The Death Pictures (10 page)

Outside the hospital they found the police car that the officer guarding Rachel had driven in. Night had crept up on the city, but there was enough light from the streetlamps in the car park to interview Adam in front of it. The shot would look dark and sinister, matching the story perfectly. A standard soundbite please, Dan asked, about 15 seconds worth, that gives you roughly 45 words.

Adam had been through the media training which had become indispensable for modern day politicians, senior managers and just about anyone who might have to be the spokesperson for an image-conscious organisation when a story broke. Dan watched as he composed his three points into a crisp, punchy answer. He emphasised what shocking, vicious attacks these were, how the police feared the man would strike again, and how the public’s help was vital in catching him. Dan nodded his approval. Adam’s message was strong and clear. We need to find this man. Please help us. Otherwise…

Dan and Nigel loaded the kit into the boot of the car and drove back towards Mannamead to find some officers on patrol. They didn’t talk and unusually didn’t even turn on the radio. More drizzle was gusting in over the city and the car’s windscreen wipers squeaked through their dutiful arcs.

As Nigel drove, Dan found his mind drifting back to the Death Pictures. There could be lots of symbolism in there, there were certainly plenty of places, but he kept thinking it was in the numbers. Weren’t there numbers in all the paintings? He was sure most were iron pyrites, as McCluskey had put it, but he also thought the answer was in there somewhere. But how could numbers form a message or a lesson?

Should he do some work on it? Give it a try? Perhaps he’d buy a set of the pictures when he had a chance and just look through them, see if he could spot anything. It wasn’t the hope of winning the painting. If he was honest, it was the challenge and the opportunity to prove McCluskey wrong, that the code could be cracked. It would be interesting to have a go, wouldn’t it? No harm in it.

They stopped at a red light. Dan watched as a cyclist hopped his bike up onto the pavement and carried on, head down against the drizzle. Hang on he thought, didn’t he say he wouldn’t get involved in the riddle? Could rise above it? Wouldn’t follow the madding crowd? Wasn’t going to do the shepherd’s bidding? He could, but he knew he was going to have a go anyway. There was a lovely space on the wall of his bedroom where the picture would look great.

‘Bingo!’ exclaimed Nigel, bringing Dan back to the car. In the road outside, a couple of uniformed policemen were talking to a man walking his dog. They parked up, pulled on their coats and he explained what they were doing while Nigel got the camera out of the boot. The pair didn’t want to be filmed and began to walk off. Some cops were like that, hadn’t told friends about their job or were just unhelpful. Find some others to film they said.

He saw Nigel’s look, tired, wet and cold and longing to go home. He felt the same way himself. He needed a cuddle with Rutherford, the safety of his great blue sofa and a large whisky, after that interview with Rachel. It could take another hour or more to catch up with a different patrol.

Should he call Detective Chief Inspector Breen, Dan asked the men? Drag him out of the hospital where he was talking to one of the rape victims, tell him about the problem with finding officers to film? Surely the police would want to be seen patrolling on the TV, in front of half a million people, a strong reassurance for the public? Suddenly the officers didn’t mind being filmed at all.

It was after midnight when Dan got back to the studios. He groaned at the thought that he still had a couple of hours work to do. The rain had grown relentless and drummed a staccato beat on the windows, the trees outside bowing and rustling in the westerly wind blowing in from the Atlantic. But the newsroom was quiet, deserted. For a place always full of shouts, TV monitors bringing in picture feeds and the electronic burble of computers, it felt soulless.

His tiredness was back, a cocoon of dull, fogging cloud, so Dan did something unusual and had an extra caffeinated coffee from the machine. Within a few minutes his head was buzzing from its attack.

The radio work would take the longest, so he tackled that first. He loaded the interviews into the computer and found himself writing ‘the numbers, the numbers, the numbers,’ while he waited. Damn McCluskey and his riddle.

He picked all three chunks of Rachel talking, about what happened, what effect it had on her, and how the rapist needed to be caught. Green peaks and troughs of waveforms danced on the screen as he manoeuvred the mouse to edit them. He also took the clip of Adam, then wrote some script to link it all together. It was an easy job, Rachel’s words were so powerful he only needed to add a few lines of explanation. He also loaded up some of the sound of the officers on the beat, trudging along and talking to people about what they were doing, asking if anyone had any information.

He stopped for a moment and stared at the screen. A sudden yearning to go home teased him, a need to climb into bed, Rutherford on guard at his feet, sleep quickly and hope not to dream, instead find a wonderful, numbing void to end this day. He thought about Kerry, her long, golden hair and welcoming smile.

It was half past midnight. Rutherford was being looked after. A cuddle would be wonderful when he finally got out of here. Was it too late to text her? It had been a long time. What the hell, her phone could be off, or she could just ignore him. What was there to lose? ‘Having a late night working with these rapes,’ he typed. ‘Terrible story. Make sure you take care out there. Hope all’s ok. x’

He liked the bit about taking care. Good improvisation. It looked concerned and loving and was almost a justification for sending the message. Better than simple loneliness. He stood up, stretched his arms and rolled his neck and was about to get back to work when his phone warbled, surprising him.

‘Heard about it, sounds horrid. Poor boy, being mixed up in that. Am home and happy to supply cuddles if loving needed. K. x’

How well she knew him. A flush of energy that had nothing to do with journalism, radio or television ran through his body. Dan replied that he’d be an hour or so and got back to the editing.

He mixed in some sound effects of the officers’ footsteps, then them talking to a couple on their way home from the pub. ‘Good evening. Nothing to worry about, we’re just checking you haven’t seen anything odd, like a prowler tonight, or a couple of nights ago...’ Then came his commentary, writing to complement the sounds.

‘Extra police patrols have been on duty for much of the night in Plymouth, looking out for the rapist. He’s now struck twice in three days, forcing his way into homes in Mannamead and Hartley to carry out his attacks. This woman – who doesn’t want to be identified – was one of his victims…’

In came the first clip of Rachel, talking about the attack. He let her words run, so chilling were they, then his question about the effect it had. Time then for a change of voice, radio worked best with plenty of variety.

‘The police are concerned the man could strike again,’ Dan intoned. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Adam Breen is leading the investigation. He advises all women to keep their doors and windows locked and to take care when going out…’

Then it was the clip of Adam. Dan joined on the last part of Rachel’s interview, when she too talked about the need to catch the attacker. It didn’t need introducing, the listeners would remember her voice. And that was the end of the report, nothing more needed to be said.

He wrote up a shorter version for the television breakfast bulletins and left a note for the early news team and Lizzie, pointedly marking the time in the corner. His watch said 1.15, so he guessed it was about half past. Rain was still beating down, so Dan pulled his jacket over his head and ran to the car. He didn’t want to look dishevelled.

The roads were deserted and he drove too fast, north, out to the edge of the city, to Crownhill and Kerry’s neat terraced house. A thought that he shouldn’t be doing this nagged at his mind, but he ignored it. He knew very well he shouldn’t, that come the morning he would regret it, but he knew too he was going to do it anyway. Sometimes life left you little choice.

At least he’d learnt one lesson. To make sure he didn’t get involved in a protracted and awkward saying goodbye, followed by the inevitable ‘discussing their future together’ session in the morning, Dan set the alarm on his pager for half past six. That way he could plead an urgent news story, run for it and get home in time to take Rutherford for a jog before going to work. He got out of the car, checked his reflection in the window, shaped up his hair and gave himself a knowing wink.

Chapter Five

Dan Groves would later come to look on it as a day that changed his life. There was the beginning of the path towards the flurry of international fame which grew from his involvement in McCluskey’s riddle and the extraordinary end to the story, and there was the meeting with the woman who would finally beat away the spectre of Thomasin and tame the swamp of the depression that had always stalked him. But it didn’t feel like a seminal day at the start. Far from it. He felt under pressure – attack even – from two different aggressors.

What was usually known as the Murder Room had become the MIR, the Major Incident Room. Given the police force’s lack of imagination, it was the best they could manage for an inquiry into a serial rapist, thought Adam, as he surveyed the gathering crowd of detectives. Four floors up in Charles Cross Police Station in central Plymouth, it looked out over the city and the bombed out Charles Church, the memorial of the Blitz from which came its name.

Dan stood in the place he’d adopted by the windows at the back of the room. Despite the number of times he’d been here during the Edward Bray investigation, he couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling he was an interloper. He wondered if that would ever change. He caught a glance and a brief nod from Adam and relaxed a little. The boss may want him involved and some of the other detectives had come to accept him, but he was conscious many still thought he had no place here. There had been more than a couple of hostile looks already. He tried to stare straight ahead and ignore the nudges, sly glares and whispers.

It was just before half past eight. Last night’s rain had blown through, its legacy another fine spring morning, the sky blue above the trails of traffic heading into the city. Dan hadn’t managed much sleep last night and felt groggy, but just about OK. It wasn’t the tiredness that was bothering him. It was the guilt. That and the trap he’d laid for himself.

He’d done it again. He’d let his lust lead him back to a place he shouldn’t have gone. In the passion and afterglow of the night he’d said yes, we’ll give the relationship another try. Yes, I do mean it. Yes, I’d love to take you out for dinner at the weekend to show my commitment. Dan sighed. When would he ever learn?

Another busy day stretched ahead when he longed for a quiet one. He’d called Lizzie and she’d been keen he should join the investigation. He knew she would, but he also expected the caveat that had quickly arrived. ‘So long as you keep producing stories. There’s huge interest in the case. I don’t want you disappearing to play detectives like last time. We pay you to report the news. So I want stories, stories, stories. Got that?’

So it was Charles Cross for the briefing at 8.30, then back to the newsroom to cut the lunchtime and evening TV reports on the rapist, while continuing to keep an eye on the state of the investigation. Tonight would have to be a quiet one. He wanted a good walk with his dog – it was funny how he missed Rutherford when he was away, or busy – and an even better sleep. The chances of that had to be good surely? The news of the rapes and the extra police patrols was everywhere. No woman would leave any lock unsecured, or venture out alone.

‘City in Fear’
The
Wessex Standard
had put it, splashed across a thousand screaming billboards. A bit over the top, but the point was clear. The man must have seen the coverage, in the papers, on the radio and TV, and wouldn’t think of attacking again. Not until the publicity had died down and people had gone back to their routines.

‘OK, quiet please team,’ called Adam from the front of the room. ‘Let’s get on with it. We’ve got a lot to do.’

Adam stood beside a series of four green felt boards, each the size of a typical classroom blackboard. Dan almost smiled. The detective loved those boards. So much of modern policing relies on computers Adam had said, but sometimes you need to see a web of connections to feel the links between people and events. That’s the key to catching your man, spotting the threads between the crimes that would lead you to him. The 30 or so detectives and handful of uniformed officers quietened. The young, keen and promotion-seeking took notes, the older, more confident or jaded just listened.

‘Victim one,’ said Adam, pointing to the centre of the left-hand board and a photo of a familiar face. ‘Rachel Bloom, 31 years old. Attacked about half past seven in the evening at her home in Atlantic Road, Mannamead. Her son was in bed asleep, thankfully. The man got in through an open window. She’s recovering in Tamarside Hospital.’ He pointed at another photo. ‘A kid’s witch’s hat found at the scene, along with the wrapping. It’s from a pack of six, and you know what that means.’ He surveyed the silent crowd, eye contact for all. ‘But we’re not going to let it get that far, are we?’ Nods and murmurs of agreement bounced back at him.

Suzanne Stewart stood to Adam’s side and took over, her style similar. Conscious or unconscious, that, wondered Dan? He suspected she was trying to impress, but
that
could just be his prejudice. They’d never got on and she’d hardly spoken to him since he helped to solve the Bray case. He wondered if she’d taken it personally.