The Death Pictures (41 page)

The public gallery was full too, no surprise there either. It was a big trial, a great story. A shame it wasn’t scheduled to last longer, Dan thought. Just four days it was set down for, only a limited amount of evidence to get through, many of the facts of the case agreed between defence and prosecution. There was no dispute that Kid was at the house and McCluskey died there. The only issue for the jury was the central one. Was the evidence strong enough for them to conclude Kid did kill McCluskey, despite his denials?

‘Court rise!’ shouted the usher, and Judge Lawless stalked in. Everyone sat down and he glared around the wood-panelled courtroom, his greying wig and immaculate red robe symbols of his authority. The passing years had cultivated his face with the lines of a permanent scowl. A scary judge this one, icily sarcastic with ill-prepared barristers and no time whatsoever for journalists.

Dan had seen his fellows suffer the sharp end of the learned judge’s ire when they’d reported a case in a way he didn’t like. One journalist whose paper criticised a jail term Judge Lawless had passed in a domestic violence case was summoned to receive a three-page letter on the detail of sentencing law.

‘I expect to see an article tomorrow about it,’ the judge had said acidly, leering down from the bench. ‘Criticism is appropriate when based on the rock foundation of sure knowledge. When built on the shifting sands of ignorance, it is folly.’ The article had duly appeared.

It should have been a good joke, a judge called Lawless, but it was remarkable, Dan thought, that he couldn’t remember anyone ever being inclined to crack it. Even if the judge was nowhere around, you’d be looking over your shoulder twitchily, feeling he was watching.

Kid sat in the plate-glass dock, his eyes flicking nervously around the court. He wore a plain black shirt, no tie. It was quite a contrast from the last time he’d seen the man, Dan thought, when he’d boasted that vibrant, multicoloured shirt. The silver stud in his nose had gone too and he looked pale and drawn, gaunt even. Not surprising, six months in prison on remand, waiting for the week that would decide whether he’d spend most of the rest of his life in jail, or walk free into the sunlight. Dan felt a flutter of nerves at the thought. What must he be going through?

Kid pushed a palm up to the glass of the dock as if he couldn’t believe it was him that it incarcerated. He still didn’t look like a killer, just didn’t have that air of ruthlessness about him. Could he really have improvised a murder plan so quickly in McCluskey’s house? And what about Joanna’s words, that she was sure he couldn’t have done it?

Or was that just him, allowing his imagination to expect the killer to be a Hollywood type villain? Adam had said so many times that murderers almost always looked absolutely ordinary. And the evidence was compelling, wasn’t it? That fingerprint on the knife, what Adam had called the killer fact.

Dan wrote a heading in his notebook; ‘Kid trial/McCluskey murder’, and underlined it twice. It was going to be a fascinating case. Next to him, the other journalists had started betting on how long the jury would take to return a verdict. It was a tradition in big trials. Guilty in only a couple of hours was the emerging consensus.

In front of the hacks, the barristers, their juniors and solicitors, the police officers and the clerk to the court settled themselves. All had neat piles of lever-arch files laid out on the benches before them. Behind was the public gallery, bubbling with excited conversation. It was how Dan imagined an ancient tribal gathering.

Abi was there, dressed in a black trouser suit. She sat rigidly, eyes fixed forwards. Professor Ed was too, wearing a white shirt and tie, the first time Dan had seen him dress so formally. The rest of the crowd looked like interested members of the public. Dan didn’t blame them for coming. It’d be quite a show, and all for free. When he retired, if he was ever bored, he planned to pop into court for a couple of hours of enjoying whatever sordid or gruesome trial was being held.

Kid stood, faced the judge and the courtroom quietened. The clerk read the charge.

‘Lewis Kiddey, you are charged with the murder of Joseph McCluskey on the fifteenth of April this year. How do you plead?’

‘Not guilty.’ His reply was instant, his voice strong, but Dan could see Kid’s hands trembling behind his back.

Tristan Wishart QC stood, a line of ginger hair sneaking out from under the back of his wig. He smoothed his jet-black robe, waited for his moment. All the hacks sat with pens poised. The prosecution’s opening statement was always one of the best parts of a trial, full of juicy detail and lurid allegations.

‘Your honour, members of the jury,’ he began. ‘The Crown’s case is a simple one. That this man, Lewis Kiddey,’ he turned, gestured to the dock, ‘took advantage of Joseph McCluskey’s terminal illness and crippling weakness to murder him, then attempted to cover up his crime by trying to make it look like Mr McCluskey had taken his own life.’

What a line to start off with, Dan thought admiringly. Like many barristers, Wishart was a performer. Arms lofted in front of him to make a point, continual eye contact with the jury, playing them, convincing them of his trustworthiness, the truth of his case. He charmed and beguiled them into believing him.

‘Members of the jury, what we say happened is this. That on a pleasant, spring evening, some six months ago now, Lewis Kiddey was invited around to the McCluskeys’ house for a drink and to discuss the latest of Joseph’s paintings.’

Dan had been scribbling fast, taking it all down, but now he paused. His brain hung onto Wishart’s words, repeated them. Six months ago? It was, wasn’t it? Six months ago that McCluskey had died. And he’d said just before his death that it would be six months until the answer to the riddle was revealed. A coincidence, or something more?

He didn’t believe in coincidences, especially not where someone as manipulative as Joseph McCluskey was concerned. So, he thought? So what? Did it mean something? What could it mean?

A dramatic fling of Wishart’s arm brought him back to the courtroom. Leave those thoughts for later, Dan told himself. You’ve got an important trial to report. And with Judge Lawless presiding, getting any of it wrong isn’t an option you want to explore.

‘It was an innocent enough invitation, members of the jury,’ continued Wishart, lowering his voice a little to match the mood of his words. ‘A couple of friends, a glass of wine, a pleasant chat. We’ve all done it. And we believe that was exactly what Lewis Kiddey had in mind when he went round that evening, nothing more sinister than a drink and a chat. But then – then members of the jury – then… Joseph McCluskey said something which in a second changed Lewis Kiddey’s intentions… changed them… to murder!’

You could almost hear the gasp run around the courtroom as Wishart emphasised that last word. ‘Murder’ boomed out and echoed around, bouncing, time and again from the wooden panels. Heads turned to Kid, to look at this man, the killer, already convicted now in many eyes. Judge Lawless glared down from his chair. He gave the barristers some leeway for drama, but not much. Wishart was treading on the borders of his tolerance.

He sensed it, shuffled some papers, carried on.

‘This is what we say happened, members of the jury. We will produce evidence to show you that Joseph McCluskey was a very ill man. He had cancer and he was in the last few weeks of his life. When he was told his illness was terminal, some months before, he set about tidying up his affairs.’ Another pause, Wishart’s voice dropping again now, sympathetic and rueful.

‘It was the noble endeavour of a deeply decent man. All those he had arguments or feuds with he contacted and told them he would like to resolve their disputes, so he could leave this earth in peace. And they all responded, members of the jury. They all responded – for who could resist the heartfelt plea of a dying man?’

An imploring spread of the arms to the jury, another glare from Judge Lawless. But it was good theatre, thought Dan, excellent stuff for tonight’s report.

Wishart took a step forward towards the jury, as if sharing a confidence. ‘Lewis Kiddey was one of those with whom Mr McCluskey had his disagreements, and with whom he’d been reconciled. We will show you evidence that Mr Kiddey had visited the McCluskey house on several occasions before the fatal night, times when he ate and drank with Joseph and his wife Abi. All was well. The hatchet was buried and they were getting along fine, old friends together, preparing to say goodbye. Sad times, members of the jury. Poignant times.’

That thought kept resurfacing in Dan’s mind. Six months on now, the murder trial starting and the answer to the riddle soon to be revealed. Events were converging. It couldn’t all be a coincidence.

What about Abi’s teasing words? She would give the answer in about a week, depending on events which were beyond her control. Could that mean the trial? How long it lasted? Was that what she couldn’t control? But how could that be linked with the riddle?

Dan felt the familiar excitement returning, rippling through him, stronger now than before. He was onto something, he was sure of it. He forced his mind back to the humiliation of Advent, the manhole cover and the chough in the back garden, calmed himself. He never learned. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. He thought he was onto something. Tonight would be another night with the Death Pictures, a couple of beers to stir his brain, one final effort before it was all revealed.

‘Then comes the evening in question.’ Wishart looked down at his notes, as though scrupulously checking the tiniest detail. ‘Lewis Kiddey arrived at the McCluskey house, we say at about half-past seven. We will show you evidence of that, although it’s disputed by the defence. Abi is out, walking the dog. Mr Kiddey is invited in by Joseph, says hello, is offered a glass of wine which he accepts, you know the sort of thing. Just small talk. It’s exactly the way it has been on previous occasions, but this time – this time, members of the jury – there’s one key difference. A fatal difference.’

A pause, a long look into the twelve silent and rapt faces in the jury box. Another glare from Judge Lawless, the cue for Wishart to continue.

‘This time, members of the jury, there’s something Joseph McCluskey wants to get off his chest. We will produce evidence to show you that Lewis Kiddey’s most famous work, the one which led to him receiving national acclaim, was not in fact his own idea… but that of Joseph McCluskey!’

In the dock, Dan noticed Kid shaking his head violently. His mouth hung open, his hands gripped the wooden ledge in front of him. His knuckles whitened with the pressure.

‘It’s this, members of the jury, this which we say leads to the murder of Joseph McCluskey. We will show you that Lewis Kiddey thought the issue had been forgotten, perhaps had even convinced himself that the idea was his own. But this evening – this fateful evening – Joseph brought the matter up again, to get it off his chest. He told Mr Kiddey that he’d thought about it, that it was something he needed to resolve with his conscience. And then, members of the jury, then comes the fateful moment. Joseph told Mr Kiddey he had decided he was going to reveal the secret in an audio diary of his life that he was about to record. The truth would be laid bare at last.’

Dan heard a faint sobbing from behind him, looked over his shoulder. It was Abi, and the tears were cascading down her cheeks, dampening her jacket. A black robed usher put a hand on her shoulder, passed a tissue.

Wishart lowered his voice again and Dan had to lean forwards to catch his words. Around him, others were doing the same.

‘And what happened then, members of the jury? We say this is what. Lewis Kiddey panicked. He thought it had all been forgotten. But here it was again, suddenly resurrected, a secret which could ruin him brought back to life. He panicked and in that moment he came up with a plan… a murderous plan.’

Wishart took a sip of water from a clear plastic cup. Nice trick, thought Dan. The barrister wasn’t thirsty, just wanted to let the words linger, allow them to imprint on the jury. Even Judge Lawless couldn’t admonish someone for having a drink of water.

Wishart put down the cup, continued, the pace of his words faster now, his voice more urgent, his argument gathering momentum.

‘He spots a knife in the kitchen. He looks at Joseph. He’s frail, full of cancer and the morphine he’s taking to control the pain. It wouldn’t take much to overpower him and use that knife... but how to disguise his crime? He has an idea. He grabs the knife and forces Joseph upstairs to the bathroom. He makes him run a hot bath and pushes him down into it. Then he cuts the man’s wrists and stands back to watch his life’s blood flood out of him. He stands there, members of the jury – he stands there – and watches Joseph McCluskey die. He watches his friend, Joseph McCluskey, die from the wound he himself has inflicted. Murder, members of the jury. Murder! Not a gunshot, or a beating, but murder nonetheless. Murder, plain and simple.’

Dan scribbled fast to keep up. Great stuff, this would make for a hell of a report. Behind him, Abi was still quietly sobbing. He’d add a line about that too, important colour and emotion. They had film of her arriving at court.

Then members of the jury, then it’s time to cover his tracks,’ boomed Wishart. ‘Lewis Kiddey wipes the knife clean of his own fingerprints and presses it into Joseph’s hand so his prints are on it instead. Oh yes, it’s cold… calculating… ruthless. Then he waits. He waits until he knows Joseph is dead and he calls 999 to say he’s found his body in the bathroom. Please, send an ambulance as quickly as possible, please... His friend has tried to commit suicide. But he’s waited long enough. He knows it’s too late.. That Joseph is already dead.’