Godley had been killed. It could just have been a fight between prisoners. It happened. It could have been because of his rapes. It could have nothing to do with the news that the man might have been a paedophile. But then again, it could…

  A triumphant scream from Tom jolted him back to the living room. Final whistle, four nil. A drubbing. He reached out to shake the victor’s hand, soothed by the smile of delight on his son’s face.

  If Godley hadn’t been in prison, who knows what else he could have done? Attack Annie? With Tom here, asleep in his bed, woken by the noise, coming down to find…

  Yes, he could live with what had happened. What other choice was there? He’d have to.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Dan stared at the ten Death Pictures on the walls surrounding him and tapped a foot on the stone floor. None showed the slightest inclination to give up their secret. He had to admit it. He was just as baffled as before.

  He’d tried it on a little naughtily. He could probably justify it as research, but she was having none of it. He’d phoned Abi, arranged with her to cover the release of the clue and asked if she would tell him in advance what it was. Just to prepare, of course, he’d assured her. Just so they could have some graphics ready to illustrate it, to put in on their website when she revealed what it was.

  No, she’d said firmly. It’ll go out live on air, so everyone gets to see it at the same time. It’s fairest that way. From there, everyone will have roughly a week, and then, if no one had got it, the answer would finally be revealed.

  That had bothered him. Roughly a week? No precise deadline?’ Her answer had been enigmatic.

  ‘It depends on a few factors over which I have no control. You’ll understand when all is revealed. Joseph gave me discretion about when the answer should be released, within certain parameters. I intend to remain absolutely loyal to what were effectively his last wishes. So all I can say at the moment is about a week.’

  Dan had spent last night looking through the Death Pictures and his notes, wondering if there were any time references there, any reason why the answer would have to be given on a specific date. But he’d found nothing.

  The clocks were the obvious candidates. He wondered if 9.15 might have referred to a date, but clearly not one in October. Five to ten could, though. The fifth? Was something supposed to have happened on the fifth? Or the twenty-fifth? But then, that would mean the date when the answer was revealed wouldn’t be variable. He pushed his notes away in frustration and got himself a tin of beer and a biscuit for Rutherford. The numbers, he still suspected it was in the numbers, but… there was no disguising it. After all these months of trying he still had no idea about the solution.

  Dan didn’t usually get nervous when presenting outside broadcasts, but he could feel a twist of tension in his stomach. Was it more to do with hearing the clue than the actual live television? He suspected so. And was that McCluskey he could feel chuckling away at him again?

  Five minutes to on air. Enough musing. Concentrate, he told himself. Be professional. Last checks.

  ‘This is how it’ll go then, Nigel,’ Dan said. ‘Ready for a final rehearsal?’

  Nigel hoisted the camera up on to his shoulder. ‘Ready, mostly willing and passably able.’

  ‘I’ll start here by the first picture, then walk around the room, going past each of them in turn.’ Dan started walking. ‘I’ll ad lib something about the long-running mystery, the answer contained in the pictures, thousands trying to solve it, something like that. Then, at picture ten, we’ll find Abi who we’ll ask for the clue. That OK?’

  Nigel was standing in the middle of the room and had panned the camera around to follow Dan’s walk. ‘Works fine, very nice.’

  ‘And you’re OK Abi?’

  She stood to the side of the last picture, arms crossed and looking composed.

  ‘Fine, yes.’

  ‘Ok then, standby. The next time we do it, it’ll be for real.’

  The opening music of Wessex Tonight played and Craig came in. ‘And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for…’

  Dan stopped himself from smiling, knew the camera would be on him at any moment. That introduction was pure Lizzie, simply showbiz.

  It was so unorthodox, starting the programme with a story like this, but she had a point. There wasn’t much else going on, and it was the one that people had been talking about. Several had already walked in to McCluskey’s gallery while they were setting up for the broadcast to ask what the clue was. Wait, you’ll have to wait, Abi had told them with a smile. She was enjoying the moment, a tribute to her husband’s gift for drama and suspense perhaps? Outside there was quite a crowd too, at least a couple of hundred. Dan wondered whether this was just how McCluskey had imagined it when he designed the riddle.

  In his ear, Craig’s voice was coming to the end of the introduction. ‘…we can cross live to Joseph McCluskey’s studio and our correspondent Dan Groves. Dan…’

  ‘Yes, here they are,’ Dan said, gesturing behind him to the pictures and beginning his walk. ‘The 10 Death Pictures – or prints, as we know – and contained in them is the answer to a riddle which, if solved, would mean the lucky winner being given the original of the last painting. It’s a prize worth many tens, perhaps now even hundreds of thousands of pounds. No wonder then there’s been such intense interest. Well, the hints in the pictures have been too difficult for anyone to find a solution so far, but help is at hand, right now. It’s your final chance, so have a pen and paper handy.’

  Dan reached the last of the pictures, stopped. ‘So now, time for the clue to be revealed, live on air. And here with me to do it, is Joseph McCluskey’s widow, Abi.’
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br />   He turned, Nigel panning the camera onto her. ‘Abi, good evening to you, and please, give us the clue.’

  It sounded like an American game show host, he thought. But she smiled at him, then turned to the camera.

  ‘The clue is this.’ Her voice was strong and measured, no faltering. ‘Why are the pictures hanging here in the gallery prints and not the original paintings?’

  She stopped, nearly catching him. He hadn’t expected it to be so short.

  ‘Repeat that for us will you please, in case anyone missed it the first time around?’

  She nodded, still smiling.

  ‘Why are the pictures hanging here prints, and not the original paintings?’

  * * *

  Dan spent that night going over what Abi had said. Even when he slept it was fitful, and always with the recurring question rattling in his mind. Why should it be that the pictures in McCluskey’s own studio were prints?

  The first reason was the obvious one. McCluskey had given the originals away, to make money for whatever causes he’d chosen at the time. But that wasn’t an answer which could in any way solve the riddle. It had to mean there was some difference between the prints and the originals. But what could that be? They were the same in every way weren’t they? That was the point of prints, given the power of modern technology. The detail and the colours were as alike as they could possibly be. He’d seen the original of picture ten and a couple of the others along with their prints, and hadn’t noticed a single difference.

  He’d had an idea as they were de-rigging the camera, cables and lights. What about McCluskey’s signature? Each print was individually signed. What if there was some subtle difference in each, something he’d added or left out, some letter perhaps? Or a series of letters that spelt out a message.

  He liked the idea, felt the familiar growing excitement, along with the equally familiar expectation of failure. He’d studied them, Abi watching him, that calm smile still on her face. Thousands of people had been in here before doing just the same, thousands more would follow over the next week. She was sure he wouldn’t see anything, he could tell that. And she’d been right. He’d found nothing. All the signatures were identical. But while he’d had a chance, he’d examined each print, just to see if there was something in there that could possibly be a hint. Still he’d found nothing.

  The only other idea he’d had was that it might be something in the canvas of the originals. But that was hardly a fair challenge. Then the riddle could only be solved by the people who owned or had access to the paintings, and they’d been dispersed to a range of organisations. So how could any one person find a pattern in them? Unless the answer was contained in just one of the originals, and Dan couldn’t see that would be fair either. It didn’t tally with what Professor Ed had told him. That McCluskey would have ensured the answer was available for all, but made it so cryptic that no one could get it and he would have the last laugh. Well, he was certainly doing so at the moment.

  The thought that the answer must be somewhere in front of him had been both a comfort and an irritant. He’d checked through the pictures again. But still he found nothing, had no ideas, couldn’t see what the answer might possibly be.

  Across the country Dan imagined thousands of other people in their lounges and studies, at their work desks, all scouring the images. He wondered what conclusion they’d come to. The same as his? No idea... Not a clue…

  His copies of the pictures and his notes had eventually been dropped grumpily back into their box and consigned to their home, underneath his bed. His excitement had evaporated and he felt deflated. He’s suffered too many disappointments chasing McCluskey’s riddle. He was sick of it.

  Now, this morning at work, he’d got in to find Lizzie already at her desk and fizzing. Her honed fingernails flew over the computer as she checked news and gossip web sites for stories on the Death Pictures. Her search had thrown up tens of thousands of matches. A four-inch stiletto heel ground into the patchy carpet beneath her chair.

  ‘We’ve generated massive interest,’ she buzzed. ‘Massive! What a scoop! We’ve broken the news of the clue. Now let’s break the news of the riddle being solved. Someone must have got it. I want it first. I want the winner on the programme. I want Abi. I want art experts. I want the charities that have benefited from the pictures. I want…’

  Dan trooped away and sat down at his desk, wondering where to go next. He made all the obvious calls. He tried Abi, who told him that thousands more guesses had come in, but none had been right. None even close in fact. That would do for a bit of the story, but he needed more.

  He rang the places with the nine remaining original Death Pictures, a list of charities, companies, dealers and art collectors. He’d managed to speak to all of them. They’d been caught up in the mystery and were keen to say their bit, but it had led nowhere.

  They’d all heard the clue and come to the same conclusion he had. It must be something in the canvas of the original paintings. They’d checked, but found nothing. They had also checked the frames – he hadn’t realised they too had been chosen by McCluskey – but found nothing there either.

  Lizzie was pacing the newsroom, casting occasional machine gun stares over at him. He got the message. A follow-up story was non-negotiable. He called Abi again, just after six o’clock for the latest information.

  ‘We’ve had several thousand calls and emails now,’ she said, sounding content. ‘And I can tell you that none are right, and none are even close. As of tonight, the riddle remains unsolved.’

  Dan asked her when the answer would be revealed, but she’d again said in a week or so, depending on factors which are still, and which will remain, out of my control. Will remain, he wondered? What did that mean? What could be happening to influence her timing? And if it was so important to Joseph McCluskey, how could she have no control over it? It was annoyingly bewildering, and he’d risen to it.

  ‘Is that another clue?’ Dan asked.

  ‘If you want it to be.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘If you want it to be.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘If you knew the answer to why it was out of my control, that would certainly help you with the riddle. It wouldn’t give you the answer, but it would point strongly the right way.’

  Dan had sat there, phone to his ear, baffled. He couldn’t even think of a decent follow up question.

  ‘Any hints?’

  ‘None.’

  The merciless clock ticked on towards broadcast time. He should hang up, get ready for the programme. Dan doodled a few squiggles on his notebook. One looked like the mobile phone from the first Death Picture. He should thank Abi and say goodbye. Where his next question came from, he didn’t know.

  ‘Why did Joseph want me to have the final clue? Why me?’

  He wasn’t sure whether to expect an answer, but he got one anyway. And it wasn’t what he anticipated, not at all.

  ‘He liked you,’ Abi replied, her voice misty. ‘He’d seen your news reports and said they were thoughtful and perceptive. He was interested in crime too, and he liked the way you seemed to understand criminals’ minds. He’d heard you had an insight into people and he wanted to meet you in that obituary interview you did. He wanted to see if you’d have any idea about the solution to the riddle. He reckoned you had a decent chance. And if you didn’t get it, he thought you were a fit messenger to give the rest of the world a go.’

  Dan hadn’t known how to react then, apart from to feel guilty for all the times he’d cursed Joseph McCluskey and his riddle. He had a bourgeoning sense the world was a far less rich and colourful place without the infuriating artist. He was surprised to find himself wishing he’d known the man better.

  ‘You miss him, don’t you?’ Dan asked.

  It was the first time he’d made Abi hesitat
e before replying. It was ten past six now, just 15 minutes until he was on air. There was no time for such questions, but he couldn’t help asking it anyway.

  Finally, she said, ‘More than you can possibly know.’

  Then one more question, just time for one more. Lizzie was hovering, glaring over at him, an icicle heel fraying the carpet. She wanted her follow-up, wanted him downstairs in the studio, ready for the programme. Hundreds of thousands of people would be watching, waiting.

  ‘How do you think I’ll feel when I know the answer?’ Dan asked.

  This time the reply was instant. ‘You’ll kick yourself, as I think everyone will. The one thing I can promise you is that it’s been right there in front of you all the time. It’ll make an extraordinary impact when the answer’s revealed. You’ll be amazed at what it’ll do. The repercussions will be quite a show.’

  Dan went on air feeling a mixture of irritated and lifted by the conversation. He’d told the viewers the riddle remained unsolved, despite thousands of guesses, and that only a week or so remained before they would all know. And he reported what Abi had told him, that no one should give up because she could guarantee the answer was there in the pictures, right in front of them. But there would be no more clues to help, and the time to see it was running out, and quickly.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Dan stood watchfully on one corner of the street, Sean, the Universal reporter on the other. Nigel and Pete, the two cameramen lingered by the court entrance, alert, waiting. El was with them too, pacing back and forth, occasionally stroking his long lens. There was one big problem with Plymouth Crown Court for journalists. There were two ways the prison van could bring the defendant in and they’d guessed wrongly before. Dan didn’t want that to happen today, not at the start of a big case like this. The long awaited McCluskey murder trial.

  They’d cut a deal, him and Sean. Each would stand on one street corner and shout to the cameramen when the van appeared. You could put rivalries aside and work together on court cases. It made sense. The only information you got was what was said in the trial. However great your guile, or however subtle and penetrating your interview technique, they meant nothing when all you could do was observe the words of the barristers, witnesses and the judge. All that distinguished was how you wrote the story, and Dan was confident his way would be better. At least he hoped so.