The Art of Dying

by Amy Cross

  Getting to my feet, I look out the window and spot Laura and the guy making their way up a set of steps, and after a moment they disappear through a door. My heart is racing, and I'm really starting to think that I made a mistake by coming here. Still, I've started now, so I might as well keep nosing around. I've always been good at overcoming my emotions, and while this is a huge challenge, that's no reason to shrink back.

  “So,” I say, turning to Miles and forcing myself to get on with things, “is there anyone here at the college who seems to be really into making art that focuses on death?”

  “Death?” He pauses. “Not really. Well, apart from...”

  I wait for him to finish.

  “Apart from what?” I ask.

  “I guess there's Vicky,” he says, indicating the bare space a few feet away. “I don't know if she's into death necessarily, but she's pretty fucking weird. Scurries around like a scared little mouse, barely even speaking to anyone else. Wouldn't surprise me if death was one of things.”

  “And where's her stuff?” I reply.

  “Who knows?” he says with a shrug. “She doesn't really talk to anyone else very much. I think she said something about working away from the campus and not needing the space here. Fuck knows what she's gonna turn up with for the final show. I mean...” He pauses for a moment. “I know this might sound weird, and I probably shouldn't say it at all, but if there was ever, like, a school shooting here, she'd totally be the one to do it.”

  “That's mean!” says one of the girls nearby, who's busy working on a canvas.

  “Deny it, bitch,” Miles replies.

  “Can't,” she adds, with a smile and a shrug.

  “Everyone here knows about Victoria,” Miles continues, “and everyone kinda avoids her. She just gives off bad vibes, you know? Like, we all kinda hold our breath when she comes into the room, 'cause the energy just seems to change. There's just this look in her eyes that makes you think she's got a bunch of really dark, fucked-up thoughts.”

  “Huh,” I reply, staring at the empty space for a moment, before turning to him. “So where can I find her?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Laura

  “If you want me to tell you that one of my students is some death-obsessed freak,” he says, with obvious scorn in his voice, “then I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you.”

  “Detective Foster,” Principal Livingstone says with a faint smile, “Detective Morgan, I'd like you to meet Mike Wallace, one of our senior staff members. Mike has been -”

  “I'm the third year final project supervisor,” he says, interrupting her as he folds his newspaper closed and removes his glasses. A short, round man with graying hair and a neat white beard, he clearly isn't very keen to talk to me. “I know my students very well, but I can assure you that I won't be betraying any confidences. I consider myself to be in a position not unlike that of a priest or a doctor, and my students trust me implicitly with their dreams, their hopes, their plans. It's a sacred bond, and I simply can't betray the little darlings. Even though I hate them so very much.”

  “I'm not asking you to tell us all their secrets,” I tell him. “It's just that we need to know if anyone has said anything that worries you.”

  “Constantly,” he replies. “Every damn one of them, and I wouldn't have it any other way.”

  “But have any of your students created artwork that disturbs you?”

  “They all have. They all mistake shock for value.”

  “Okay,” I reply with a sigh, “but have any of them done or said anything that makes you genuinely worried about their frame of mind?”

  “Of course. They're artists, for God's sake, not law students. Or rather, they're art students. Not artists yet, not by a long shot.”

  I open my mouth to ask another question, but it's clear that this approach isn't going to work. I don't know why, but Mike Wallace seems very defensive, and he clearly sees me as the enemy.

  “You have to understand,” he continues, “that you're in a different world here. When you enter the world of the artist, you enter a new realm, one where the usual rules of normality don't apply. Every single one of my students is disturbed in some way, but instead of marginalizing them for their uniqueness I seek to encourage their artistic sides. So if you've come here hoping to find a group of normal, well-adjusted young people with perhaps one or two freaks sticking out to merit your attention, then I'm afraid that you've been hopelessly naive and ill-informed.”

  Standing next to me, Nick sighs.

  “I'm trying to track down a killer,” I say, watching as Wallace starts gathering his things, as if he's already decided that the conversation is over and it's time for him to leave. “I have reason to believe that this individual might have links to the college, and I'd appreciate your assistance.”

  “You're very vanilla, aren't you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I can see it in your eyes,” he says with a smile, as he gets to his feet. “You don't belong in the art world. Your sensibilities are very normal and straight-laced. You're easily shocked by what we do here. You're down the rabbit hole, aren't you?”

  “I'm not sure about that,” I reply tersely, trying not to sound irritated.

  “It's okay,” he adds. “Not everyone can be an artist. Hell, most of the students can't even manage it.”

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a photo and hold it up for him to see. His eyes widen in horror as he registers the image of the stitched-together corpse.

  “That's not a piece of art,” I tell him, enjoying the sense of shock on his face. “That's an actual body that was found recently. You probably read about it in the news, but maybe seeing it will help you to focus.” I hold the photo up for a moment longer, before putting it away. “I'm sorry if that shocked you,” I add. “Not everyone can stomach that kind of thing.”

  “It's...” He pauses, clearly lost for words. “Beautiful, in its own way.”

  “You should see the other photos some time,” I mutter.

  “Detective Foster wants to know if any of the students have exhibited signs of disturbing behavior,” Principal Livingstone tells him. “I told her that she's barking up the wrong tree, but obviously she has to ask these questions. You know how seriously the authorities take their work, even when it's clear that they're heading down a dead end.”

  “Can I see the photo again?” he asks.

  “No,” I reply. “Please, just tell me if there's anything you've heard or seen over the past few days that makes you question the behavior of any of your students.”

  “Absolutely not,” he replies. “They're artists, not murderers.”

  “They could be both,” I point out.

  “But they're not,” he says firmly. “Trust me, I know each of them extremely well. They show me their work on a weekly basis, they discuss their plans and their concerns, they tell me how they're feeling and even then, I pick up more information about them than they care to let on. I can categorically assure you that none of them could ever do anything like that. Frankly, it would require more talent, inspiration and skill than they could all muster even if they pooled their limited abilities.”

  “What about -” Livingstone starts to say, before stopping herself.

  “What about what?” I ask.

  As I wait for an answer, I can't help but notice a knowing look between Livingstone and Wallace, as if they're both aware of some unspoken suggestion.

  “What about what?” I ask again, determined to get one of them to speak up.

  “I'm not going to get into scape-goating and typecasting,” Wallace says, clearly uncomfortable with the direction in which the conversation is heading.

  “What about Victoria Middleton?” Livingstone continues, with a hint of concern in her voice.

  As soon as he hears that name, Mike Wallace seems to become a little more nervous.

  “Who's Victoria Middleton?” I ask.

  “One of the third-year students
,” he says cautiously, “but just because she's trickier than the rest -”

  “She's almost a recluse,” Livingstone adds, interrupting him.

  “She's socially awkward,” Wallace continues, “and she keeps her work very much to herself, but that doesn't mean that she's a murderer. It just means that she's a bit strange, even by the standards of this place. What's that phrase that's so often used to describe ordinary people who do bad things? Oh, yes, I remember: she keeps herself to herself.”

  “What kind of work does she do?” I ask.

  “I don't really know,” he replies, with a faint sigh. “I mean, I make her show me sketches from time to time, when I can actually track her down. Like the rest of them, she's working on her final project for the show, but she seems determined to keep it to herself for now. God knows why, but some of the students can be a little difficult sometimes. They don't want anyone seeing what they're doing until they're finished. In Vicky's case, I'm just going to trust that she shows up for the final show with something that knocks my socks off. It's touch-and-go, I can assure you, but it's no skin off my nose if she falls by the wayside.”

  “She's a weird one,” Livingstone continues. “I feel bad saying that, but it's true.”

  “I've never really paid her very much attention,” Wallace adds. “You must understand, if just one out of a million students turns out to possess any talent, I would consider that to be a good result. Victoria Middleton is just a strange little creature who will no longer be my problem once the final show is over.”

  I glance at Nick, and I can see that he shares my concerns.

  “Where is she now?” Livingstone asks.

  “Who knows?” Wallace replies. “As I said, she tends to work alone, away from the campus. I used to try to make her work here more often, but eventually I realized that there was no point pushing her, so I gave her some slack. She's a slightly more original thinker than some of the others, although that's not saying much and anyway, she always has trouble expressing her ideas. She has the raw materials of talent, but no idea how to apply herself. Shame, really. Another one for the trash-heap.”

  “I'll need her details,” I say, turning to Livingstone. “Home address, contact information, that sort of thing.”

  “You can't be serious,” Wallace interjects. “Just because she's a little unusual, are you going to jump to the conclusion that she must be a murderer?”

  “Of course not,” I reply. “I'm just going to check her out, while I continue to take a look around the college. I can't afford to leave any stones unturned, not when there are lives at stake. Is it possible for me to see some of her earlier work?”

  “We have some on file,” Wallace replies, “but...” He turns to Livingstone, and it's clear that they're both worried about something.

  “Victoria Middleton has a history of producing some rather... striking work,” Livingstone says after a moment. “Detective Foster, we can show you Victoria's second year project, but first I need you to understand that it would be wrong to jump to conclusions. I'm quite certain that, underneath it all, she's actually a very sweet young woman.”

  “Maybe you'd better show us her work,” I reply, starting to feel that we might be onto something after all.

  ***

  “It's a pile of bullshit,” Nick says, with a hint of awe in his voice. After a moment, he turns to me. “I mean, that's literally what it is, right?”

  “I believe it's goat shit, actually,” Wallace replies. “From a farm somewhere in Essex.”

  We're standing in Mike Wallace's office, watching a video of what appears to be a large pile of manure, with steam slowly rising from its surface. The video has been running for a few minutes now, but nothing of note seems to be happening. There's a part of me that wants to find some kind of deep meaning in this work, but so far my only reaction is that I'm slightly embarrassed for the poor girl.

  “We were rather taken aback when she delivered it to the show,” Wallace acknowledges. “The smell alone was... Well, some of the other students complained that it rather interfered with their own work. Unfortunately, Victoria has never been someone who takes the needs of others into account. She does what she wants, and she expects everyone else to fit around her plans. Sometimes shyness can manifest as arrogance, and vice versa.”

  “No way,” Nick mutters, staring at the screen. “Please tell me she didn't get a passing grade for this.”

  “She received a distinction,” Wallace counters. “Beneath the pile of manure, she'd buried a very lifelike model of her own naked body. The nudity part wasn't particularly original, to be honest. If I had a quid for every student who strips off to the buff in an attempt to seem provocative, I'd be a very rich man. But Victoria wrote a very convincing essay detailing her reasoning this particular approach. I've got to be honest, I'm excited to see what she comes up with for the final show.”

  “Do you happen to know where she might be right now?” I ask.

  “She should be in the main studio,” he replies, “but I don't think she's been there for weeks. Not for more than a few minutes at a time, anyway. She usually works off-campus, but sometimes she comes in during the mornings to use the machine room. It's always worth a look, but...” He pauses. “When you speak to her, there's something you should probably be aware of first. She has a tendency to...”

  I wait for him to continue.

  “To what?” I ask eventually.

  “It's kind of awkward, actually,” he continues. “Just remember that it's not your fault, okay? It's just the way she is. In fact, she does it almost all the time.”

  ***

  “It's okay, Victoria,” I tell her as we sit in Wallace's office a little while later. “Take your time. We really only want to ask you a few very simple questions.”

  Seated on the other side of the desk, Victoria Middleton continues to sob. Nick and I have only been talking to her for a couple of minutes, but she immediately burst into tears before we could even get our first question out. Her attempts to speak have been mostly unsuccessful, punctuated every few words by a kind of sobbing whine. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, I reach over to the box of tissues, pull one out, and hold it out for her.

  “Take this,” I tell her.

  With her tear-filled eyes already looking red and sore, she takes the tissue and starts dabbing at her face. She's a fragile-looking girl who has the appearance of someone who couldn't hurt a fly, but Mike Wallace was right when he said that she bursts into tears at the slightest provocation. Since we found her in one of the machine rooms and asked her to come and have a chat with us, she's been cycling through various states of distress, ranging from brief sniffles to all-out bawling. To say that she seems emotionally unstable would be an understatement.

  I glance over at Nick and see the annoyed look on his face. He's never been the sympathetic type.

  “So, Victoria,” I continue, forcing a smile in an attempt to make her realize that she's not in trouble. “We're really only here to ask around and see if anyone can help us with a case we're working on. You're just one of many, many people we'll be talking to today, okay? You're not under any suspicion.”

  She nods, but her bottom lip is trembling and it's clear that she's on the verge of another collapse.

  “What do you know,” Nick continues, “about the discovery that was made in the woods near the college yesterday?”

  She shakes her head.

  “You don't know anything?” he asks.

  She mumbles something, but her quiet words are distorted by the tears and it's starting to become clear that this whole interview is going nowhere.

  “What about an incident in Trafalgar Square recently?” I add. “Are you aware that a body was found up on the fourth plinth? It's been all over the news for days.”

  She nods.

  “So tell us about your final year project,” Nick says, evidently keen to get to the heart of the matter.

  She turns to him, with tears still streaming from
her eyes.

  “What is it?” he continues. “I'm into art and all that stuff. We saw your other work earlier, the one with the big pile of manure and stuff. It was... cool. So what are you up to this year? Got something cool lined up to knock everyone's socks off, have you?”

  “It's...” She pauses, before her bottom lip starts trembling again and she bursts into yet more tears.

  We sit in silence for a moment, as she tries to compose herself.

  “It's stupid, really,” she continues eventually. “It's just... Why are you asking me? Are you talking to everyone?”

  “Yes,” I tell her, at the exact same moment that Nick says “No.”

  She looks shocked.

  “We only just arrived,” I continue. “We're just trying to get a handle on things, that's all.”

  “You think I'm a killer?” she asks.

  “No, it's just -”

  Before I can finish, she bursts into tears again.

  Nick turns to me, and I can see that he thinks this whole situation is hopeless. To be fair, he's probably the worst person to bring to a place like this, since he tends to see the world in black and white, while having precious little time for people who aren't strictly logical and down-to-earth.

  “Do you want to have a word outside for a moment?” I ask, getting up. “Hang on, Victoria. We just need to discuss something in the corridor.”

  As soon as we're out of the room and I've pulled the door shut, I turn to Nick.

  “What do you think?”

  “She's a mess,” he replies.

  “But is there any way she could actually be the person we're looking for?”

  He opens his mouth to reply, but he pauses for a moment before eventually he sighs. “Can't write her off completely,” he says, “but... No. Blatantly not. I mean, I know it's dangerous to start saying that certain people are or aren't capable of murder, but she's a wimp. I doubt she could kill an ant without crying a river.” He pauses. “What about you?”

  “I think we should check her out,” I tell him. “Her background, her activities -”