The Death Pictures (24 page)

Adam sat down opposite Kid, who stared at him but didn’t speak. ‘So, for the last time Mr Kiddey, this is how it goes. This is your last chance to tell us the truth. Are you ready?’

Still the man said nothing. ‘You went round there at half past seven...’ began Adam.

‘No! No, I’ve told you that.’ His voice was thin, panicked. ‘It was more like ten to eight.’

‘Mrs McCluskey told us you were due to go round at half past seven and that you were usually on time. So round you go…’

‘It was ten to eight... ten to eight.’

‘And you have some wine and you have a chat. And Mr McCluskey tells you the little thing he wanted to get off his chest. That he’s going to reveal all, about you copying his idea for that sculpture of yours…’

‘No! No! No… No…’

‘...and it panics you, doesn’t it? You panic, because you thought it’d all been forgotten about. And you can see yourself ruined, your precious reputation destroyed. So you come up with a plan. Was there a knife on the sideboard in front of you, Mr Kiddey? In the rack in the kitchen? Was that what gave you the idea?’

‘No! No, I didn’t. No there wasn’t, no…’

‘So you grab the knife and force poor Joseph upstairs. It’s not too difficult, is it? He’s a very weak man. But you have to pull him, and he stumbles a couple of times. We know, Mr Kiddey, because we found the bruises. They tell the story. You pull him upstairs, then you force him into the bath. You cut his wrists and hold him there…’

‘No!’ Kid jumped up off his chair, and stood trembling. Adam stood as well, the two men facing each other over the table. ‘You held him there while he died, Kiddey, didn’t you? We know, we found bruises on his shoulders and the back of his neck, the bruises where you held him as you watched him die...’

‘No! No! No!’ Kid backed away from the table, shaking his head. His eyes were wild, darting around as if looking desperately for an escape from this place. ‘No! No!’

‘And then you wiped the knife handle, didn’t you? You wiped it clean of your fingerprints. Then you held it in a towel and pressed poor Joseph’s hand around it so it looked like he’d killed himself. And then you called us, didn’t you? You called us to tell us of your shock… your horror… at what you’d found.’

Kid backed away to the cold brick wall, his palms flat against it as though he were pushing, trying to get as far away from Adam as possible.

‘No, no… I went round... I found him... I’m a peaceful man... He was my friend...’

‘It was a good plan, Mr Kiddey,’ said Adam, sitting down, his voice calmer now. ‘A clever plan. But you made two mistakes. Just two, but enough for us to know the truth. Abi was devoted to Joseph you see. She told us he’d never kill himself without telling her. Without having her there in fact. But just on the strength of that, you might have got away with it. A good barrister could have convinced a jury that people change their minds. It can happen. Especially people who are very sick, delirious perhaps with morphine and wine, who don’t want their loved ones to have to go through the trauma of watching them die. You might have got away with it.’

Adam’s voice grew quieter now, the words spelt out slowly. Dan leaned forwards to hear.

‘But you made one very big mistake, Mr Kiddey. You missed a fingerprint, high up on the knife handle. It’s what they call the killer fact, isn’t it? How appropriate here, eh? The killer fact that convicts the killer. Just the one print, and right up on the very edge of the handle. Not much of a mistake, but enough. It’s that print which will have you sent down for murder, Mr Kiddey. It’ll see you spending the rest of your life in jail.’

Kid stood, back flat against the wall, his palms still spread out against it. His mouth hung open, but he said nothing. His chest was heaving.

Adam waited. Dan held his breath, knew what was coming. The room was silent, still.

Ten seconds crawled by, then twenty, thirty. Finally Adam spoke. ‘Lewis Kiddey, I’m charging you with the murder of Joseph McCluskey…’

Dan got home just before eleven. He was too tired to do anything but slump in front of the television with a cup of decaffeinated coffee and a chunk of badly buttered bread. The spread stood out in random yellow lumps, like icebergs at sea. It was only when he started to eat he realised he was hungry.

Rutherford padded over to nuzzle him and he cuddled the dog, telling him about his day as he always did. ‘We’re like an old married couple, my faithful friend,’ he said. ‘Well, we got it on air. I didn’t get back into the building until 10.15, but we managed to get it on. That bloody Adam Breen is doing my heart in.’

Rutherford stretched out on the carpet in front of him. Dan rubbed his ears and told him how Lewis Kiddey had been charged with murder, how he’d had to run into the studio to do another live report. The dog looked up and yawned. Dan chuckled, then yawned too. ‘Am I boring you? But good idea. It’s time for some much-needed kip. First though, a little stretch out here on the sofa to unwind.’

Fatal he thought, as he woke just after one with a throbbing pain in his neck. Never ‘just close your eyes for a few minutes.’ You’re guaranteed to flake out into the blackness of sleep. ‘Come on dog, proper bedtime,’ he said.

Dan let Rutherford out into the garden and began cleaning his teeth. He turned on the little bathroom portable radio to hear the news. It was covered in toothpaste stains. He must get round to cleaning it some time, he thought. The whole flat could do with a good clean, but when did he have a chance? The charging of Kid was running as second story, behind a political row about pensions.

Perhaps he would get a cleaner in. He was sure he’d seen an advert for a local firm who did good hourly rates. But would they take him on with Rutherford here? The dog was soft as putty, but could look intimidating if you didn’t know him.

Dan put the toothbrush back in the cracked mug by the sink. Then he saw it, sitting on the little rack of books beside the toilet. The Oxford English Dictionary of Quotations. He’d almost forgotten in all that had happened today, but now it came back to him. Sitting in McCluskey’s living room, looking around for clues. Could the book contain a hint about the solution to the riddle?

He sat down on the edge of the bath and leafed through the pages. Auden, Bacon, Bible, Browning. Page 98, the first author listed there. Robert Browning.

Did it mean something? It could do. Maybe even had to. He checked Browning’s first quotation on the page.

‘Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things.’

And the last one too.

‘I find earth not grey, but rosy.’

He stared at the lines until the words, blurred, lost their meaning. Dan blinked them back into focus. Surely that had to mean something? It couldn’t be a coincidence. The book prominent in McCluskey’s living room, and two references to burrowing and earth on page 98. So could it mean dig somewhere that the pictures made reference to? Or even that something was built there? It had to, surely?

Dan let his mind run through the Death Pictures. So what building? Or dig where? He tried to focus on the images, but his brain was vague with fatigue. Tomorrow, he could work on it tomorrow. He felt a nudge of excitement. At last, he had a lead. But for now he needed to sleep.

He was about to go to bed when a scrabbling at the door reminded him Rutherford was still outside. ‘Sorry, old friend, I got a bit over-excited there and forgot about you,’ he said, swinging it open.

The Alsatian padded lightly past him and into their bedroom. That was the great thing about dogs. They didn’t bear grudges, no matter what. Their love was unconditional. They were always there for you, wouldn’t one day decide your relationship was over and up and leave. Unlike some women he’d known. One woman in fact. The woman. Thomasin.

The thought shook him, like an attack from a mugger waiting in a hidden corner of his mind. It was always in the lonely hours of the night that her power was greatest. He’d done so well not thinking about her lately, the excitement of work and the Death Pictures chasing her memory away. But in the darker moments, the quieter moments, she was always there. Always there, ready to ambush him.

He suddenly felt the dragging, sucking pull of the swamp of the depression that had always stalked him at the edge of his consciousness. It did that. It waited its moment, then struck, no warning, just an enveloping cold emptiness. Work, friends, excitement, fun, walks with Rutherford, nights out drinking, all could hold it at bay but never banish it. The swamp waited patiently for its moment and it would always come. He felt it weighing every limb, slowing his body like a leaden suit, fogging his mind with numbing apathy. All in one instant, its irresistible debilitating power unleashed.

Dan got into bed and closed his eyes, but slept only fitfully, despite his tiredness. He kept fighting it, trying to push it from his mind, thinking of where he should be digging and wondering what the last of the Death Pictures would look like on his wall. But the swamp slept contentedly with him and was there waiting, refreshed and renewed when he woke up the next morning.

Chapter Thirteen

Steven Freeman checked the mirror. Had it gone? The taxi’s diesel engine grumbled up the hill and rounded a bend. No, there it was, the police car just fifty or so yards back in the traffic. It had picked him up as he drove out of his street and been with him for the whole first hour of his shift. How long was it going to tail him? Not all day surely?

He felt a sweat tickle his forehead, his eyes nervously flicking to the mirror as he joined the back of the rank in the city centre by the Co-op. There were half a dozen cabs in front of him. Not bad that, it meant a fare in the next 15 minutes or so. The town was busy today, the sunshine bringing people out. Behind him the police car stopped at the edge of the roundabout, not in the rank but with a clear view and in place to follow the moment he drove off.

Did they think he was stupid? Did they think he hadn’t noticed? Surely not. They could have put an unmarked car on his tail if they’d wanted. That would have been much harder to pick up, although he prided himself on keeping a careful eye out when he was driving. And not just when he was at the wheel. He had to, a man in his position.

So what were they up to? It had to be deliberate, designed to make him notice he was being followed, to put pressure on him. To force him into a mistake? That must be their idea. Well, they wouldn’t, and he’d tell them so.

A tap at the window roused him. ‘Are you free?’ A young woman struggling with some plastic bags of food and clothes, pretty too. Blonde, crinkled hair, about twenty years old and a size eight in those tight jeans, his expert eye reckoned.

‘For a girl like you, anytime love. Hop in.’

She giggled. ‘Stoke please.’

He didn’t do the old Plymouth joke about it being a long way up north, just put the car into gear and it rumbled off, onto the roundabout and out to the west of the city. The fluorescent stripes of the police car slid into the traffic behind him. Good. He didn’t want to have a word in the town with the other taxi drivers around. A quiet street in Stoke would do nicely.

The traffic was light, usually was on sunny days. People didn’t mind walking or getting the bus when it was warm and dry. Until they were laden down with shopping of course. Good taxiing weather.

‘Been treating yourself love?’

Another giggle. ‘Just some nosh and something for the weekend.’ She fished in the bag and brought out the tiniest black thong he’d ever seen. It looked like it was made from two pieces of cheese wire. She certainly hadn’t bought it to keep herself warm.

‘Lovely! You’ll make someone a very happy man!’

Another giggle. ‘Cheeky!’

He could have gone on, given it some more banter, been in there even, but not this time. It was easy to pull when you were taxiing. The ladies liked the charm and chat and sometimes they were lonely, had a few drinks, didn’t want to go back to their homes on their own. But not this one, pretty though she might be. He was going to have a word with that copper and what if they wanted to talk to his fare? It wouldn’t look good, this woman telling them he was flirting with her. There’d be others when he wasn’t being escorted.

First though, was there anything they could get him for? He didn’t think so. He’d half expected something like this, had checked the cab thoroughly. Tyres fine, tax fine, licence fine, everything fine. He was safe from any chance of arrest, and worse, much worse, the possibility of having to give a DNA sample.

The cab pulled up halfway along Devonport Road. ‘Here we are love, number 133. That’s four forty, call it four quid to you… ten per cent off for showing me your thong.’

Yet another giggle. She manoeuvred herself out of the back, not easy in those constricting jeans, he thought. She wiggled up the path, one look back over her shoulder and a smile. He waved.

Now to business. He checked the mirror. Yes, there was the cop car, parked about twenty yards behind him. He killed the engine, got out and walked over.

‘What’s the problem, mate? Why’s you bleeding following me?’

The policeman looked up from the clipboard and sheet of paper he was filling in. Steven Freeman had time to see it was a list of where he’d driven this morning. Minute by minute.

‘There’s no problem, sir. It’s just a routine patrol.’ PC Samson heard the whine in the man’s voice, just as he’d been briefed.

‘What, following me around?’

The officer smiled. ‘Not following, sir. We’re just checking you were OK. I’d hate to see you suffer any pretty young ladies forcing themselves on you. I know what they can be like around here.’

‘Ain’t you got better things to be doing?’

‘Like what, sir?’

‘Like catching this bloody rapist?’

‘Just what we’re trying to do, sir.’ The smile vanished from the officer’s face. ‘Just what we’re trying to do.’ He pointed to a small plastic jar on the seat beside him, sealed in a forensics bag. ‘Care to give a DNA sample to rule yourself out? Then you’d be able to go about your cabbing in peace, eh?’

Steven Freeman glared down. He felt like grabbing this policeman by his collar, pulling back his fist and... he clenched his teeth.

‘How long you gonna be following me for?’

The smile slipped back onto the officer’s face. ‘How long are you planning to be out for?’

Detective Chief Inspector Adam Breen had done his job, as he’d been ordered. He’d done it thoroughly and professionally. Now he could get back to the real business.

The criminal psychologist’s report on the rapist had arrived on his desk. The doctor was known in Greater Wessex Police as “Sledgehammer” Stevens, because he didn’t care for subtleties or nuances, and clearly suffered a mortal fear of the slightest risk of being misunderstood. He had a habit of underlining or printing key phrases in capitals, so there could be no doubt whatsoever about the learned doctor’s findings.

“Consider attacker HIGHLY DANGEROUS,” the report read. “Clearly a severe MISOGYNIST – that is, someone who hates women…”

‘Thank you doctor, I know what a misogynist is,’ Adam muttered under his breath.

“…CLEVER and CALCULATING. Obvious and extreme SOCIOPATHIC tendencies. Bent on REVENGE. Desire to MAKE A STATEMENT. In conclusion, this man WILL NOT STOP until either COMPLETES MISSION or is CAUGHT.”

Not for the first time Adam reflected, the doctor’s report told him nothing that didn’t already seem obvious. But that didn’t make the case any less worrying.

He hissed through his teeth. A recurring nightmare was taunting him. He’d been shocked awake early this morning by a vision of the man’s hands around Annie’s throat, Tom coming downstairs to find his mother sprawled on the floor, screaming and sobbing. His pulse was racing and he hadn’t managed to get back to sleep. It was time to get this rapist.

They had their suspects. Now to push one into a mistake.

The McCluskey case was sorted. Kiddey had been remanded in custody by the magistrates, committed for trial in the Crown Court at a date to be fixed. All the evidence was there to convict him. They’d probably have to borrow that dishwasher and get the Eggheads scientific division to prove that a couple of cycles would destroy any fingerprints. But apart from that it was all over. He’d worried he was cutting corners on the investigation, wishing it away in his desire to get back to hunting the rapist, but the case stood up. A simple and straightforward one.

Abi McCluskey would make an excellent witness, as would that nosey neighbour Jarvis. Kiddey was still protesting his innocence, but they all did that. With a bit of luck, when he saw the evidence against him and had the benefit of some good legal advice he’d change his plea and save them a trial.

There were only those attempted break-ins the defence might make something of. But neither had been successful, had it? And he was sure they weren’t connected. Just a coincidence.

He didn’t believe in coincidences – few detectives did – but on this occasion there was a good explanation. The lure of winning the last of those Death Pictures could easily prompt someone to try to break in to the McCluskeys’ home in the hope of finding a clue to his riddle. And as for a connection with the rapist? Well, the defence could raise it, try to confuse the jury, but it was a pretty thin hope. There was no evidence to back it up. If there was a trial, it should be a short one, maybe only a week or so.

So that was the McCluskey case sorted. The Assistant Chief Constable had been on the phone this morning offering his congratulations. He’d also liked the media coverage. ‘So good for the force, so very positive. A big story, a fast result. Excellent work, Adam! I knew it was right to put you on the case.’ He’d managed not to say anything in reply.

Dan’s report last night had been picked up just about everywhere. It was in all the national papers and had been on the radio and TV this morning too. Adam straightened his tie. Yes, a good result. So now back to the rapist. He picked up his coffee and walked up the stairs from his office to the MIR.

Dan awoke slowly, lingering hesitantly in the half-life between dreams and the light. He wasn’t surprised to find tears in his eyes when he opened them. It often happened when the pull of the swamp was strong. Morning seeped through the curtains and he shrunk from it. He felt like pulling the duvet up over his head and taking refuge in its safe, enveloping darkness. He wanted to curl up into a ball, lock the flat’s door and wait for the world to pass.

He’d suffered it so many times before. The hopeless fatigue. The listlessness and lethargy. The washing of colour from a world that turned grey all around him. The evaporation of hope. The fear of venturing outside into a happily hostile society where everyone else was content, relaxed, talkative, energetic. Everyone except him.

The doctor he’d finally turned to had clicked his tongue a couple of times, scribbled a note on his file and suggested mood-stabilising drugs. But no, he’d never resort to that. An emotional sticking plaster was no solution. He had his own ways to fight it, with friends, drink – too much drink sometimes, he knew – work, walks, his beloved dog, something, anything to hold onto, to look forward to, to believe in. Something to grab on to, he needed something to make him get out of this bed or he’d just lie here, lost.

The Death Pictures. Come on, the pictures. We’ve got a lead. We’re ahead of the game. We’ve got a chance to solve the riddle. We’ve got to give it a go. Come on, come on, come on. But first a run with Rutherford. That always helped. No, first a phone call to a man who can provide an insight into McCluskey. We need to know much more about his life to find out what a reference to the earth, burrowing and building could mean.

Dan picked up the phone beside his bed. Yes, Professor Hughes was in, said the receptionist. Yes, he could have a word. Yes, the man himself could spare an hour or two between lectures. It would be a pleasure to catch up and help. Excellent, down to the university later then. But first his beloved dog, a guarantee to raise his spirits.

They ran over to Thorn Park, the weather, so kind recently, now turning its mood to match his. The sky glowered a slate grey and a mist of drizzle dampened the air. A cool wind ruffled in from the east. The children on their way to school had restored the coats they’d discarded at the first signs of the coming summer, the running and shouting of their sunny days dowsed by the rain. The roads ran busy with commuter traffic, hundreds of blank morning faces framed in the windscreens, crossed back and forth by the squeaking sweep of the intermittent wipers. The pavements shone wet and slippery, alive with the reflections of passing feet. They jogged slowly down the hill, across the main Mannamead Road and into the park.

Dan released Rutherford from his lead and the dog bolted away, unsure as ever which of the intoxicating array of scents to investigate first. He sniffed his way joyously along a hedge, then turned and sprinted back to Dan, sending a grey and white cloud of pigeons fluttering, cooing, into the air. ‘Just a few laps, dog,’ he puffed. ‘I’ve got lots on this morning.’ Running was hard going today, but he’d expected that. The swamp always sapped his energy.

Rutherford exploded into a burst of barks and shot off towards an oak tree, a blur of ginger streaking up its side. ‘Leave that cat alone,’ Dan called, trying not to laugh. ‘Here! Come here!’

The dog refused to move, sat solidly at the base of the tree, head fixed above. Dan jogged over. Up in the crook of a branch sat an utterly unconcerned-looking cat, gazing pityingly down at them. ‘Shhhh,’ he said to the dog, calming his barks. ‘Come on, you’ve taught him a lesson. Look how scared he is. Come on, mighty warrior. Let’s go.’

In the shower, he noticed he felt better for the run. He dressed, gathered his notes and prints of the Death Pictures and caught a bus down to the university.

Professor Ed Hughes had been known as Ted when he was younger and just a Doctor of academia. But the rise to fame of his poet namesake had forced him to amend that. He hadn’t done so graciously. Any mention of the other Ted Hughes would prompt a quizzical look.

A tall, stooping man in his early sixties, he’d worked his way up to become Devon University’s Head of Art. Dan knew him from a couple of exhibitions they’d both had invitations to. He’d been attracted by the Prof’s delightful lack of tact. ‘Dreadful dross,’ he’d said, when Dan had been introduced and politely asked him what he thought of one artist’s offerings. ‘I could do better blindfold.’

The university had applied some gentle pressure on Ed to consider retiring, but he’d resisted it. Dan helped by including him in a story on how much older people had to offer and how it was wrong they were expected to retire at a fixed age. They’d also discovered they were fellow Liverpool Football Club supporters, both having family links to Merseyside. They’d long been promising a trip up to see a match, but it had never materialised.