The Art of Dying

by Amy Cross

  Suddenly I realize that the people at the next table are staring at me. In fact, I seem to be drawing attention from several tables.

  “Forget it,” I add, suddenly feeling like an idiot. “Just forget everything.”

  I make my way between the tables and head to the door, and then I hurry into the bathroom and finally I lock myself into one of the cubicles. Leaning back against the wall, I take a deep breath and try to regather my composure. Miles isn't the first idiot I've ever met, but usually I can laugh these things off. I have no idea why I suddenly got so angry, but I guess it might have something to do with the fact that he seemed so completely oblivious when it comes to Victoria. Five years ago, I was exactly like her: I was quiet and maybe a little weird, and I'm sure people talked about me in the same way that Miles just talked about Victoria.

  It's not fair. None of this is fair.

  And that's when I realize, with a sense of mounting horror, what's really happening here. First Laura, now Victoria. Against my better judgment, almost against my will, I'm doing the one thing I always promised myself I'd never do again. I'm making friends. Fucked-up friends with serious psychological problems, but definitely friends.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Laura

  “This is good stuff,” Joe Lewis says as he types some more notes on his laptop. “The only thing I don't get is why you're coming to me now. Of all the people in the world, why give me the exclusive?”

  “I felt sorry for you,” I reply as we sit in a coffee shop near the police station. “I heard you got fired last year.”

  “It was that homeless girl you were hanging around with,” he mutters. “She tricked me into running a bullshit story about her, and then the paper got a bunch of legal threats and they let me go. I've been freelance ever since.”

  “And how's the freelance life?” I ask.

  “It sucks. I'm thinking of trying to write a book. Either that or maybe getting into blogging or...” He sighs. “Clearly I'm making good use of my Journalism degree, eh?”

  “Then be grateful that I'm bringing you this story,” I continue. “Bryony Hawthorne is a student at the art college and her fingerprints were all over the body of the dead lecturer. That's B, R, Y, O, N, Y by the way. Make sure to spell her name right. And use the photo I gave you. I want her face and name plastered over every website by dinner, and I want that photo to be on the front page of every newspaper in the country tomorrow morning.”

  “And you're certain she's the killer?” he asks, making some more notes.

  “Fingerprints don't lie.”

  “But are the -”

  “I'm certain,” I continue, figuring that I really need to sell this to him. Besides, once the shit hits the fan, he won't be able to prove that I fed him the information. Hanging a rat like Joe Lewis out to dry is the least of my problems. “Bryony Hawthorne is responsible for the stitched-together body in Trafalgar Square and the murder of Mike Wallace. This isn't supposition or rumor, this is fact, and the only reason I'm passing it to you this way instead of through official channels is that I need to get a few wheels turning. You know how bureaucracy works.”

  “I could use a photo of Wallace's body.”

  “You know I can't do that,” I reply.

  “Photos drive media interest,” he points out. “I'll censor out the gross parts, but after the leaks from the first murder, the great British public demands visual proof. Pictures or it didn't happen, yeah?”

  “Then you'll just have to make the story particularly compelling, so that the readers can visualize the whole thing in their heads.”

  “Worth a try,” he mutters.

  “So do we have a deal?”

  “I can sell this,” he replies. “I'll write it up at lunchtime and I guarantee I can get it into one of the red-tops tomorrow, probably on the front page. It's got all the things they like. Death, something a bit spicy, a photogenic young woman with blood on her hands. That Bryony Hawthorne's a bit of a looker, isn't she?” He pauses. “Maybe she's got some nudes online somewhere. I know a guy who knows a guy who can hack into phones and email.”

  “And the guy he knows is you?”

  “I'm just saying, it might be worth checking out.”

  “Classy as ever?” I reply.

  “Market-driven journalism. That's all it is.”

  “I need the story to get out as soon as possible,” I tell him. “Tomorrow morning is too late.”

  “They'll have it on their website by early evening. This could really be the story that gets me back into the business. People laughed at me last year, but I always knew I'd manage to get back on the horse.”

  I smile politely, but the truth is, I actually feel a little sorry for him. Last year, Joe Lewis thought he'd got a scoop when he published a story revealing Ophelia's true identity, only for the whole thing to fall apart. Now he's finally getting a second chance, but again he's going to be made to look like an idiot within a few days. Then again, I guess he should be more careful, and he should check his facts a little more thoroughly before he submits his work. It's a dog-eat-dog world.

  “So what happened to that Ophelia bitch anyway?” he asks.

  “No idea.”

  “She just vanished back into the homeless world, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Probably freezing to death in some gutter,” he adds. “Either that, or whoring herself out for a bite of someone's sandwich. I could always tell she was a bit of a fucking rat.”

  I smile politely, even though I want to pour hot coffee in his lap.

  “I wouldn't mind another crack at her some day,” he continues. “She's the only investigation I've ever screwed up. I mean, I didn't exactly underestimate her, but I still didn't think she'd surrounded herself with so many layers of bullshit. Kinda makes me think that she must be hiding something pretty dark. How much do you know about her background?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Not even her real name?”

  “I told you, I don't know anything.”

  “People don't just cut off their past like that unless they've got something to hide.” He pauses. “She must have done something, something really bad. All the effort she's gone to in order to create a whole new identity for herself... Whatever's gone on in her life, she can't run from it forever. Someone's gonna find out some day.”

  “This isn't about Ophelia.”

  “Do you know how I could get in touch with her?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “And you seriously haven't heard a peep from her?”

  “Shouldn't you be getting on with this exclusive?” I ask him as I finish my coffee. “After all, I can't guarantee that it won't leak out some other way.” Getting to my feet, I grab my coat and bag. “Just remember that you didn't hear any of this from me, okay? If anyone ever asks, I'll deny speaking to you.” I turn to walk away, before realizing that there's one more thing I want to ask him. “By the way,” I add, “last year, when you were investigating Ophelia, did you ever go to her hospital room?”

  “No,” he replies, as he continues to type.

  “So you didn't go and visit her and leave some Smarties behind for her?”

  He turns to me. “What are you on about?”

  “Nothing,” I reply, figuring that Ophelia's mysterious hospital visitor must have been someone else. Either that, or it's just a figment of her imagination. “Good luck with the story. I've got a feeling this is really going to define your name in the industry.”

  ***

  “Did he buy it?” Nick asks as I get into the car.

  “Hook, line and sinker,” I tell him. “How's the hangover?”

  “How do you think?” he asks, taking another painkiller and washing it down with the coffee I've brought out to him. “I hope you know that if my head wasn't throbbing, I'd probably be far less willing to indulge this madness.”

  “It's not madness,” I reply. “Joe Lewis is going to get that story out to the tabloids. By tonight, Bryony
Hawthorne is going to be all over the internet, labeled as one of Britain's most notorious serial killers. The real murderer, meanwhile, is going to think that we're off the scent, and that's when he's going to start moving forward with whatever he's got planned for the final show at the art college. He'll think we're not watching, but we'll be everywhere.”

  “And if he kills someone?”

  “He won't,” I continue. “Like I said, we've already got the whole place under surveillance. Cameras, security teams, the whole deal. If anyone so much as sneezes within two hundred feet of that college over the next couple of days, I'm going to have it on file.”

  “That doesn't mean we'll definitely get him. Remember, we're dealing with someone who managed to get a corpse up onto a plinth in Trafalgar Square.”

  “This killer is smart,” I point out, “and our only hope is to pull the rug from under his feet. He thinks we're all going to be out celebrating the end of the case tonight, and he thinks security at the college is going to be scaled down. We're playing right into his hands and offering him the chance to finish his plan. There's no way he'll pass on that chance. This is what he's been waiting for, building up to. He probably sees it as his crowning achievement.”

  “I hope you're right,” he replies, “because this has the potential to totally blow up in our faces. I mean, if another body shows up, or multiple bodies, we're going to look like complete idiots, and no-one's going to believe that the Bryony Hawthorne situation was a set-up.” He pauses. “You realize that if this goes wrong, we're going to be in deep shit, right? I could get a slap on the wrist, but with your history... You'd be dead in the water, Laura. Even Halveston wouldn't be able to protect you if people like Adams were after your blood. Are you sure you can handle the pressure?”

  “I'm fine with pressure,” I tell him. “Hell, I'm fine with whatever it takes to catch the killer.”

  Reaching into my pocket, I take out my phone and bring up Ophelia's number. When I try to call her, however, the number rings for a short while before going through to voicemail. This is the seventh time I've tried to get hold of her over the past few hours, but she remains frustratingly unresponsive.

  “Who are you trying to get in touch with?” Nick asks.

  “No-one,” I mutter, putting my phone away. “It doesn't matter.”

  Taking a deep breath, I tell myself that Ophelia's probably hard at work squirreling out some new leads. Anyway, I don't need her help. As long as Joe Lewis does his job, I'm sure the plan will work just fine. Sure, Lewis will end up with his career in tatters, but after his attempt to expose Ophelia last year, I figure he deserves everything he gets and more. The only thing that matters is that this killer is apprehended before anyone else gets hurt.

  “Now what?” Nick asks.

  “Now Bryony Hawthorne appears before a magistrate,” I tell him, “and everyone thinks the case has been solved. And then we wait for the real killer to make a mistake.”

  “And if he doesn't?”

  “He will,” I say firmly, even though I can feel myself starting to panic now that the wheels have been set in motion. “I'm sure of it. We're turning his own trap back on him.”

  ***

  “You have no idea how long this took,” Tricia says as she dumps a huge pile of papers on my desk. “Four hundred and sixty-seven art students, all background-checked and then located using mobile phone signals backdated to the time of Mike Wallace's murder. I had some help of course, but still, I think this is a world record.”

  “Thank you so much,” I reply, taking a look at the top sheet. “Did you find anything?”

  “For four hundred and sixty-six of them,” she continues, “we managed to pretty much clear them on the background checks alone, plus mobile phone records put them far away from the church hall last night. The same phone records indicate that they were all, most likely, actively using their devices at the time, or at least on the move. In other words, we can pretty conclusively state that they don't have anything to do with the murder. Turns out, most students these days live pretty boring lives. Not like back in our day. Well, my day anyway. College was kinda wild.”

  “Four hundred and sixty-six?” I ask. “What about the four hundred and sixth-seventh?”

  “Victoria Middleton,” she replies, pulling a final sheet from her pocket and handing it to me. “She's a little more tricky. Her registered address turns out to be a coffee shop, and we can't track down a mobile phone number for her. If she's got a phone, it's a burner or an anonymous pay-as-you-go card. No email either, apart from a college account that she hasn't accessed since last year.”

  “What about financial records?”

  “Apparently she doesn't even have a bank account. I'm starting to wonder if she's homeless, maybe living in a squat somewhere.”

  “Just like...” I pause before I let the rest of the sentence leave my lips.

  “I don't think there's much else we can do to track her down,” Tricia continues. “Still, it's pretty suspicious, isn't it?”

  “I've met her,” I reply, staring at the scan of Victoria's college identification card. “She was a nervous wreck.”

  “Does that mean she can't be the killer?”

  “Not at all,” I mutter, thinking back to how easily I let Nick talk me out of the idea. “Nick and I could barely get a word out of her, without her collapsing into floods of tears.”

  “Doesn't sound like a murderer to me.”

  “Maybe not,” I reply. “I think we need to broaden the search and start looking at staff members. Everyone from the top down, including the principal.”

  “Are you sure you don't want to consider the possibility that it's someone who's not directly linked to the college?”

  “Not yet,” I reply, even though I'm keenly aware that we're running out of time. “It has to be someone from Beacon Court.”

  “A couple of hours ago,” she points out, “you were convinced it had to be a student.” She pauses for a moment. “Fine. I'll see what I can dig up on the teachers, but you owe me a drink. Lots of drinks, actually.” She heads to the door. “In fact, just one drink's fine, on the condition that you come with me.”

  Once she's left the room, I lean back and try to work out what the hell I'm supposed to do next. I was convinced that we'd be able to link one of the students to Mike Wallace's murder, but now it looks like I'll have to think again. Staring at the photo of Victoria Middleton, I find myself contemplating the possibility – however remote – that she might be the killer. Sure, Victoria comes across as being a hyper-awkward, socially inept girl who bursts into tears at the slightest provocation, but I guess that doesn't mean she can't also be a killer.

  What if my initial instinct was right and I allowed Nick to talk me out of it?

  Grabbing my phone, I try once again to get through to Ophelia. Everyone thinks I'm taking too much of a risk, but they don't realize that I've got a secret weapon up my sleeve. Ophelia's my back-up plan, and I need to make sure she's in place.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Ophelia

  “Busy,” I mutter, as my phone rings in my pocket. I figure it's just Laura calling for an update, in which case I'll get back to her as soon as I've got any news to report.

  Making my way up the stairs in the empty building, I can already hear Victoria hammering away at something in her workspace. When she shot out of the canteen earlier, I could tell that something was wrong, and it seems that she's busying herself with her final project. I remember the days when I was the same: I'd try to ignore my problems and focus instead on various crazy ideas, none of which ever really went anywhere. Victoria's upset about something, and I need to find out what's on her mind.

  “Hey,” I say as I enter the room.

  She looks over at me. Kneeling on the floor, she's in the process of putting together another of her resin figures. After a moment, instead of answering, she gets back to work. I watch for a moment as she uses her sculpting knife to carve faint grooves into the
model's face. I have no idea exactly what she's doing, but she seems to be working according to her own private sense of logic. I know the feeling.

  “So are you going to be finished in time?” I ask, making my way over to her. “You have to get everything in position by midnight tonight, don't you?”

  “They've given us an extension until the morning,” she replies as she puts the knife down and starts hammering a nail into the model's neck. “They're also letting us use an old studio in one of the other buildings all night so people can work in there. It's not exactly ideal for everyone, but apparently it's the best they can do. There's gonna be a security guard, so it's not like anything can happen. I guess they think we're all upset about Mr. Wallace's death.”

  “And are you?”

  She looks at me again.

  “It's sad,” she says after a moment, before resuming her work.

  “At least they've caught the killer,” I point out, watching as she bangs the head of the hammer over and over again against the nail. “It's pretty weird to think that it was Bryony. I never thought she'd be able to pull something like that off. Still, I guess she must be smarter than anyone realized. She's kinda already won the final show's top prize, don't you think?”

  “No, she -”

  Before she can finish, Victoria misses with the hammer and crunches the head straight into the side of her hand. She lets out a cry of pain and pulls back, dropping the hammer against the floor.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, hurrying over to her.

  “I'm fine,” she mutters, getting to her feet and rushing to the sink. She runs her hand under some tap water, and although there's a little blood, it quickly becomes apparent that the injury is only superficial. “I'm good,” she adds, clenching and unclenching her fist a few times, as if to check for any damage. “I'm just tired, that's all. I've been building up to tomorrow for a long time and I've barely slept all week.”