The Death Pictures (21 page)

Dan found himself still struggling to imagine it. ‘What about Kid’s prints on the knife? Were they conclusive?’

‘Absolutely. The knife handle had been wiped, as you’d expect. Criminals know to do that. They’re not stupid and they’ve seen it all on TV. But sometimes they miss something and I think that’s what happened here. McCluskey’s prints were on the knife, but there was also one other clean and clear print too, right up by the blade. We’d taken Kid’s prints as a matter of routine because he found the body – or claimed to have. It’s a perfect match. I reckon Kid wiped the knife, then pressed McCluskey’s fingers around it so his prints would be there and it would look like suicide. But he missed that tell tale one of his own. The one that tells us it wasn’t suicide, but murder.’

Dan had to admit it sounded like a good case. There was just one more thing nagging at him. ‘So where does the attempted break in the night McCluskey died fit in? And the other one, come to that? And the rapist?’

‘No idea,’ said Adam as they turned into the police station. ‘Maybe they don’t at all. Maybe the attempted break ins were just someone trying to get in and find a hint about the solution to the riddle. A painting worth more than a hundred grand is a pretty powerful lure. Or they could just have been mundane attempted burglaries. And as for the rapist, I doubt very much it was him. His attacks have been carefully planned. He goes for women, alone with their kids. He wouldn’t have picked McCluskey’s place to try to get in. It just doesn’t fit with his targets.’

Unless that’s what we’re meant to think, said Dan to himself, too quietly for Adam to hear.

The interview room was the same one they’d solved the Bray case in. A low grey concrete ceiling seemed to loom oppressively just above Dan’s head. The whitewash of the brick walls was slapdash, smeared with vague streaks of faded colour, tinted green by the buzzing strip light in the centre of the ceiling. At the end of the room, a tiny oblong barred window allowed in just a hint of the world outside. It was always cold, whatever the weather, and echoed with every word or movement.

Kid was sitting at the table and jumped up when Adam walked in, Dan following.

‘What the hell am I doing in here?’ he shouted, gesturing wildly. ‘I demand to be freed. I’ve done nothing. This is outrageous…’

Adam ignored him, let his anger blow itself out as he settled himself on one of the two chairs on the side of the table nearest the door. Dan stood behind him. The plastic chairs were uncomfortable and besides, on the television, one cop always stood while the other sat.

‘Good morning, Mr Kiddey,’ said Adam pleasantly, looking up at him. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Kid stared silently at him, then did.

He was in his early 40s Dan guessed, neither fat nor thin, about five feet ten tall. He ticked off one question on his mental list. Kid would certainly be strong enough to force a dying McCluskey into a bath and hold him there.

He wore a flamboyant shirt that looked like its pattern was simply random sprays of bright colour. It reminded Dan of Loud. His face was long and thin, his hair blond and cropped short, almost a crew-cut. His skin seemed pale. Naturally so, or because he knew he was a killer about to be uncovered, Dan wondered? He wore a small silver stud in his left ear and another on the left side of his nose. Kid’s hand trembled over an ashtray full of a pile of discarded roll-up cigarettes. He still didn’t look like a murderer, but Adam was right, you never could tell. When he’d mentioned the man’s campaigning against poverty and charitable work to Adam in the car, the detective was entirely unruffled. Look at all the doctors who became killers, he’d said.

‘I’d like to ask you about what happened when you went to see Mr McCluskey,’ began Adam, fishing a piece of paper out of his case.

‘You know what happened. You’ve taken a statement.’

Adam leaned forwards and stared into the man’s eyes. ‘Tell me yourself. I want to hear it in your words.’

Kid stared back at him, then looked down at the table and shifted in his chair. ‘Can I get a coffee?’

‘When you’ve told me what happened.’

Kid took a deep breath, fiddled with his earring. ‘It’s just like I said. We’d arranged that I was to go round on Thursday night.’

‘Who arranged?’ interrupted Adam. ‘Why?’

‘Joseph invited me. He said he wanted to see what I thought of the last of the pictures. He also said he had something else to talk to me about, but wouldn’t say what. Just that he was sure I’d be interested.’

The plagiarism of his idea, thought Dan. Adam’s theory is holding together. He shifted towards the door a little to get a clearer view of Kid’s face.

‘OK,’ said Adam, scribbling down a note. ‘So what happened that evening?’

Another deep breath. ‘I’ve told you all this.’

‘Tell us again.’

‘Are you sure I can’t get a coffee?’

Adam’s look made him continue.

‘I went round there at about 7.45, as we’d arranged. I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. So I pushed the door and it was open. I went in and shouted that I was there.’

‘Was that unusual? Not getting an answer and the door being open?’

Kid shook his head. ‘No, it’s happened before. They used to like sitting in the garden at the back of the house. They couldn’t hear a knock there.’

Adam scribbled another note. ‘Go on.’

‘I stood in the hallway shouting for a minute, but there was still no answer. So I went into the lounge and looked out into the garden, but there was no sign of either Joseph or Abi. I started to get worried in case something had happened. You know his condition?’ Adam nodded. ‘So I had a look around. I thought I heard something upstairs so I went up. The door to the bathroom was open and that was where I saw…’

Kid’s words faded and his chest heaved. He lifted his head up, stared at the blank, low, ceiling. He seemed to struggle to breathe.

‘What did you find, Mr Kiddey?’ Adam wasn’t giving him a second to think. ‘What?’

Another heave of the chest. ‘You know.’ His voice was shaking now. ‘You know damn well what I found. You saw it.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I found Joseph McCluskey lying dead in his bath! That’s what I fucking found, all right? I found him dead, and blood everywhere. All right?!’

Adam looked down at his papers, scribbled another note, let the silence run. Kid’s face was glowing. He couldn’t stop fiddling with his earring.

‘Did you see a knife?’ snapped Adam.

‘What?’

‘A knife.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

‘On the bathroom floor. Next to…’

‘Did you touch it?’

‘What?’

‘Did you touch it?’

Kid stared at Adam as if he was a fool.

‘Of course I didn’t touch it! I just ran downstairs and called you.’

‘You’re sure about that? You’re sure you didn’t touch the knife?’

‘Yes! Of course! Quite sure!’

Adam stared at him, let the silence run again. Dan could feel his heart pounding. He could sense the trap closing.

‘You’re absolutely certain you did not touch the knife?’

Kid slapped the table. ‘Yes! Of course!’

Adam nodded, stared into him, waited, waited, waited for the moment.

‘Then how come that knife has your fingerprint on it, Mr Kiddey?’

Kid’s eyes widened. His mouth moved but no sound came out.

‘What?’ he gasped.

‘How come the knife which cut Joseph McCluskey’s wrists had your fingerprint on it, Mr Kiddey? Can you explain that?’

Kid sat there, gazing at Adam, shaking his head. His mouth opened and closed. Dan thought he could hear a faint, ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no…’

‘Later today, Mr Kiddey, I’m going to charge you with the murder of Joseph McCluskey,’ said Adam, getting up and walking towards the door. ‘Nothing will change that. But I’m going to leave you to have a little think. Because if you tell us what really happened – about what Mr McCluskey said to you regarding the idea you stole – and how you rowed and killed him, then I can tell the judge that in your favour. And that’ll mean you’ll get out of prison in – oh, shall we say – 15 years or so? Wouldn’t you say Dan? 15 years?’

From the safety of his wall, Dan nodded. He knew what was expected, could play the part. ‘Yes, about 15 years I’d say. Roughly 15. As opposed to, well at least 20 if we have to go through a trial.’

‘Oh, at least 20,’ said Adam pleasantly, as a uniformed policeman slipped in through the door to take Kid back to the cells. ‘At least. Judges don’t like the victim’s family and friends having to go through the ordeal of re-living their murder in a court. It’s almost like committing the offence all over again. No, they don’t like it at all. And they hate jealousy as a motive, absolutely hate it. They think it means the murderer could easily do something similar again, you see. They don’t like to see people like that released back into the community. In fact, forget your 20 years. It could easily be a whole life tariff.’

Chapter Eleven

Suzanne rang the bell, heard its metallic buzz echo inside the house. She kept her face towards the door, but slid her eyes to the right, onto the window. The faintest nudge ruffled the net curtains. Like a fisherman getting a hint of a bite, she thought. Another sound, this time a creaking floorboard, but the door remained shut.

A crash echoed along the bricks of the alley by the side of the house. It sounded like a door being flung open. Another noise, this time a voice, shouting, in pain.

‘Ow, get off you bastard. Get off!’

That’s two prime suspects now thought Suzanne, as the smartly uniformed and usefully muscular police officer bundled him up the alley. He wasn’t exactly resisting, but he wasn’t cooperating either. He was dragging his feet, making himself a dead weight as he was pulled along. There was a sneer on his face and he managed a couple of half-hearted protests and some light abuse, but the words were tinged with fear.

No more interviewing possible rapists alone, DCI Breen had said, no matter how tight resources were. Never underestimate what these people are capable of when they’re cornered. She’d taken Charles Cross’s bodybuilding guru, PC Colin Samson, with her and stationed him at the back of the house, just in case. He wasn’t renowned as clever, but he was certainly big.

So, there was one basic question that needed answering, and she asked it. ‘Mr Freeman, why did you run from us?’ Or try to, she thought.

He sipped at the cup of dark canteen coffee and Suzanne took the opportunity to study him. Five feet ten or so, stocky build, yes, it could be him from the description they had. No sign yet he smoked though, and suspects who did usually wanted a fag to ease their nerves as they sat here in the interview room. He could have guessed the police would know their man was a smoker, couldn’t he? But was he that bright? He didn’t seem so, but you never knew. Clever people could hide it well.

His hair was short, dark, circling a bald ring on the top of his head, his nose flat and wide, as though a flying fist had squashed it. He seemed to peer suspiciously through narrow eyes. Or was that just her imagination? He certainly had the physical power to be a rapist. Did he have the motive and the means? There were those couple of previous convictions, both for assault. It didn’t make him a rapist. But it did show he could be violent.

Beware starting to believe this is your man, she told herself. Beware. Work through the evidence and come to a conclusion. Don’t guess, assume or prejudge. But the one piece of evidence that would give them a definitive answer she didn’t have, and had no right to get. DNA, the golden gift to detectives was only his to give, not hers to take. She couldn’t see him volunteering a sample. That scowl said he wasn’t in a cooperative mood.

‘I thought you’d come ’coz I wasn’t paying. I thought you was the bailiffs.’

A man of few words, Suzanne thought. He’d said almost nothing since they’d brought him in. He’d confirmed his name and address, but hadn’t even asked why he was here.

His voice was thin and oddly high-pitched, almost a whine, as though it had never truly broken. A clue there? He’d know he had a distinctive voice – would no doubt have been teased about it often enough – so was that why he’d stayed silent with the women he’d attacked?

She checked the file she’d taken from the CSA. Steven Freeman, 34 years old, taxi driver by trade. Married to Julia for 5 years. One son, bitter divorce, maintenance awarded, none received. None at all according to the records. That was the problem with self-employed men, the CSA manager had told her. If they get a salary, we can take the contributions straight out of their pay. But if they’ve got their own business, making their own money, that’s where the system breaks down.

How to play it? He looked worried, kept tapping his feet on the concrete floor, shifting in his seat and checking his watch. Nerves? Or just thinking about a taxiing shift he was planning to put in?

She hadn’t told him yet why they’d brought him in. Just a routine suspect to start with, another from the CSA’s list of possible woman-haters for them to eliminate. But his attempted get-away had made him much more interesting. Maybe he did think it was because of the missing maintenance payments, but then again… So, take it gently or surprise him? She studied him for a moment, came to a decision.