The Death Pictures (18 page)

‘Yes.’

‘Strictly.’

‘OK!’

‘The knife that killed McCluskey had Kid’s fingerprints on it.’

Shit! 6.17.

Dan hung up, dropped the mobile on his desk and ran down the stairs. He leapt the last couple and barged in to the broadcast gallery, panting hard. They were rehearsing the headlines. The red glowing clock above the wall of television screens ticked on. 6.20.

‘Really!’ exclaimed Eddie, the director. He looked round accusingly from his bank of flashing buttons. ‘So unprofessional! We’re preparing for on air you know…’

‘Shut up!’ cut in Dan. ‘Monica… Monica… urgent one,’ he puffed, struggling to get the words out. ‘There’s been an arrest in the McCluskey case.’

‘What?’ She swivelled in her producer’s chair. ‘What?! Can you do something?’

‘Yeah, just give me a minute to think. Let’s get a cue ready, then I’ll go into the studio to do a live bit.’

‘OK,’ she said, opening a file in the computer. ‘You’ll be the top story. Dictate, I’ll write it in.’

‘Some breaking news for you as we go on air tonight,’ Dan said quickly. ‘Within the last few minutes, a man’s been arrested on suspicion of the murder of the famous artist Joseph McCluskey. Our Crime Correspondent Dan Groves is here and can tell us more. That’ll do. Now I’ll go work out what to say.’

6.23. Dan’s mind spun with what he could report. He strode into the studio and sat down heavily at the desk with Craig, the presenter. No more running, he had to save his breath for the live broadcast. Jerry, the floor manager clipped a microphone onto his tie, wiped the sweat off his forehead and began dabbing some powder on to his face to stop him shining under the banks of lights.

6.24, four minutes to on air. He could feel his heart pumping, his brain racing. Dan grabbed his notebook and started scribbling some words. Careful, must be careful, he warned himself. You’ve got to tell the story, but an arrest means the case is legally underway. We’re at risk of committing contempt of court if we say anything that could prejudice the investigation. Jerry filled a glass with water and Dan took a grateful swig, let its coolness calm him. He carried on writing, fast.

6.26. Just two minutes to go now. A couple of engineers slid the cameras into position to take shots of him and Craig together at the desk. Lights above them flared and died as Eddie checked they were both evenly lit. Dan crossed out a couple of sentences on his pad, added some other words. He took another gulp of water. ‘What do I ask you?’ said Craig calmly.

Dan looked up from his notes. ‘Two questions. First, what more do we know about what’s happened. Second, what’s the background to it?’

‘Thirty seconds to air. Stand by,’ called Jerry. Dan scanned through the words he’d written for the last time. They’d do. They’d have to.

The opening titles of the programme played and Craig came in.

‘Good evening, and welcome to
Wessex Tonight
, with me, Craig Watson. The headlines...’ A pause, waiting for Eddie’s cue as the pictures rolled.

‘Tourist tax shock; charge condemned for putting visitors off.’ Another pause, another cue. ‘In urgent need of a bypass; when will Cornwall’s biggest bottleneck be eased?’ Another second’s wait, the pictures changing again. ‘And the Dorset hamster who can play cricket…’

The rest of the titles ran, artistic images of some of the region’s most recognisable landmarks. An aerial shot of the Advent Project, the St Ives lifeboat crashing through waves, Dartmoor’s Hay Tor, Land’s End, the lonely Isle of Portland stretching into the sea. The music faded and Craig picked up with the cue Dan had dictated a few minutes before.

‘But we begin tonight with some breaking news...’ Dan didn’t hear the words, was concentrating on going through his lines. Deep breath. Don’t gabble, sound rushed or excited. Just keep it calm and professional. He could feel a sweat spreading from the base of his back.

‘Craig, I can tell you that detectives have arrested a man on suspicion of the murder of Joseph McCluskey. He is Lewis Kiddey, widely known as Kid, who is also a famous artist from Plymouth.’

Dan had been tempted to go into the colour of their relationship, that they’d had a feud until the reconciliation prompted by McCluskey’s terminal illness. But he knew that would be pushing his luck. It could be prejudicial, imply a motive to kill. He stuck to safer ground.

‘Mr Kiddey was friends with Mr McCluskey and his wife Abi and often used to visit their home. It was he who found Joseph McCluskey’s body on the night he died. Now, as we know, the police weren’t sure whether Mr McCluskey had committed suicide, so they began an investigation. That inquiry has just taken a dramatic turn with the arrest of Mr Kiddey.’

That’ll do, Dan thought. It told the story without being legally dangerous. That bit about Kid going round and finding the body was slightly dodgy, but it didn’t in any way imply guilt, so he thought it’d be OK.

‘And what’s the background to what happened?’ Craig asked.

Safer ground now, he could relax a little. ‘Joseph McCluskey was terminally ill with cancer. When he discovered he was dying, he began painting what became known as the Death Pictures, a set of 10 works containing a riddle. They’ve become very famous, but so far no one has solved it. The last picture was unveiled only this week. Mr McCluskey clearly did like to create a stir and a mystery and he succeeded. Now, even though he’s gone, another mystery surrounds him. Exactly how did he die?’

‘Dan, thank you,’ said Craig, turning from him to the camera to read the introduction to the next report. ‘Other news now, and plans for a tourist tax in Torbay have caused uproar today…’

Dan walked slowly back up to the newsroom, getting his breath back, letting his heart settle. He noticed his hands were shaking. Lizzie stood by her desk, her eyes on the door, waiting for him. An eyebrow was raised like an arch.

‘Are we really saying he could have been murdered?’ A three-inch heel ground into the carpet. ‘What the hell’s the point of killing someone who’s going to die in a few days anyway?’

‘The very question the police are asking themselves,’ replied Dan, sitting on the edge of a desk opposite her. ‘And I don’t know is the answer.’ She gave him one of her looks. ‘No, really, I don’t. I don’t think the police do yet.’

‘Then you’d better go find out, hadn’t you? I want wall-to-wall coverage on this.’

She was off, into full flow. It didn’t take long. Nought to breathless in a couple of seconds, he thought.

‘I couldn’t have created a better story myself,’ Lizzie fizzed. ‘It’s got everything. A famous artist, dying, sets an unsolvable mystery, apparently kills himself and then the police find out it’s actually a murder. The viewers will love it.’

The heel got to work again. ‘They’ll be glued to their sets. Glued! Absolutely glued! So go on then, what are you waiting for? Go join their investigation, like they asked. I want all the inside track. I want every in and out. I want each little detail. I want a story a night, if not more.’ She paused, raked him with another machine gun stare. ‘But remember, you’re a hack, not a detective. I want stories. I don’t want you disappearing for days like you did in the Bray case. Stories are what you’re paid for, stories…’

Dan turned and headed for the door.

Suzanne Stewart sat in the MIR, staring out at the ruined church and thinking back over the day. Had she been talking to the rapist? Was it Will Godley? Should she have arrested him? No, of course not, not yet anyway. They had no evidence. So he didn’t have an alibi and wouldn’t take a DNA test, so what? That didn’t mean it was him. But it did make him their main suspect.

His attitude had made her suspicious from the start. ‘Mr Godley, I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s only a couple of routine questions.’

‘Don’t disturb me then. I don’t like you slaves of the stinking State and I don’t like women and you’re both.’

She’d had a moment to study him as he made a cup of tea at his office in the dockyard. Yes, he just about fitted the description. Medium height, the women had said, probably about five feet nine or ten. Godley was a little taller than that, but she knew from long experience the descriptions given by traumatised people were often only vaguely accurate. Stocky build? Well he wasn’t fat, but he was going that way. That was all they had. That, and the faint smell of tobacco. And here was Godley, rolling himself a cigarette.

‘What do you want me for anyway? Haven’t you got a rapist to catch?’

Godley talked with a sneer, the ever present hint of an impending outburst of anger. She backed off a little, warily. Suzanne had come alone. They didn’t have enough detectives for them to double up and she thought there’d be plenty of people around in the dockyard. But it was lunchtime and there were just the two of them in this Portakabin office. She tensed herself, ready to fight or flee. But he just sat down on a desk and glared at her.

‘That’s exactly what we’re trying to do Mr Godley.’ She kept her voice level, firm but reasonable. ‘Please understand, this is just a routine inquiry.’

‘It’s that Fathers for Families who put you lot on to me, isn’t it?’ Suzanne said nothing. ‘Well I’ve had a guts full of them,’ Godley went on. ‘Them and their pathetic pantomime dressing up and waving banners. It’ll take a lot more than that to change the system.’

She couldn’t help herself. ‘A revolution?’

‘Yeah, something like that.’ For the first time, Godley looked surprised. He got up from the desk to stub his cigarette out and throw it in the bin. ‘Two sons I’ve got. Or had, I should say. I’m lucky to see them twice a year now.’

He stared out of the window at the stooping cranes, swinging supplies and stores to a sleek grey frigate, F98 stencilled black on her bow.

‘The court gave me weekends, once a fortnight,’ Godley spat. ‘The standard shit. Once a bloody fortnight! But even then, every time she’s got some excuse. Some sickness, some emergency, something from work comes up that means it can’t happen. Sometimes they’re just not in when I call round. And when I get so pissed off I go back to court, you know what happens?’

He turned to stare at her, his eyes wide, clenching and unclenching his fists.

‘The judge calls her in and tells her she must make sure I can see the boys. That’s it. And then I get to see them the next week, and after that, it’s back to the same thing again. Pathetic.’

She had to get back to the point, didn’t have time to debate the workings of the family courts. Suzanne knew them anyway. Adrian and his battles to see his young daughter, an ex wife lonely and jealous that he was happy in a new relationship, Tasmin the only remaining weapon she had to hurt him. Yes, she knew what could happen. She’d seen the frustration, even despair in Adrian. The courts never punished mothers because it could harm the children. Yes, she could understand what made men so embittered. But this wasn’t the time to talk about it. Three rapes so far. Three witch’s hats from a pack of six. Three more rapes planned. DCI Breen on the phone every hour.

Suzanne tried again. ‘Mr Godley, I appreciate it must be difficult…’

His fist slamming into the wall silenced her. ‘Difficult!!’ Godley’s voice was hoarse with rage. ‘Have you got kids?’ She shook her head. ‘Then don’t tell me it’s difficult.’

His voice fell, quieter now, but each word spat out. ‘It’s not difficult. It’s impossible. It’s torture. Those boys are growing up strangers to me. My sons!! And you know what she’s telling them? She’s telling them I hate them and don’t want to see them. She’s telling them I hate her and used to beat her. I’m an evil man. God knows what she’s telling them.’

His knuckles were clenched white, his breathing loud. ‘So… please… don’t... come in here… and tell me… it’s… difficult.’

‘I’m sorry Mr Godley, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Suzanne said, as soothingly as she could. ‘But we have an investigation to conduct and it would help if we could rule you out. If you wouldn’t mind giving us a sample of your hair or saliva for a DNA test, that would be the easiest way.’ He stared at her, shaking his head a little now, as if in pity. ‘And if you could tell me where you were when...?’

‘No,’ he interrupted, the word quiet but emphatic. ‘I can’t remember where I was whenever it was and I’m not giving you any sample of anything. No one from the so-called authorities helps me. I’m not helping them.’

What would Adam Breen have made of it, she wondered? He would have treated Godley in his usual calm but clever way, spotted any little evasions or signs that he was lying. Or would he have been so calm? Wasn’t something about this case getting to him? What about that brief conversation they’d had earlier?

‘How’s it going Suzanne?’

‘OK, sir. We’ve got some leads and we’ve eliminated quite a few people, so we’re making progress. Did you want a briefing?’

He’d smiled then, but not with any humour. ‘No Suzanne, you handle it. You’re a fine detective, you’ll get him. Just make sure you do. The High Honchos are all over me with the McCluskey case. I think they’re worried about the media coverage and they want it settled. Well, that’s their priority. But it’s basically a murder inquiry about a dying man. Whereas what you’re doing…’

She’d thought he was going to say something else then, and wondered what it was. He’d turned away, tapped a hand on the felt boards and pictures of the victims. ‘Well, I’m fully behind you and any help or resources you need, I’ll make sure you get them.’