The Death Pictures (14 page)

She knew what some of the male detectives thought of her. ‘Lezzer’ was the word she’d overheard. She smiled grimly. Let them have their snide little jibes and gossips. Because she didn’t wear tight tops, loads of make up, flirt with them and join in their pathetic banter, she was a lezzer. No, she was a professional, and proud of it.

* * *

Anyway, wasn’t it better that was how they thought? At least then they left her alone. And what did they know? They wouldn’t know was the answer, certainly not how she’d met Adrian. It wasn’t easy, meeting people in her job. The hours were long and unpredictable and some men ran a mile when they found out you were a detective. But he hadn’t. A warm and caring man, handsome too in an odd way. Six months now it’d been, and going strong. She allowed herself a small, warming smile. Buying that computer had been such a good move.

The case, back to the case. So the ex-partners were out. Where next then?

They were looking for a trigger. Release from prison, the usual one, had shown up nothing. Anyway, they knew their man wasn’t a registered offender. His DNA profile didn’t match anyone on the database. They knew too now that he wasn’t HIV positive, one small mercy at least for his victims. Known criminals moving into the area had shown up nothing either. All the local sex offenders had been checked and ruled out.

So they’d gone back over the local divorces and settlements, Family Court custody cases and Child Support Agency claims for the whole of the past year. It was a depressingly long list. The teams had worked through most of it yesterday, but there were still some outstanding names. They would have to be checked. That would be the priority.

He could be in there, but then again, it was just the list of the broken relationships they knew about. If the rapist was motivated by hate for women, and it grew from a bust up with someone he was living with but had no children, it wouldn’t show up on any paperwork, would it? True, true, but that didn’t help. They’d have to start on the leads they’d got, not worry about those they didn’t have. Not yet, at least.

Then there was Fathers for Families to be seen. The teams hadn’t got round to them yesterday, but they would have to be a priority too. Today if possible. That was enough thinking for now. Too much could overcome you. It was time for action. She picked up the phone to call Claire.

* * *

Lizzie was fizzing.

‘I knew it was going to be a good day,’ she buzzed. ‘Listening to that interview you did on the radio this morning was touching.’ Dan wasn’t taking much notice, but did she say touching? The only thing she usually found moving was a surge in the programme’s ratings.

‘He was quite a guy. I’m glad I decided to put you on it. I’m looking forward to seeing it,’ she went on, her thin lips almost forming a smile. ‘And the kids got off to school this morning without a single hitch. No lost lunchboxes, or coats or anything. That never happens.’

Dan sat at his desk in the newsroom, wishing she’d leave him alone to get on with it. He wanted to start thinking about how he was going to put today’s story together. There were two separate strands. The police investigation into McCluskey’s death and the obituary. Two distinct reports probably? It seemed the best way. He noticed the doodle he was sketching on his notebook looked like the mobile in the first of the Death Pictures.

‘And wow, what if he has been murdered?’ He realised Lizzie hadn’t stopped. ‘What a story. The ratings will soar. Let’s hope the investigation goes on for ages, and then there’s a court case. That’d be great. I want wall-to-wall coverage. I want daily updates. I want us to be the McCluskey station. I want… Where are you going?’

Dan hit the log out button on his computer, got up from his chair and reached for his satchel.

‘I’ve got to go out. We need some more filming.’ She eyed him suspiciously, a three-inch heel twisting into the long suffering carpet. He’d have to do better than that. ‘As you said, it’s a great story and I want to get on with it. I want to make sure we do the best we possibly can. I’ve got a feeling that McCluskey’s fans will have started gathering at his studio.’

An eyebrow arched. ‘Go on then. What are you waiting for? We’ll talk again later.’

It had become the fashion in grieving and as Nigel drove them onto the Barbican, Dan saw his guess was right. It wasn’t yet half past nine, but there was already a crowd of thirty or forty onlookers outside McCluskey’s studio. A couple hugged each other. Several people were staring up at the building in silent reflection. Others laid flowers or copies of the Death Pictures with messages attached to them. Most of the flowers were bluebells, creating a necklace of living colour around the grey stone of the studio walls.

Dan wandered over to the surf shop while Nigel took some shots from the ground. ‘Same deal as last time?’ he asked the manager. ‘Done,’ came the instant reply. They were given a coffee each too as they looked down on the crowd which had now swollen to about a hundred. ‘Come back anytime,’ the man said as they left. ‘We had quite a few people popping in after the last report.’

Nigel got down on his knees to film some low shots of the bluebells and prints. Dan overheard someone saying that the flowers featured in one of McCluskey’s best-known paintings. He jotted it down to check and put in his report. He read a couple of the messages while Nigel filmed, and had an idea. It was a big story. Tonight’s programme would get a great audience, so… It was only right he should appear in person.

Dan clipped the small radio microphone onto his jacket and tucked the cigarette packet sized transmitter into an inner pocket. Nigel manipulated the receiver into place on the back of his camera. Radio microphones were great for the flexibility of being able to talk while walking around unrestricted by cables.

‘Hearing you loud and clear,’ called Nigel, adjusting his headphones. ‘Go ahead.’

Dan knelt by the flowers. ‘It’s a spontaneous tribute to a much-loved artist,’ he ad-libbed. ‘Some of the messages are touching. One says simply ‘You brought colour to my life.’ It’s signed Louise. Another, ‘Your riddle has stumped me, but I’ve enjoyed many happy hours trying to crack it. Thank you. Andy.’ And here, this one, from Sue says, ‘Go paint the heavens in peace great artist.’’

Nigel shot a couple more close-ups of the flowers and cards, then they did a quick interview with some of the people. It took three, all talking rest in peace and what a great man before Dan got what he expected. As if on cue, a young woman broke down into sobs. The image, and her words, summed up the shock and loss of the story.

As Nigel drove them back to the studios, Dan debated what to do about Kerry. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He’d have to call her. She was expecting commitment, romance, wining and dining, and he didn’t want to. It was as simple as that.

He looked down accusingly at his nether regions. Another fine mess you’ve got me into, he thought, shifting uncomfortably in the car’s seat. Some ‘research’ at the Waterside, with the Death Pictures and a session with El was what he fancied. But if he didn’t take Kerry out, it wouldn’t exactly look good, would it? ‘I’ve had my fun, thanks. Now goodbye,’ would be what she’d think. And would she be so wrong?

He called her number and the phone rang. How about a compromise? Take her out tonight, get it out of the way, do the beer thing tomorrow? He’d rather have a quiet night in, but he had promised. Damn what remained of his conscience.

‘Hi, Kerry, it’s me.’

‘Hi! Great to hear from you.’

Oh balls, he thought, she sounds delighted. But he noticed he still didn’t feel any guilt.

‘So, you fancy some dinner then?’ Dan thought he managed to make his voice sound passably keen.

‘Lovely! When?’

‘Tonight?’

A slight hesitation. She’d been expecting tomorrow when she had more time to get ready, perhaps even wanted to spend some of the day with him. It was what they’d done when they were newly together, enjoying the excitement of discovering each other. But that hadn’t lasted long.

‘I was hoping to do tomorrow so we could have more time,’ Dan added hurriedly. ‘But I’ve got to work on the McCluskey case. It’s a big story for us.’

A familiar excuse he thought, but at least this time it contained a slice of truth.

‘Sure,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll get a taxi and pick you up on the way. About eight?’

‘Great. Look forward to seeing you.’ He was relieved to hang up.

Dan heard a giggle building beside him. He tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t stop.

‘Yes, Nigel?’ he said warily.

‘She doesn’t know you very well, does she?’

‘Meaning?’

‘You sounded like you were arranging your own execution, not a date.’

‘Just drive us back to base,’ replied Dan.

Matt Rees had been the South-west’s biggest news story for half of January. A low pressure system hung over the country and the wind and weather were being sucked in from Siberia. The temperature lurked just above freezing in the daytime, a few degrees below at night. It was the middle of the month, the time psychologists say is the most depressing of the year. The long, sweet holiday and celebrations of Christmas lingered only in extra weight on thousands of waistlines. The bills for the fortnight of excess were ominous in the post. The days were short and rejuvenating sunlight scarce. Summer was a distant and unconvincing prospect.

Rees had added to the gloom of motorists by bringing them a New Year’s present of long and frustrating traffic jams. He’d spent 10 days on top of one of the concrete towers of the Tamar Bridge, the main road link between Devon and Cornwall, dressed as Batman. One of the three lanes had been closed in case he fell or dropped some of the tins of food he carried. The tailbacks, particularly in the rush hours, had lasted for hours. At a time of year when other stories were scarce, journalists had been secretly delighted by his protest. He’d filled hundreds of newspaper pages and hours of radio and TV airtime.

‘It really made an impact that did. I won’t apologise you know. I happily admit it, but I won’t apologise. It was just what we needed to get some attention to the corruption and prejudice against fathers in our system. I’m going to stand for parliament in the next election and I bet I get some good support. At the very least it’ll force the other candidates to think about children and access issues. And another thing…’

‘Mr Rees!’ Suzanne cut in. ‘I’ve told you. I’m not here to talk to you about that.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I thought when you said you were from the police…’

‘It’s your work as co-ordinator for Fathers for Families I’d like to talk to you about.’

‘Oh.’ He looked at her again, his expression relaxing. ‘In that case, would you like a cup of tea?’

Suzanne accepted. It would give her a break to think. He got up from the chair in the kitchen of the advertising agency in Plymouth city centre and put the kettle on. He had receding blond hair, nearly gone at the temple, and was a tall man, six feet plus. He was thin with it, almost gaunt. No superhero this, she couldn’t imagine him filling a Batman costume convincingly. No rapist either, the description didn’t match.

‘Mr Rees, I appreciate your help,’ she said, taking the mug, but refusing the offer of sugar. She usually liked a spoonful but had cut it out from her diet. She was trying to lose weight, keep trim for Adrian. ‘And I’d appreciate your confidence,’ she went on. ‘As I told you, we’re hunting this rapist and we believe he may have a dislike of women.’

Suzanne leaned forwards towards him and lowered her voice like a fellow conspirator, a trick she’d learnt from Adam Breen. ‘Could you tell me if anyone has recently joined your group and seems particularly angry? Or if anyone who has been a member for a while has suddenly changed, become more embittered perhaps? Said something odd? Particularly against women?’

Matt Rees had copied her lean forward, but now shifted back on his chair. ‘You’re asking me to talk about some of my friends here,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s difficult. I have a duty of loyalty to them, but I’d also do anything I could to help you catch this man.’

He looked down at the ground, interlaced his fingers and stretched his hands. ‘Difficult,’ he repeated.

Suzanne said nothing. She could see the man had something to tell her, but wasn’t sure whether he needed pushing, persuading or just being given time. An unexpected nudge of nerves hit her.

‘Look,’ he said, raising his head. ‘All of the people I know in Fathers for Families are non-violent. We only break the law because we feel we have no choice, and we only do so peacefully.’ She nodded, sensed this wasn’t the time to begin a debate. ‘So I think it’s OK to tell you. There is just one man I worry about. Do you need a name?’

Suzanne nodded again, trying to disguise her excitement. She scribbled quickly on her notepad.

‘He’s called Will, Will Godley. He works at the dockyard. He’s always the one we have to keep an eye on. He’s been in a bitter dispute with his ex-wife over access to his sons. He’s full of rage and just lately it seems to have got worse, quite a lot worse. He’s been saying we should step up our campaign and do something that really gets noticed.’

Matt Rees hesitated as though wondering whether to let the words go. Finally he blurted out, ‘He said it was time we showed women we can fight back against them.’

He’d had to argue hard to hold on to both reports, but Dan didn’t want anyone else writing them. It was his story. Plus he didn’t have a great regard for the other reporters. Most of his colleagues were competent in putting facts together in a pattern, but couldn’t make the elusive jump between information and understanding. They could tell you what happened, but struggle with why it was important. He hushed the sarcastic voice in his mind that said it was because he wanted all the glory too.