The Death Pictures (32 page)

Trinity Church on Mannamead Road, local for Abi. A beautiful building, much favoured by marrying couples. No spire, but one tower, flat-roofed, its black arched windows resonating with the clamour of the calling bells. The proud stone was local, tinged yellow from the invisible assault of traffic fumes and with elegant fluting curves arching upwards like stretching trees. A necklace of green grounds surrounded it, sprays of bushes and trees, ideal for wedding photographs. A rainbow of dots flecked the grass. It was one of the few remaining places that didn’t ban confetti.

Inside a mighty organ dominated with its pyramid of wooden pipes. Ranks and rows of dark stained pews stood in lines like well-drilled recruits. The church was warm with that mellow, technicolour spectrum of soft light from the aged stained glass windows. The still air filled with contemplation.

What would McCluskey have made of the attention, Dan wondered? There were all the local great and good here and hundreds of his fans, come to pay their respects. The front of the church was already ringed with flowers, many bluebells again, lots of bunches with prints of the Death Pictures attached. Five camera crews and countless photographers worked the crowd, the interest from the local and national media so great that a pool facility was being operated inside the church. Only one cameraman was allowed in, Universal TV’s, one photographer and reporter, both from the Press Association.

It was the same arrangement they made for Royal Visits, to save an unseemly gaggle of hacks cluttering the regal way. Dan couldn’t help but think McCluskey would be laughing again, up there in the clouds, looking down and holding his sides. The same arrangements for him as for the Queen…

More people were converging on the church in knots and lines. All were dressed in the summer colours Abi had requested, no hint of black. The crowd was growing, spilling out onto the pavement and into the Mannamead Road, one of Plymouth’s main routes. The traffic stopped and began to tail back up the hill. A couple of police officers made vain attempts to herd people out of the way, but there were too many and they were too intent on the church. It was like trying to herd cats.

Nigel crossed the road away from the church to get a wide shot of the people and congestion. Dan stood behind him, watching his back. It was always dodgy filming in crowds, particularly with cars around. He thought about doing a couple of interviews with the mourners, but there was no point until after the service. Touching as it was now, it would be much more emotional then. An occasion like this demanded public tears.

‘Oi, seen her yet?’ Dan spun around. It was El’s voice, but where was he? ‘Oi!’ he heard again.

It was coming from above. He looked up. El was sitting in the bough of a chestnut tree in the front garden of one of the houses facing the church. Like a mischievous spirit, Dan thought.

‘I haven’t had a sniff of her yet,’ El shouted. ‘This sun’s the bloody trouble. Loads of the women are wearing hats.’

‘Then you’ll have to pray for the weather to change,’ Dan shouted back. ‘But I wouldn’t have thought the Lord would be particularly entertaining of your requests, the sins you get through.’

There was a flash of the El grin. ‘The devil looks after his own though, doesn’t he? Keep an eye out for her will you? Drinks on me if you see her. And lots of ’em.’

A fine incentive, Dan thought. They crossed back over the road for Nigel to get some closer shots of the flowers and tributes. The police had managed to clear the crowd and the traffic flowed again, a couple of good-natured blares of horns as the cars trundled past. The bells had subsided, the air now rumbling with excited chatter, huddles of friends and strangers all comparing memories of McCluskey.

Dan eavesdropped on a couple of the conversations. Sexy, rogue, brilliant, annoying, arrogant, teasing, wonderful were some of the words he heard. Everybody had a passionate view. Joseph McCluskey had certainly made his mark.

The babble died away as the service began, relayed on loudspeakers to the crowd who couldn’t get into the church. They stood in respectful silence. Nigel filmed close-ups of some of the faces around them as they listened. Tears and smiles for the poignancy and humour in the address. Even a laugh when the vicar told the congregation he’d checked the church for any clues to the riddle of the Death Pictures and had found nothing, so they didn’t need to waste their time looking.

El bobbed back, the grin gone. His habitual body warmer was tied around his waist and he wouldn’t stand still, his head flicking from side to side, scanning the crowd.

‘Still no bloody sign of her and the service is almost done,’ he groaned. ‘They’ll all be off in a minute and that’ll be it, my one chance gone. Goodbye to all that money. All that work for nothing. Bloody weather,’ El growled at the sky.

The organ exhaled the thunderous chords of a final hymn, a modern one Dan didn’t recognise. The congregation began slowly shuffling out. He grabbed the microphone and did a few short interviews. Uplifting was the consensus. Yes it was sad he was gone, but he’d given the world so much. This was a time to remember that and celebrate, not just mourn. Dan understood, but wasn’t surprised to see a couple of people in tears, Nigel zooming the camera in on their faces. That would be the headline shot, the golden picture that summed up the story.

‘Quick,’ hissed Nigel urgently, taking the camera off his shoulder and striding towards the church’s arched doorway. ‘Over there.’

Dan looked up, then moved fast after him. They pushed their way through the crowd to where a group of journalists had surrounded Abi McCluskey. She was wearing a floral dress and straw hat, looked relaxed, not at all tearful. Well spotted Nigel. They’d almost missed the most important interview of the day. Above him, Dan was aware of a darkening in the sky. The sun was being dowsed by the razor edge of a front of silver cloud sweeping in from the west.

‘It was a beautiful service,’ Abi was saying. ‘Quite beautiful. I think it struck just the right note. Joseph didn’t want his funeral to be gloom and darkness. He enjoyed his life and lived it to the full. We all miss him, of course. We miss him terribly. But I want to remember him for the good times. The service will be part of that.’

A couple more questions from the reporters, the usual stuff, her reaction to the number of people turning out here and what she would like to say to them? She was delighted, flattered, would like to thank everyone, as she knew Joseph would. Then a cheeky one from a journalist Dan didn’t recognise, from one of the national papers probably.

‘The riddle still hasn’t been solved. Do you have any clues for the people who are trying?’

Her face changed in an instant. ‘It’s not a day for that,’ she snapped, glaring at the man. ‘Forget it. There are still months left to work it out. Maybe when we get nearer the deadline.’

Interesting, Dan thought. He reached into his satchel and made a note in his diary to call her again in a few months. A clue would be big news if the riddle still hadn’t been solved.

The cloud had covered the sky now and gathering gusts of wind swirled around the church, ruffling the bluebells and pictures. The crowd fragmented. Some moved away, others stayed in little groups, chatting amongst themselves. Reporters checked the messages left with the flowers, took down notes for their stories, thoughts, bits of colour, comments overheard. El sped amongst them, sweating heavily. From his urgency, Dan knew he still hadn’t found the woman.

‘What next chief?’ asked Nigel, resting the camera on the ground but standing over it protectively. ‘I’ve filmed lots of good stuff. Are we done here?’

‘Pretty much,’ said Dan. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else worth getting. I’ll do the report chronologically. It’ll start with the crowds outside and talk about how much interest the funeral attracted. We’ll have a bit of traffic disruption too. Then we’ll cut to the service from the Universal pooled pictures – they’re being fed back into base in a while – then we’ll have the people coming out and some of the interviews with them. We’ll have a bit of Abi talking, then finish with some pictures of the flowers outside the church and I’ll mention the riddle still hasn’t been solved.’

Dan considered for a moment. ‘Perhaps I’ll conclude with some thoughtful line like, “Joseph McCluskey may be gone, but he’s left behind an enduring and enticing puzzle which will ensure he won’t be forgotten,” ’ he added. ‘How about that?’

‘Beautiful,’ said a wry-looking Nigel. He was well used to Dan’s lyrical flights. ‘I just hope my pictures are as moving as your words.’

They set off for the car when Dan saw a flash of emerald green floating by just over the stone wall surrounding the church. It triggered something in his mind, a vague memory of a woman he’d once taken out on a date. Nothing had come of it, they didn’t really click, but it was more than that. There was something else his brain was telling him was important. What was it? What had stirred his subconscious?

Another memory surfaced. That was it. He didn’t like her dress sense. Green. He had a powerful vision of green. She wore a bright green top, did so because it went best with her hair. Redheads always wear green, he remembered her saying. Always green. It goes best by far with the hair.

‘Come on, quick,’ he said to Nigel. They jogged round to the gate and out into the road. There she was, just ahead. A green hat, she was wearing a green hat and dress. No sign of any hair though. Whatever colour it was, it must be pinned up under her hat.

‘El,’ Dan shouted, waving. The photographer was still standing by the church, hands on hips, staring down at the ground. He looked round, shrugged, then came ambling over. Dan waved for him to stay back. He didn’t want to scare off his prey.

‘Madam, excuse me, madam,’ he panted as they caught up. She turned, stopped walking, looked at him in surprise.

‘Sorry, don’t worry. I’m not stalking you, much as you’re very worthy of it,’ Dan gasped with his best winning smile. Some charm never hurt. ‘We’re from
Wessex Tonight
, the local TV News. We’re looking for people who were inside the church to interview. I noticed you coming out and wondered if you’d mind having a word?’

She stared at him for a moment, almost knowingly he thought. Or was he imagining that? Wishing it? ‘Of course,’ she said pleasantly. ‘He was a great man. I’m happy to talk to you about him and the service.’

Dan studied her while Nigel hoisted the camera up onto his shoulder. His memory for faces wasn’t good, but he thought it was her. She was beautiful, a finely drawn pale face, lovely cheekbones, good full lips. He still couldn’t see her hair though and that was the real test. Just one way to check. From the corner of his eye he could see El sneaking around the side of a car towards them.

Nigel hoisted the camera onto his shoulder. ‘Ready,’ he said.

Here comes the moment, Dan thought. We have to see her hair. How to do it? How to do it subtly and not lose this chance. If she doesn’t agree, I can scarcely pull her hat off, can I?

‘Just before we do interview you,’ Dan said, trying to make his voice sound light, ‘Would you mind taking your hat off please? It casts a shadow over your face which makes the picture difficult to expose properly. Doesn’t it Nigel?’

A quick tap from the side of his foot into Nigel’s ankle prompted the right answer. ‘Yes, oh yes, it’s very difficult,’ said the cameraman. ‘A nightmare of light and shade.’

She stared at him again. Was she going to do it? Did she know what he was up to? Suspect it? Would she walk away, or play along? His heart was thumping again, an odd thought wandered through his mind that it had done too much of that recently. To his side he could see El sneaking closer, caressing the long lens of his camera like a sniper in a battlefield.

Her head tilted coyly. ‘Of course,’ she said at last. ‘I wouldn’t want to not look my best for the television, would I?’

Slowly, so slowly, she slid the hat off her head. It was pinned up and shorter than in the first picture, but her hair was vivid and red. Dan was sure now, quite sure. He couldn’t see it, but he knew El was behind him somewhere, the camera motor whirring, the lens zoomed in on her. The radiant trademark grin would be back on his face at the thought of mission accomplished and his fattening bank account.

Deep breath, he had to go through with the interview now. And El had what he wanted, so he could ask, couldn’t he? Might even get a scoop out of it. Might even get a clue about the riddle.

‘So what was it like?’ Dan began.

‘It was wonderful.’ She had a deep, husky voice with a hint of the Devon burr. ‘It was a beautiful service, a great tribute to a great man. Everybody knows what a brilliant artist he was, but not everyone knows what a great man. I was lucky enough to know him personally. He was simply wonderful. He was kind and caring and so generous and he’ll be sorely missed. A great man.’

He knew it was her now, knew it, knew he was safe in his next question. A simple one.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Dan asked quietly. She looked at him, a smile crinkling the edge of her mouth, another coy tilt of her head.

‘You who?’

He knew it was, and she knew he knew.

‘You, in the first of the pictures?’

The smile spread, but Dan thought he saw a misting in the green of her eyes.

‘Yes. Yes, it is me.’

She didn’t need to say anything else, but he had a couple more questions to ask. The first was one of the oddest he ever had, he thought later. The second was a risk, but he’d try it when he saw how she responded to this one.