The Death Pictures (2 page)

He reached out with the fine brush and mixed a little white into the fluid gold crescent of paint on his pallet. Above the head of the younger of the two images of himself, he added a point to a star. It was complete. The final picture was finished, the last clue to the riddle, the closing detail in the spectacular epitaph he was writing for himself.

He laid the pallet down, reached for the light switch and turned to walk back into the house. Another persistent tear tickled his eye. He hesitated. He couldn’t face her yet. Not yet, she couldn’t see him suffering. It hurt her too much.

He gazed back at the picture and relived the anticipation of the sensation he would never see. It was a fantasy he couldn’t tire of. No one would solve the riddle, he was sure of that. It was too clever, too perfect. In a lifetime of wonder, this was the zenith.

He would achieve immortality, joining the exalted ranks of the finest artists, with the timeless works they left behind. He still wasn’t quite sure which was the most powerful motivation. That, or the opportunity to enforce some justice in an immoral world. He licked a finger and smoothed a spraying eyebrow into order. It didn’t matter. The historians could argue about his reasons, and they would, for many long years. All that was important was that it happened.

The thought cheered him, as it always did. He would die within days now. His hand rose to his chest. The tumour had almost finished gorging itself, but time enough remained for all that was required. He reached for the light switch again and this time flicked it off. He could face her now. The knowledge of the amazement, fascination and scandal that he would leave behind had given him strength. It always did.

He glanced back at the silhouette of the canvas and the dark outlines of the two images of himself. Whatever they claimed about him, it could never be said that Joseph McCluskey’s death had no meaning.

Chapter One

The screech cut through the air, bounced off the walls and sliced into Dan’s skull. Lizzie slammed the phone down and sprung to her feet. She looked tall today, her icicle stilettos four inches high, a bad sign. The newsroom fell quiet as she glared around. Journalists began to sink below the safety line of their computer screens, like soldiers in their trenches, fearful of the coming barrage.

‘We’ve lost one of the top stories,’ she barked, a sharpened fingernail jabbing accusingly at the air. ‘The bloody lawyers have vetoed the exclusive on the shagging councillor. So there’s a three-minute hole in the programme. Who’s got something that can fill it, and fast? Come on, quick, quick, quick!’

Silence, apart from the merciless tick of the radio controlled clock on the wall. Dan stood, frozen, as her roving eyes settled on him.

He just had time to reminisce about what a pleasant day it had been. For once, there was no breaking news of murders, mutilations, explosions, fires, crashes, rapes or robberies that would force him to scramble to yet another miniature war zone. He felt much better off after getting through almost half of his paper mountain backlog of expense claims and he’d even researched a couple of stories too. The one about hoax calls to the police was his favourite for tomorrow. The Superintendent in charge of the 999 call centre had a tape of so called emergencies that included a request for a pizza, a report of a racing pigeon making its home in someone’s back garden and a broken washing machine. It would certainly amuse the viewers.

He’d even had time to wonder about whether he should call Kerry. They hadn’t got together for days and he wasn’t so sure he wanted to see her at all, but he wasn’t doing anything else tonight, it was spring, the weather was pleasant and a grapple in the sheets would be a fine way to end the day. But then, she’d see it as some form of commitment – again - and he didn’t know if he could face the hassle.

He’d checked his watch. Coming up to five o’clock it said, so probably about ten past. Dan mouthed the routine curse for the backstreet jeweller who had sold him the cheap Rolex. It hadn’t taken long to find out why the price was so reasonable. He’d started packing up his satchel. Time to quietly sneak off. He could get home, take Rutherford out for an evening run, then decide whether to call Kerry. There was no rush. It was an unusual feeling, but he seemed to be reasonably relaxed.

The contentment vaporised as Lizzie launched.

‘You!’ she barked, striding over, her heels stabbing hard into the carpet tiles of the floor, the black bob of her hair flying. ‘You’ve been doing so-called ‘research’ today. So… what’ve you come up with?’

Dan put down his satchel. ‘Hoax calls to the police…’ he began. ‘But I don’t have the tape of them yet…’

‘Useless then,’ she snapped. ‘What else? Come on!’

‘Err… big rise in the number of people being killed on our rural roads…’

‘Got enough to talk for a couple of mins about it?’

‘Err…’

‘Done then. Get out there. I’ll send the outside broadcast truck. I want you on a rural road. I want emotion. I want you yapping movingly for two mins. I want one of those places with a pile of flowers next to a spot where someone’s copped it. And I want it good. Go on then, what are you waiting for? Go!’

Dan jogged and swore his way down to the studios’ car park to meet Nigel. He was leaning on the bonnet of his estate, polishing the lens of his camera. ‘Quick,’ Dan gasped. ‘Scramble call! Head north, towards Dartmoor. We’ve got to cobble together something for the programme… somehow. Bloody Lizzie.’

Nigel battled their way through the traffic while Dan worked on his script. Every second saved could be vital in beating a deadline. 5.20, a tortuous time to leave the city, the sluggish roads clogged with weary commuters. And still the location to find and the live broadcast to sort out. It was going to be tight. The precious minutes ticked mercilessly by. Dan noticed his heart had begun racing.

They headed for the A386, leading out of Plymouth towards north Devon. A racing track mix of single and dual carriageway, long, inviting straights and sudden, deadly bends. It’d seen a series of fatal crashes, particularly motorcyclists.

He’d spoken to the mother of one young lad, Jason Rayner, a year ago when they’d covered a story about the rising number of bikers being killed in the region. Jason had died on this road when a lorry pulled out in front of him. His family made sure there were always flowers left to mark the spot.

Dan remembered the interview well. Jason had been just 22 years old. He was a keen motorcyclist, had passed his advanced test and used to ride out into the South-west’s countryside to enjoy his other hobby, landscape photography. He’d been entirely blameless in the crash, as was so often the case with the deaths of bikers. The lorry driver simply hadn’t seen him.

The man was charged with causing death by dangerous driving, but it was notoriously hard to prove and the case had collapsed. He’d eventually been convicted of careless driving and given a fine of two hundred pounds, with six points on his licence. Jason’s family had described that as an insult.

The interview with Emma Rayner had been powerful and poignant. She hadn’t cried, instead maintained a calm but intense dignity, which somehow had been more moving. She was only a young woman herself, in her early 40s, and had gone on to join the charity Roadpeace to help campaign to reduce the number of deaths on the roads. Dan had spoken to her a couple of times since about various motoring safety issues. They’d always got on well. He’d even been invited to Jason’s funeral, a gathering of hundreds of friends and family and filled with touching eulogies.

An idea started to form. He could easily talk for a couple of minutes to take up the required airtime. Painful experience of hearing the dreaded words, ‘Fill, fill, we don’t have the next report,’ in his earpiece on many an outside broadcast had quickly taught him the art of padding. But better, so very much better, to hear what losing a young life in a crash meant from someone who really knew.

Dan delved into his satchel, found his contacts book. Early in his career he’d got into the habit of writing down the phone number of every person he spoke to, and had been glad of it so often. It distinguished a good hack. You never knew when you’d need to talk to someone at short notice.

‘Emma,’ he said gently into the phone. ‘It’s Dan, from
Wessex Tonight
. How are you?’

She sounded genuinely pleased to hear from him and they chatted for a couple of minutes before he explained what they needed to do. He called, he said, because it was only fair to warn the relatives of people who had died that their cases were about to be featured on the television. Even many years on, some still struggled to come to terms with their loss and could be shocked at the images suddenly appearing before them, often as the family sat down for dinner.

‘That’s fine Dan, absolutely fine. You’ve always been very sensitive about what happened. You know my views. The bigger the publicity the better. If featuring Jason’s case might make people drive more carefully, you’ve got my full blessing.’

Dan thanked her, paused, then explained his idea.

She didn’t sound surprised, just amused. ‘What, right now? You don’t ask much, do you? I’m about to cook tea.’

‘Anything good?’

‘A bit of pasta. Nothing that can’t wait, I suppose…’

‘So…’

‘But I don’t have any make-up on.’

‘I wouldn’t say you needed it. Me yes, certainly, but not you.’

‘Charmer. You think I’m cheap enough for a bit of flattery to persuade me?’

Dan kept quiet. A series of good-natured tuts echoed down the phone, then, ‘I’ll be there in half an hour. As it’s you.’

The car’s glowing clock read half past five. Less than an hour until they were on air. Behind, in the morass of traffic, Dan could see the outside broadcast van. He worked through a quick mental calculation. Twenty minutes to get the satellite link working. Another ten to talk Emma through the interview. Fifteen more for him and Nigel to sort out how to present the broadcast. They could do it. Just.

‘Got to get some fuel,’ Nigel said, turning the car off the road and into a petrol station. ‘We’re running on fumes.’

Dan groaned. ‘Not that time’s against us or anything.’

‘Sorry, it’s been so busy lately I haven’t had a chance to fill up. But if I don’t get some petrol we’re going nowhere. Just two minutes. I’ll only get a few quid’s worth.’

Dan ground his teeth, went back to working on his script, then looked up, noticed something on the forecourt. Another idea kindled. It was remarkable how the jabbing pressure of a looming deadline could spur your brain into action. He got out of the car, walked fast over to the kiosk, jogged back.

Nigel gave him a look. ‘What’re you up to?’

‘Shhh. No time. You’ll see later.’

The cameraman accelerated around a roundabout and the road broke free from the concrete of the city, onto the open moor. The horizon stretched with a ragged line of the famous tumbledown piles of granite of Dartmoor’s tors. Golden gorse flecked the hedgerows as they sped past. Weatherbeaten ponies chewed hard at lush pockets of grass. Dan kept watch. He scanned each junction eagerly. No flowers… no flowers.

The miles clicked by. 5.45 now. No flowers… no flowers… no flowers.

Dan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His back was sweating. If they didn’t find somewhere to do the O.B. in the next few minutes they’d be out of time. He’d never before missed a deadline and didn’t want to make this an unhappy first.

He breathed out a hiss, tried to remember exactly where the crash had happened. It must have been farther out of the city than he thought. Still no flowers. More time slipped past. 5.50.

A flash of colour caught his eye. ‘Stop!’ Dan yelled. Nigel slowed hard, bumped the car off the road. A blare of angry horns from other drivers buffeted them. They ignored it, clambered out of the car.

A tapestry of flowers lined the fence, interlaced reds, blues, yellows and pinks, ruffling gently in the breeze of the passing traffic. One card read, “Jason, always in our thoughts…” Another, “Forever missed, your smile lit up our lives.” Jason’s mischievous face grinned out from a photograph, handsome, dark haired and swarthy.

Dan’s mobile rang. ‘Hi Lizzie,’ he said, making a face at Nigel. ‘Yes, I know the programme’s in real trouble unless we get this sorted. Thanks for pointing that out. Yes, I know you’re relying on us. If we could just get on with it…’

A babble of words burst from the phone. ‘Yes, I think you’re right Lizzie,’ Dan replied nonchalantly. ‘We should have thought of asking someone who’s lost a relative in an accident to join us for an interview.’

The phone buzzed as the attack intensified. ‘Oh, sorry, yes, what I meant was
I
should have. Yes, I entirely agree, it would have made much better television… far more emotional.’ He paused, waited, gave Nigel a knowing wink, then finally added, ‘Oh, hang on… that was what I meant to tell you… it’s just what I’ve already done.’

The Outside Broadcast truck skidded to a halt beside them. Nigel held out a microphone and Dan took it, started rehearsing his lines.

‘There are few roads you can drive down in the countryside without seeing a poignant memorial to a fatal crash,’ he intoned in his best sombre voice, kneeling by the bouquets. Nigel nodded, focused the camera.

Emma arrived at quarter past six and gave Dan a hug. He wasn’t surprised to see she didn’t look in the least flustered by the prospect of broadcasting live to half a million people. They were ready with three minutes to spare. Close, but he’d known tighter.