The Death Pictures (7 page)

One picture hung by the door, three each on the other walls. Dan had seen them individually, on the television and in the press, but never as a group. Beside him Nigel drew in a long whistling breath.

The first picture showed a woman, young, thin, perhaps 30 or so, flame haired against the lush green background of a forest. She was beautiful, pouting at the camera with succulent lips. But what drew Dan’s gaze was the huge mobile phone straddled between her legs, as though she was riding it through the trees. The display had a phone number on it, the Plymouth code, 01752, followed by 225. The last three numbers were missing, looked as though they had yet to be typed in. All the pictures were very limited prints, the originals sold off for the various good causes chosen by the artist. This was number 3/4.

The second picture was unmistakeably Dartmoor. The gnarled grey tor in the background was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Somewhere around Merrivale he thought. Perhaps Vixen, Kings, or Great Mis Tor? White birds wheeled in a blue sky above it. In the foreground was a vicar, in cassock and dog collar, staring up at the rocks, a hand outstretched pointing to a small plane in the sky. Behind it trailed a banner bearing the legend ‘Goodbye number one.’ A dog dug up the earth at the vicar’s feet. It was print 3/3.

Dan stood, hands on hips and gently shook his head. There were no doubt clues in the pictures, but more clearly a lot of mischief. He’d understood that from the few words McCluskey had said earlier and the last of the pictures. He couldn’t help but think the man was having a great joke at the expense of the rest of the world. Nigel adjusted his tripod and started filming the first picture. He looked across at Dan who shrugged. He knew his friend wanted guidance about what details to pick out in his shots, what was important and what wasn’t, but what could he say? He had no idea.

Picture three was a street, unremarkable, terraced houses, probably late Victorian, cars parked along the road. A red legged and beaked bird perched on a streetlamp in the foreground. From his past days as Environment Correspondent, Dan recognised it as a chough. The first few car number plates were clear, the rest blurred. A blue mini had ‘OK 9’, an old blue Ford ‘115 J’, a yellow three-wheeler ‘Yes 04’, a red Peugeot ‘Here 911’. The street sign was a blurred grey, but ‘Road’ was legible. A manhole cover lay open halfway along, a child wearing shorts but no T-shirt looking down into it. Print number 3/7.

Picture four was an abstract, what seemed to be a blazing, malformed sun in the sky above a desert. It was the simplest so far, just a few rocks, a couple of cacti and what looked like a pool of water. A mirage? By the water stood a clock, similar to the one he’d seen unveiled in the last picture. The hands showed a quarter past nine, but they were drooping. A snake wriggled by in the foreground, seeming to make an S shape. It was print 1/2.

Why just two prints of this picture, he wondered? Because the artist thought it less powerful than the others? Less of a work? Less important? Or just because he only had a couple of beneficiaries in mind?

Number five showed the inside of a pub, clearly identifiable by the wooden sign above the bar, the Waterside Arms. Dan knew it well, just out of the city, over the River Plym in the old village of Turnchapel. It was one of his favourites. There were beer festivals every couple of months, a fine range of pies on the menu and an old-fashioned landlord who liked to know everyone’s name. He treated them as treasured guests, not an inconvenience, unlike so many modern publicans. It was print 1/6.

The oddity was that the pub was deserted, despite there being half drunk pints and glasses on the bar and tables and a couple of plates full of food. Four darts stuck from a board, a double two, a nine, a 13 and a bull’s eye. Why four darts, Dan wondered? A fruit machine showed three bunches of cherries on the win line. There was a broken bottle of whisky on the floor, a black and white cat sniffing hesitantly at it.

A woman dominated number six. Blonde, with a shoulder length bob, she smiled out of the canvas. She wore small rectangular glasses, dangling silver earrings and was holding a newspaper folded out in front of her. It was the
Western Daily News
. In the top left corner was printed ‘Today’s jackpot bingo numbers; 2, 22, 27, 39’. The paper’s headline was ‘It’s a Fiddle!’ There was a picture of a yellow fishing boat next to it, the number 98 on its prow. It was print 2/3.

Dan couldn’t stop the run of thoughts in his mind. Fiddle, did that mean the answer wasn’t in here? Or was it a double bluff? Was it some hint that if you went fishing for something to do with 98, you could come up with something? He checked himself. Damn! He was getting drawn into the riddle in exactly the way the artist wanted, and so just how he shouldn’t.

Painting seven looked the simplest, but that made Dan suspect it wasn’t. It was a portrait of Abi, looking much the same as she did now, except in the picture she had a perfectly formed tear rolling from her left eye. He looked across the room at her and she nodded. In the picture she stood against a coastline, just a simple line of green before the blue of the sea and sky. She wore a white T-shirt with a picture of a key on it, the number 09 alongside. The only other feature was a small red balloon drifting by in the sky on the right of the picture. On it was an exclamation mark. It was print 1/3.

Dan turned to the final wall. A print of the last of the Death Pictures was already in place, also number 1/3. The other two were the most striking of the set.

Number eight showed a child reaching into a goldfish tank, the watchful and wary creatures clustered at the sides of the aquarium. It was brightly colourful, the fish, the emerald green of the boy’s jumper, the opaque blue of the water, the primrose yellow of the walls of the room in the background. Three fish faced the dangling hand on the left of the tank, four on the right. In the gravel at the bottom stood a miniature castle, grey but with a white portcullis. Outside it, also embedded in the gravel were five toy soldiers, all pointing rifles, and an armoured car. On its side was ‘17th light infantry.’ It was print 2/5.

The ninth print was of a chessboard, with just the white king remaining, surrounded by a black knight, queen and pawn. A hand hovered in the painting but it wasn’t clear to whom it belonged. A gold wedding ring shone on the index finger. In the background was a grandfather clock, the time showing five to ten, but the odd thing about it was there were no numbers 11 or 12 on the face. This time the clock’s hands weren’t limp but straight and sharply pointed. It was print 3/4.

‘What do you think?’ asked Abi. ‘You’re the first person from outside to witness it as he wants it to be seen.’

Good question, what did he think? Part of him wanted to say how impressive, stunning in fact, the pictures were. But Dan sensed he was feeling annoyed, as if he was being played with, used, and he hated that. Plus the pictures were full of intellectual arrogance and teasing, and that was even more irritating. On the other hand, he couldn’t help but admire the idea, it was clever and intriguing…

Dan was saved from having to answer by Joseph McCluskey sticking his head around the door. ‘They’re still in there, lapping it up, photographing, filming and writing. Just like a flock of sheep,’ he rasped. His face lit with a grin. ‘Anyone fancy a cup of tea?’ he asked. ‘The shepherd doesn’t mind making them.’

Adam was washing his hair in Dan’s shower when his mobile rang. The shampoo was annoyingly sticky, that hair thickening stuff. He hadn’t realised Dan was worried about his hair receding. You didn’t have to be a detective to learn a lot about a person from their bathroom. He wiped the soap from his eyes, fumbled out around the sink and picked the phone up. Good job he’d left it to hand. You just knew a call would come when you least wanted it.

‘Sir, Suzanne here,’ came the rushed words. He had to listen hard to hear what she was saying. ‘I think we’ve got another one. She’s just called in. It took ages to calm her down before we could work out what happened. A team’s on the way around now.’

Adam hoisted a greying bath sheet around his shoulders and tried not to think of the last time it was washed. He spat some soap from his mouth.

‘Any details, Suzanne?’

‘Sounds similar to the last one sir. Raped in her own home. She’d just got back from taking her little girl to school. It looks like he got in through an open window at the back of the house.’

The side of his fist hit the white tiles on the bathroom wall and a couple of bottles of after-shave rattled. ‘Any more info?’

Suzanne knew exactly what he meant. ‘I did ask, sir. She was in too much of a state to talk properly, but she said he did leave something behind. She hasn’t touched it, but says it looked like some kind of kid’s hat.’

He’d hardly needed to ask, knew it was the same man. Mission number two of six completed successfully he’d be thinking, congratulating himself, savouring another victory, lifting a pint and smoking a cigarette to celebrate. The bastard. No more, please no more. What did he mean
please
? It was his job to make sure there were no more.

‘Her age?’ Adam asked.

‘About 30.’

‘I’ll meet you at the scene.’ He dried himself quickly and strode into the spare bedroom.

They had a serial rapist on their hands, one whose way of working was already clear. Young women, living with their children, no man in the house. The attacks were well planned. And the motive, yes, sex, of course, but that was the easy answer. Wasn’t he thinking it sounded like revenge too? The actions of an angry and embittered man? Someone who hated women, for whatever reason.

He wouldn’t have time to go back to his flat for a change of clothes. Yesterday’s suit would have to do, thankfully he’d hung it up carefully. The shirt was grubby though. But Dan was roughly the same size, wasn’t he? He scanned the rack of shirts, chose a light blue one to match his navy suit. Dan’s ties were a bit bright for a rape case, but he managed to find a darker blue and subtle diagonally striped one. It would do. He’d need to look decent, he had to get this on the TV. It was time to put out a warning.

The door opened again and McCluskey stood in its frame, his figure silhouetted in the daylight streaming from behind. He paused, silent and still, then projected his voice theatrically into the room.

‘So you come not to praise McCluskey but to bury him?’

The artist began handing around tea and coffee from the tray he carried. Nigel took his but carried on filming. He was only on picture five, the detail in the works took time to capture. As they didn’t know what was important he was trying to cover it all. If the answer was revealed, they’d need to show the parts of the pictures which pointed to it.

‘I wouldn’t be so Shakespearean,’ replied Dan, prompting a slow nod from McCluskey. ‘Anyway, the people we interviewed outside were full of praise.’

McCluskey made prolonged eye contact when he talked, as if he was looking into you. Those eyebrows were like the eager shoots of spring above the shining, mocking eyes. Dan held the stare on principle, but it was unsettling.

‘Diplomatic,’ McCluskey said slowly. ‘But not your opinion. What does the man from the media really think of my little scrawls?’

Dan turned to the last of the pictures, then back again, giving himself time to think. ‘I’d say they’re fascinating,’ he replied.

The artist studied him, but said nothing. He clearly expected more.

‘There’s so much thought in them,’ Dan added. He swallowed a spike of annoyance, a buried memory of a feeling similar to being pushed for an answer by a disliked teacher in front of a classroom. ‘Or is that just a bluff?’

McCluskey’s spraying eyebrows rose. ‘The answer is in there, I promise you that,’ he said, turning to the first of the pictures. ‘But so are many iron pyrites.’

Another test. The words were familiar, but how? Something from many years ago. Dan searched his memory, right back to school days. He thought he’d got it, took a gamble. ‘Fool’s gold?’ he asked, trying not to sound hopeful.

McCluskey turned back, nodded. ‘Very good. You wouldn’t expect me to make it too easy, would you? And surely it’s a better story for you if it goes on and on, with more of these hopeless wrong guesses we’re inundated with? It keeps the suspense and drama going, doesn’t it?’

‘And the amusement for you, the shepherd? And the growth of the legend?’

He shouldn’t have said it, Dan thought. It was hardly professional to be drawn into an argument with your interviewee, especially when he knew very well how much you needed his words. If he backed out now, refused to talk… But McCluskey didn’t look ruffled at all.

‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘And what would you say is wrong with that? Trying to make some kind of a mark on the world? Provide a little enjoyment and entertainment for a few people? Perhaps even teach a lesson, achieve a little justice and right some wrongs in the process?’

The two men stared at each other, Dan determined not to break the look. What did he mean by righting wrongs? And what was this lesson he kept talking about?

‘As you’re going to be asking me some questions, I think it only fair if I get to ask you one first,’ said McCluskey, still staring at Dan. ‘If that’s alright with you?’

Dan shrugged. ‘Sure.’ What else could he say?.

‘We all have our little interests and weaknesses,’ the artist continued. ‘Mine happens to be crime. Not the mundane stuff, but the deeper plots, and what drives people to them. Your reporting of crime is always thoughtful. You’re one of the rare few who tries to get behind the facts and into the underlying motives. You look for the insight and you seem to be able to understand people and see it.’ He paused, the burning stare again. ‘I like that. It’s exactly what we artists do when we paint. Well, the decent ones anyway.’