by Amy Cross
“Are you scared of something?” I ask.
“Me?” She pauses. “Sure. Every day.”
“What?”
She shrugs.
“Maybe it's time for you to come clean,” I continue. “The mystery act has been entertaining, but it can't go on forever. Tell me everything.”
“About what?”
“About who you really are.” I wait for her to answer, but I can see the reticence in her eyes. Still, I figure I need to push a little. “Whatever happened to you to make you like this,” I continue, “whatever made it so you ended up on the streets, you don't have to let it define your whole life. I have connections, Ophelia. I can help you, and I can get other people to help you too. Don't you want to move on and have an actual life? Don't your want a future?”
We stand in silence for a moment, and I can't help feeling that maybe, just maybe, she's considering my offer.
“Tell me what happened,” I ask finally.
She shakes her head.
“Why?”
“Because that's just not something I'm willing to do.”
“Then at least tell me your real name.”
She shakes her head again.
“Tell me what happened to you. Your parents, your family, your life before you ended up on the streets.”
“Why? So you can work out what's wrong with me?”
“I want to help you.”
“And I want to help you,” she replies. “All the shit that happened with me is in the past, where it belongs, so there's no point raking over it again. It's finished. But this case you're working on is something that's still happening right now, and me helping you out could really save lives.” She pauses again, and some of her manic energy seems to have faded away. “I know I'm acting like it's a joke,” she adds, “but if you agree to let me do this, I'll take it seriously. It won't be some kind of game for me, and I swear to God, I'll get the job done for you. I wouldn't mess about and make you look bad, or waste your time. I really want to help out. I owe you, and it'd be fun.”
“I'm sorry,” I reply, “but there's just no way I can agree.”
“Because?”
“Because there are rules against this sort of thing,” I continue, “and because this is a serious murder investigation, not a game, and because it's a completely ridiculous idea.”
She stares at me, but it's clear that she's starting to accept my decision.
“So what are you gonna do instead?” she asks.
“I'm going to go to the college tomorrow with a colleague, and we're going to see what we can find out. But we're going to do it properly, professionally, and I actually think that this approach might work out. Meanwhile, you're going to stay here and rest, and maybe when I get home I'll run some things past you. I do appreciate your input, Ophelia, but that's all it can be. Input. You can't become part of the investigation. Last time was a one-off.”
“Fine,” she replies. “I guess I can't argue. Maybe I was getting a bit ahead of myself. I mean, it's not like I actually wanted to go undercover. I can see how much pressure you're under, and I just thought it might be something I could do to help.”
“I've made up the guest room for you,” I tell her. “It's the same room you stayed in last time. And now I think I have to get to bed, because tomorrow I really need to be on the ball.” Setting my wine glass down, I head to the door, before turning back to her. “Promise me one thing, Ophelia. Don't up and leave suddenly, okay?”
“I won't.”
“And make yourself at home. Eat anything from the fridge, use anything you find, just...”
She nods.
“And stay as long as you want,” I add. “It doesn't have to just be a week. If you can handle boring old me, and my crazy mother, you're welcome to stick around, even after your head injury's a thing of the past.”
I wait for her to nod again, but she just smiles, with a hint of sadness in her eyes.
As I make my way up to bed, I can't help wondering if maybe I was too quick to turn her plan down. After all, she might just be able to give me some leads. At the same time, the whole idea is completely ridiculous, and I know deep down that I was right to decline. I don't need Ophelia pulling some stunt in order to solve the case, and I sure as hell don't need any distractions or gimmicks. I just need to get on with my job, ask the right questions, and use traditional methods to track down the killer, and I still believe that I'll have the case solved in the next couple of days.
At least I managed to calm Ophelia down. In fact, I'm quite surprised that she accepted my decision so quickly. Maybe she's growing up after all.
Chapter Fifteen
Ophelia
“Hi, yeah, I want to enroll at art college, please.”
The woman behind the desk stares at me, and it's pretty clear that something about me doesn't sit quite right with her. She noticeably looks me up and down, as if she's shocked by my appearance. Then again, I figure I can't look that different from all the other people who come through the door of the admissions office. She probably pulls this withering glare out of the bag for everyone.
“Art college?” I say eventually, holding up the brochure I grabbed on the way through the door. “Specifically, this art college?”
“You can't just walk in off the street,” she says cautiously, “and expect to get a place.”
“Not on the main course,” I reply, having done my homework, “but I'm talking about the access learning modules. I don't care, whatever gets me in.” I flick through the brochure until I find the right page, which I then hold up for her to see. “This one right here. The rolling admissions one for losers like me who can't even get onto the main degree.”
She narrows her eyes.
“I know there are places,” I continue, “and I checked out your website to see how it all works. The site said that I don't necessarily need any previous qualifications, so I'm thinking that you're pretty much willing to accept anyone who rocks up with the four hundred pound fee for the ten weeks tuition. God bless the financial crisis, huh?”
“It's a little more complicated than that,” she replies.
“Is it?”
“You'll need to fill out an application form,” she continues, speaking slowly and methodically, “and -”
“Done,” I reply, sliding the form toward her.
“Right,” she replies, picking it up and taking a look. “As you say -”
“And here's the money,” I add, pulling a crumpled pile of notes from my pocket and dropping them onto the desk, along with a few coins. “The exact fee, down to the very last penny. So when do I start?”
She flashes a smile that isn't really a smile at all, more of a grimace, while eying the money as if she's worried it's infected. It's almost as if she instinctively knows that it's been saved up over the years from all the begging I've done.
“Is there a problem?” I ask. “I'm sorry so much of it's in coins. I tried changing it to cash at the bank, but... Well, it turns out that there's a limit to their patience.”
“Right,” she replies, “it's just...” She pauses. “I'll need to check through your application form first.”
“I didn't make any mistakes.”
“I'm sure you didn't, but I still -”
“I get it,” I say, interrupting her. “This is all moving a little fast, isn't it? The thing is, I really just... desperately need to get onto this course. And I know it seems sudden, but my parents are totally against me coming here so I'm having to do it in secret. My mother and I had this big argument last night and she told me I'm not allowed to study art because it's a waste of time, so figure I have to hide it from her. My Mum's a cop, see, and for various reasons she doesn't agree with me coming here. I'm sure shell come around eventually when she realizes that it's a useful choice, but for now...”
I take a deep breath, and a single tear rolls down my cheek right on cue. Damn it, even by my usual standards, this is a good performance. Screw art; I should be taking
acting classes.
“It means the world to me,” I add, “to have this chance to express myself.”
“You understand that it's just a ten-week introductory course?” she replies, showing the first sign that her resolve might be cracking.
I nod.
“At the end, you'll receive a diploma and you'll have a better chance of being accepted onto the full-time three-year degree, but there are no guarantees. You'll also have to bear the cost of materials yourself, which can be considerable.”
“I know,” I reply, trying to make it sound as if I'm taking the whole thing seriously.
“And it's not a holiday,” she continues. “A lot of people think that studying art is a way of wasting time and just having fun, but you need to realize that it's a strict course that requires discipline. There are lectures, and assignments, and you'll have to learn to justify your artistic choices.”
“That's what I want,” I reply. “I feel like this course could really benefit me, both artistically and intellectually. Plus, I'd like to be around other people who share my passions.” I force a smile, even though I'm already shuddering at the idea of being around other people at all, especially people who claim to have 'passions'.
She stares at me for a moment.
“Please?” I add.
“Okay,” she says, gathering up the money I dropped onto the desk a moment ago, “if you know what you're getting yourself into, I see no reason not to enroll you. The fee is non-refundable, though, so once you've signed up, you can't change your mind.”
“It's as easy as that?” I reply, a little surprised that I don't need to come up with more of a sob story.
“You pay, you play,” she adds, as she types something into her computer. “We'll set you up with a student card and then I'll find someone who can give you your course materials. Make sure you pay attention to the course description, because you'll need to keep on the ball. Look into the camera, please.”
Turning to look at the web-cam on top of her monitor, I take a deep breath.
“Come on,” she adds. “It wouldn't hurt you to say cheese for the camera.”
I force a smile, even though I know I probably look stupid. I always hate it when people tell me to smile.
“Perfect,” she continues as she starts printing my badge.
As I wait, I suddenly realize that I might have bitten off more than I can chew. I turn and look over at the window, and outside there are students everywhere, sitting around as they talk and laugh. It's been a long time since I was actually in any kind of social situation, and I start to feel my skin crawl at the realization that I'm going to have to actually talk to other people and pretend to get along with them. For a moment, I actually find myself wondering if I can go through with this.
“Here,” the woman says finally, handing me my laminated student card, which bears my awkwardly-smiling face. “Welcome to Beacon Court Art College. I hope it's everything you expect and more.”
“That was quick,” I reply.
“You paid,” she mutters with a shrug. “Like you said before, God bless the financial crisis.”
Looking down at the card, I feel my chest start to tighten. Laura was right: this is an insane idea. Still, I'm here now, and I've paid over almost every penny from the stash I've built up over the past five years, so I guess I'm right in at the deep end now. Turning to look at the window again, I watch the smiling faces of the other students, and suddenly my assumptions drain away. How the hell am I going to interact with these people? How am I going to fit in? I need them to accept me as one of their own, but I blatantly give off weird vibes from a hundred paces.
Enrolling at art college might be an even dumber idea than jumping headfirst off that bridge.
Chapter Sixteen
Laura
“Okay,” says Nick Jordan, hitting a button to start the video. “This is what we've got so far.”
I watch as the grainy surveillance footage begins to play. It shows Trafalgar Square a few nights ago, with the time-code in the corner indicating that it's twelve minutes past midnight. Central London is as busy as ever, even at such a late hour, with the streets lit up by passing vehicles as people swarm through the square itself. It's hard to believe that anyone could get away with very much in such a public place, yet as I stare at the empty fourth plinth, I realize that sometimes people can actually get away with a great deal if they just show a little confidence.
“Wait for it,” Nick mutters, “any second now -”
Suddenly part of the screen falls into darkness. There are still lights from the passing vehicles, but all the street lights on one side of the square have been turned off.
“Localized power cut,” he explains. “It only lasted about ninety seconds. I spoke to a guy from the electricity company and he said it was caused by a surge on one of the nearby transformers. Not even that uncommon, apparently; happens every now and then when there's a spike in power usage in one particular area.”
“What caused this spike?” I ask, leaning closer to the screen and trying to make out any movement in the dark patch covering the fourth plinth.
“He said there's no way of checking. To be honest, he didn't sound too concerned. The automated power management system patched in another circuit and resolved the problem. There's some construction work going on near Charing Cross, though, so I guess that's one possibility.”
Seconds later, the lights flicker back on and I see that there's now a dark shape up on top of the plinth. The corpse is in place, waiting to be discovered.
“No way,” I mutter, still staring at the screen. There are plenty of dark figures milling about in the area, but it's impossible to know which of them, if any, was responsible for putting the dead body in position. The killer was probably already hurrying away by this point. “How the hell did he manage that?”
“He's got balls,” Nick replies. “Think about it. In the dark, he just put a ladder up, carried the body to the top and put it into place. Then he climbed down and hurried away. We've checked other cameras in the area and we can't see anyone with a ladder, so he must have ditched it somewhere, maybe at the construction site. I know this all sounds improbable, but it's technically possible with a lot of planning, a lot of confidence, and a little luck.”
“But people must have seen him do it,” I point out.
“Sure. Drunk, distracted people who were probably paying more attention to the power cut. The guy took a risk, but you know how it is. If you look like you're supposed to be doing what you're doing, most people are just going to ignore you. Walk the walk, as they say. How many times have you seen a workman carrying some equipment along the street? Hell, if you saw a guy carrying a chainsaw, you wouldn't even blink so long as he was wearing an official-looking uniform. People like to mind their own business as much as possible.”
“But still,” I reply, “if this guy was carrying a ladder and a dead body -”
“The body must have been disguised,” he points out. “In a bag, maybe, or some kind of case.”
“Or the killer wasn't working alone.”
“The more people,” he replies, “the more fuss. I reckon this was a case of getting in and out fast. A lone wolf.”
“So check every camera in the area for someone either heading toward the square or walking away, anyone who looks like they could conceivably be responsible for this.”
“I already tried that,” he replies. “No luck.”
“Don't we have other camera angles of the plinth itself?”
“Nothing that's any help,” he continues. “Believe it or not, this is the best. I'm having it digitally enhanced so we can try to get a better idea of what was happening in the darkness, but the tech guys said not to hold out too much hope, on account of the resolution being pretty poor.” He pauses for a moment. “The only part that I really don't understand is how our guy knew there was going to be a power cut at that exact moment. The rest can be accounted for if you accept that he's a little audacio
us, but the power cut gets me. The guy from the energy company said it'd require some pretty advanced knowledge to pull something like this off.”
“Or a quick search online,” I reply, “and the right equipment. If you know what you're looking for, the internet can tell you how to do pretty much anything.”
“Plus you need the guts to do it.”
“I guess he just planned ahead,” I continue, sitting back. I watch the screen, as late-night Londoners pass the fourth plinth without realizing that there's now a dead body up there. It's hard to believe that such a thing could happen in the heart of one of the most populated, most heavily monitored cities in the world, but the killer clearly had it all worked out. The whole thing just seems so theatrical, and he obviously went to a lot of trouble. Dumping the body somewhere wouldn't have been enough; this killer wanted to make an impact.
“So what now?” Nick asks, clearly at just as much of a loss.
“I hate to admit it,” I reply, “but we have to go and do exactly what the killer wants us to do. We have to go and take a look around Beacon Court Art College.”
***
“We have just shy of two hundred full-time students,” Principal Carol Livingstone explains as she leads us across the campus, “and another thirty-three part-timers who study one of the two access courses we offer. Add twenty faculty staff, plus the skill-specific technical assistants, the administration office and the janitorial team, and you're looking at approximately three hundred people who use the site on a regular basis.”
“Is there any way to check who was on the college grounds at any particular moment?” I ask.
“Sorry,” she replies. “We don't make our students sign in or out, if that's what you mean. The full-timers have scheduled classes several times a week, and a note is made of attendance, but most of them are here a lot more often, using the facilities or just hanging around in the cafeteria or the bar.”
“They have their own bar?” Nick asks incredulously. “Jesus Christ, I made the wrong life choices. I should've come and dossed around at art school instead of actually doing something with my life.”