The Death Pictures (13 page)

Dan stepped down from the van, knotting the black tie which he’d grabbed from the back of his car. Nigel had set up in a position looking back on the house and the cordon. Dan squeezed the tiny swirl of moulded plastic into his left ear and heard the studio rehearsing. Good. Now a couple of minutes of calm to reflect on what to say. Live broadcasting was always the riskiest part of the job. One little slip could land you in a whole lot of trouble.

One thing Adam said had been bothering him. A man called the police. Who could that have been? McCluskey didn’t have any family apart from Abi. Surely it would have been her who found him? And what was that stuff about signs of a break-in, a window being forced? Could it tie in with the rapist inquiry? His attacks were very near here and he forced his way into homes.

No, that was speculation too far for this broadcast. He could ask Adam about it when they next spoke. So what would he say? They only wanted a 10 second live introduction from him to go into his report, then 25 seconds of summing up at the end. He should be able to manage that.

‘Dan, can you hear us OK?’ It was Emma, the director, in his ear. He gave a thumbs up to the camera. ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘We have your report. The extra sequence you asked for has been edited in. We’ll do a studio link, then hand to you to set the scene there, then play your report, then it’s you again off the back. You’re top story. With you in just under two mins.’

He gave another thumbs up. ‘Move to your left a bit please,’ said Nigel. ‘I want to widen out the shot and get some more of the house and cops in the background.’ Some onlookers had gathered to watch, a couple taking photos with their mobile phones, the flashes illuminating him as he stood waiting. Presenting a live broadcast often attracted a crowd, sometimes making him feel like an animal in a zoo.

‘Good evening. The police have begun an investigation tonight after the famous Devon artist Joseph McCluskey was found dead in his Plymouth home,’ began Craig, the newsreader. ‘They describe the circumstances surrounding his death as suspicious. Our Crime Correspondent Dan Groves is at the scene…’

‘Cue Dan,’ came Emma’s voice in his ear.

‘Yes, there’s considerable police activity here tonight,’ he said, gesturing round to the officers and house behind him. ‘Detectives have cordoned off Mr McCluskey’s home and forensics teams are inside there as I speak, trying to work out how he died.’

‘We’re on the report,’ said Emma. ‘Nice and smooth, good stuff. Back to you in less than a minute and a half.’

‘Behind you,’ called Nigel, pointing. Adam had appeared at his shoulder. ‘I’m a bit busy mate,’ said Dan. ‘We’re on air.’

‘I know,’ Adam replied. ‘I was watching you on a TV in there. Very good. I’m off, got to go back to Charles Cross to coordinate things. I just wanted you to know we’re treating it as a major inquiry. Thought that might be useful.’

‘30 seconds to you,’ came Emma’s voice again. ‘Get that idiot out of there please.’ Dan gave a thumbs up to the camera and shoved Adam out of the shot.

‘I can now tell you I’ve just heard the police are treating this as a major inquiry,’ he said, as the story finished. ‘The officer in charge, Detective Chief Inspector Breen, who you saw in my report, has left to go to Charles Cross police station to set up an incident room. That’s the second major investigation undertaken by the police here in just a few days, coming on top of the hunt for the man who’s raped two women in Plymouth.’

He popped the earpiece out and helped Nigel coil up the cable. ‘Who was that plonker who almost got himself on air?’ grumbled Loud as he lowered the satellite dish.

‘That,’ said Dan, ‘was the Chief Inspector in charge of the case.’

‘You’d think he’d know better,’ growled Loud.

Dan said goodnight to Loud and Nigel and got into his car. He turned on the radio. McCluskey’s death was the lead story, an excited presenter interviewing an art historian about the legacy he would leave. As yet unclear, seemed to be the summary of what the man was saying. It depended on what happened now with the Death Pictures riddle, and what the solution was.

Dan waited a moment to listen, then started the car. The adrenaline flush of the breaking story and the outside broadcast was ebbing and he felt the fatigue closing in again. He’d have loved to have sneaked off to bed, but knew he didn’t stand a chance. That interview he’d done with McCluskey for the obituary would be needed for the radio in the morning. He’d have to write something up about the investigation for the TV breakfast bulletins too.

He could hand the job on to one of the overnight journalists, he thought. He looked at himself in the car’s mirror and shook his head. There were plenty of up and coming, ambitious reporters who’d love him to be out of the way so they could have their chance at covering a big story. It would come. That was life’s way, but not yet. This was a corker and he wasn’t ready to give it up. Might as well retire the day he was.

He called Adam as he drove back to the office.

‘Thanks for that little titbit mate, it made my live summing up at the end sound much more dramatic.’

‘I thought you’d like it. Well, you’ve helped me enough.’

‘I know you’re busy, so I just wanted to check on a couple of things. Firstly, is there any update on the rapes?’

‘No. The teams have been out all day on inquiries, but nothing significant yet. I’ll have another look at it tomorrow when I’ve got the McCluskey case properly underway.’

‘And is there anything fresh I can run on McCluskey for tomorrow morning?’ Dan pulled in to the studio’s car park and turned off the engine. ‘I need a new line for the breakfast news.’

A pause and the hum of the line while Adam thought. ‘We’ll be going round interviewing the neighbours tomorrow to see if anything odd went on in the close this evening. Will that do?’

‘Fine mate, thanks. Goodnight.’

‘Just one more thing Dan. Give me a call in the morning. I think there may be a lot more to this case than meets the eye. We might need some publicity to see if we can get any witnesses coming forward. Goodnight.’

He’d cut the call before Dan could ask anything else. A mischievous one, our DCI Breen he thought, as he climbed the stairs to the newsroom.

He found the tape with the obituary interview in the picture library and sat watching it as the audio fed into the radio computer. He was surprised to feel a creeping sadness. Up until now, Joseph McCluskey had been a story that had to be got on air. There’d been little time for reflection and thought. Now, as he studied Nigel’s shots of the Death Pictures and saw the man in front of him, talking, he found himself starting to believe all that had been written about him.

But he’d left behind something to live after him, hadn’t he? For six months at least. His death would trigger another flood of interest in the Pictures and thousands more attempts to solve his riddle. Dan reached out and froze the tape on the first of the paintings, the woman on the mobile phone. What did the incomplete telephone number signify? And who was the woman anyway and why was she riding it? There had been plenty of reports in the press about McCluskey’s range of lovers, even in his later years when he was apparently happily married to Abi. Was she one?

El would be working on that. He couldn’t think of anyone better for the job. And as for himself, he knew he was growing ever more fascinated with the riddle. He was still sure the answer was in the cascade of numbers somewhere. He knew that try as he might, he wouldn’t be able to resist attempting to solve it.

Chapter Seven

He was running fast through a forest, branches bouncing off his body as he twisted and turned, trying to force his way through the ranks and rows of sentinel trees. He was panting hard, his heart pounding, legs sinking into the sucking moss and mud. In his hand was the small envelope containing the answer to the riddle of the Death Pictures. He desperately wanted to stop, open it, look at it, but didn’t have time, had to keep running. Behind him chased the raging mob, the men and women who’d spent months trying to solve the puzzle.

He’d burst through the trees into a clearing, the crowd shouting and baying, only seconds behind him. He was exhausted, his legs shaking, ready to crumble. He could hear their screaming triumph as they ran down their prey. There were three paths out of the forest. A woman stood beckoning by each. To his left was Kerry, ahead Thomasin, to his right Claire, the Detective Sergeant.

He stood, just for a second, deciding who to run to when Joseph McCluskey appeared before him, laughing manically. In his hand was a mobile phone. He spoke into it, his words booming around the trees as if amplified through a loud hailer. ‘I’ve made fools of you all,’ he shouted. ‘Learn my lesson well.’

Dan glanced at the mobile in his hand. He was used to having bizarre dreams, but that had to be one of the oddest. A strong coffee, some toast and the anticipation of a day on a big story still couldn’t shake it loose from his mind. He didn’t want to think about what it could have meant.

The phone rattled at his ear as Adam emphasised the words. ‘Not for broadcast, ok? That’s strictly not… for… broadcast.’

Dan had called his friend as soon as he got in to the newsroom that morning, wanted to know what he’d been hinting at the night before. It was just before nine and he’d walked in to a deluge of questions from radio and TV producers. What would happen today on McCluskey’s death? What would the police say? Had the riddle been solved? What did his death mean? Would the answer now be revealed?

‘Fine,’ he said to Adam, waving away the lunchtime TV bulletin producer. He’d rarely seen such interest in a story. A hectic day beckoned. Thank God it was Friday. The weekend would be a sweet respite.

‘This is what happened,’ said Adam. ‘A guy called 999 about 7.55 yesterday evening to say he was round at Joseph McCluskey’s house and he was dead in the bath. The guy’s name is Lewis Kiddey, generally known as Kid. He’s another famous painter. You’re not taking notes on this are you?’

‘No,’ said Dan, who was. He wouldn’t use it, but you never knew when the information might come in useful. ‘Carry on.’

‘We got round there to find this Kid downstairs in the lounge shaking. Upstairs in the bathroom was McCluskey. He was lying in a warm bath, dead. His wrists had been slit. There was a kitchen knife on the carpet next to the bath and lots of blood. It was a right mess.’

Dan’s imagination presented him with a picture, and he shuddered.

‘Sounds fairly straightforward,’ he thought out loud. ‘The guy was dying. He had cancer. He must have been in pain. He knew he only had a few days or weeks left, if he was lucky. So he decided to end it all.’

He put his pen down. What was Adam talking about, more to it than met the eye?

‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ said Adam. ‘But then things began bothering me and I started to wonder if that’s what we were meant to think.’

Dan picked his pen up again. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning there was evidence of a break-in. A window in the kitchen at the back had been forced. There are no fingerprints and we don’t think anyone got in, but it’s hard to tell for sure and it’s certainly suspicious. And then there’s his wife.’

Abi. She’d seemed very gentle, kind, utterly devoted to her husband. Dan couldn’t imagine her having a role in any kind of violence or death. ‘What about her?’ he asked.

‘First of all, it wasn’t her who found the body. It was this guy Kid. She was out walking their dog and popping in to see some friends for a chat. Now you might think that would be understandable if McCluskey didn’t want her involved in his suicide, but I just can’t believe it. She says he gave her no hint whatsoever that he was going to kill himself and she’s sure he would have. We’ve only had a brief chat with her – she’s distraught – but from all accounts they were very close. I can’t see him topping himself, not without her knowledge at the very least. And from what I’ve heard, it’s more likely they’d actually want to be together when he died.’

Dan pondered this for a few seconds, then said, ‘I think you might be right. I interviewed him a few days ago and met her at the same time. They seemed incredibly close. What does Kid say happened? Any reason to suspect him?’

‘Not really, not at the moment. Apart from him finding the body that is. He says he popped round for a chat, as they’d arranged a couple of days before, to discuss McCluskey’s new picture. It was just a friendly thing. He says he found the front door open, which wasn’t uncommon apparently. He went in, looked around and couldn’t find anyone so he went upstairs. Then he found McCluskey dead in the bath. He called us straight away.’

Dan thought back on the research notes of McCluskey’s life. Kid was frequently mentioned. Another famous artist and a pupil of the dead painter, they’d been close, then had some kind of falling out and feud, something it seemed McCluskey specialised in. Didn’t he remember it was about a woman? He’d check that later. But Kid had been most prominently noted for some artwork which had won a national competition and annoyed the American president. There were reams of stories on it.

He was also the first person McCluskey had been reconciled with when the artist was diagnosed with terminal cancer. There was a photo of the two of them together, arms around each other, some quote from McCluskey about thinking of Kid as the nearest to being the son he never had. He didn’t sound much like a killer.

‘There’s no chance of a connection with the rapist is there?’ Dan said slowly. ‘He breaks in to houses, and in that area of the city.’

Adam breathed out heavily, making the phone rustle.

‘Now you’re asking. On the face of it I’d have to say I don’t think so, but I can’t rule it out obviously. It’s something we’ll have to look at.’

If there were a connection, it would make a very big story into a huge one, Dan thought. He couldn’t see it, the rapist attacked women alone in their homes, not men. But as Adam said, it couldn’t be ruled out.

‘So what are you doing now?’ asked Dan.

‘I’m getting a post mortem sorted, fingerprinting and forensics on the house and the knife. Results expected Monday. In the meantime, we’ll do the sweep of the crescent I told you about last night, talk to all the neighbours and see what we find out. We’ll also have a look at McCluskey’s past to see if there’s anyone who might want him dead. But if he has been murdered, it’d be the most bizarre bloody case I’ve ever handled. Who’d want to kill a man who was going to die in a few days anyway?’

Rachel Bloom had signed herself out of hospital and was back at home. She insisted she’d had enough sympathy and wanted to get on with her life. Suzanne Stewart sat in the armchair in the lounge of her house and watched as she stalked from table to window, to kitchen, to fireplace, never quite settling wherever she stopped.

She straightened a photo, flicked some dust off the television, shifted a vase by a couple of inches. Her movements were tentative, nervy, like a bird fearful of a cat. She wasn’t at home in her house any more, Suzanne thought. No wonder, how could she be after what had happened here? It was already on the market, no new home chosen, no possibilities even viewed. Escape was the only motive.

Suzanne couldn’t tell her so, but her behaviour was absolutely normal for someone who’d been through such an attack. She couldn’t tell her too that it would last for weeks and months and probably years. And some never recovered.

‘Rachel, I’m sorry to bother you again, but I know you understand why,’ Suzanne began. ‘Are you sure you don’t know Eleanor Anderson, the other victim? Is there nowhere you could think of that you might have met? Nothing you could have in common?’

Rachel shook her head, at the window now, smoothing the drape of a blue curtain. They’d been through all the obvious possible connections, where they shopped, went out, friends, who they socialised with, work, families, kids. Nothing had shown up. The two victims – so far, Suzanne thought, with a grimace, so far – didn’t even look alike. All they had in common was they were roughly the same age, estranged from their partners, lived in a similar part of the city and lived alone, apart from their young children. But that could be reason enough.

If the rapist had been planning his attacks for a while, how long would it take him to follow a woman home, come back a few times, check for a man, then strike? Daytime saw thousands of women out in the city, trailing kids behind them, no wedding or engagement ring, their shopping a sure sign there was no man at home. Just stand behind them for a few seconds in a supermarket to see the food they bought, walk the same way home, catch the same bus…

A few days perhaps to build up a little list of targets, maybe longer, depending on how many victims he stalked. And for a man like they were hunting, it wouldn’t be a chore. It would be delicious, a savoured mission. He’d enjoy every minute.

‘How are you feeling Rachel?’ Suzanne knew there was no point pushing her questions, she’d told them all she could. Done more really, that TV interview took some guts.

‘OK. A bit better.’ She was by the sofa now, chewing at a nail. The engagement ring flashed in the sunlight beaming through the window.

‘Where’s Martin?’ Suzanne asked.

‘He had to go back to work.’ There was an edge to her words. ‘He’s got a big deal on at the moment.’ She paused, stared out of the window, rubbed at an imagined mark on the glass with a sleeve. ‘They’re never there when you need them, are they?’

So it had begun. The crumbling of the relationship. How long could it survive? Suzanne looked down at the carpet, said nothing, sensed Rachel wanted her to leave. She had nothing left to ask anyway, hadn’t expected to hear anything new, was just checking to see how she was doing. She struggled up from the enveloping chair.

‘If you need us, you’ve got my number.’ They’d left a mobile, programmed to call them, an emergency line. ‘We can have a squad round here in minutes.’

Rachel was at the fireplace now, toying with her hair, folding a lock in and out of her fingers. She nodded and mumbled a low ‘thanks’.

Back in the MIR, Suzanne went through the information they’d gathered yesterday. She stared at the racks of papers. It was quite a pile. She wasn’t afraid to admit she felt nervous, a little scared even. It was DCI Breen’s inquiry, but the High Honchos’ priorities had changed.

They wanted him on the McCluskey case, the show attracting the big media interest. He was still nominally in charge of the rape investigation, but had made it clear he’d have little time for it, not unless there was a quick result on McCluskey. She’d sensed an anger in him about that, but she didn’t think it had anything to do with her.

‘It’s your inquiry now, Suzanne,’ he’d said, a hand on her shoulder. ‘And I know you’ll do great. Go get him.’

She’d felt proud and stirred at the time, as if he’d put his personal trust in her. But now… Now she could feel the weight of the two shattered lives, the need for them to have the small compensation of justice being done, the possibility of some closure for their suffering. Look at the man who did this, try to understand why. Hate him or pity him, it didn’t matter. Either was some certainty, a help in the healing.

And what of the thousands of anonymous, faceless, fearful women out there who could become victims if she didn’t find this man? Had they already been chosen, walking around invisibly marked, not knowing how one man planned to smash his way through their lives? The nerves jangled again. She wasn’t exactly awash with resources either. Most of the detectives had been moved over to the McCluskey case. It was down to her, the newly promoted Claire Reynolds and a few constables. At least they’d left her this room.

So, where to start? Where would Adam Breen begin? She had a sheaf of papers detailing what the team had covered yesterday. Prioritise, she had to prioritise.

The obvious connection between the two women was their estrangement from the fathers of their children. Eleanor had been married, the relationship lasting for six years, exactly the age of her daughter. Rachel had lived with her partner for three years before the split. Both women had been asked the necessary question. Could it have been…? A definite no in both cases, but the exes had been traced and DNA tested anyway. Both negative.

She leafed through the papers. They said both men were bitter about the break-up of the relationships. Both had fought for custody of the kids. No chance. Unless the mother was insane or a drug addict or criminal the family courts always sided with them. Both men seemed to have accepted that and kept in regular contact, visiting their children weekly. Model parents, albeit from a distance. It was the modern way.

Her mind wandered to the comfort of her own little relationship. Small, but growing by the day. She kept that one secret from all at work. DCI Breen had once said that if you let anyone into your private life one day you’d find it written on the toilet wall the next. Spot on, as ever. Work was work and life was life and the two had a habit of exploding when they mixed, like incompatible chemicals.