The Death Pictures (4 page)

An original was out of the question on a journalist’s salary, particularly now McCluskey was close to death and had become so very famous. Eighty-five thousand pounds, the most recent of the Death Pictures had sold for, according to his notes. He patted Rutherford’s back as the Alsatian lay by the side of his great blue sofa, scratching hard at a floppy ear. ‘That’s plenty more than double our pay, mate. No more doggy treats for you if we wanted a picture like that. And stop scratching, or your ear’ll drop off.’

The briefing went back to McCluskey’s early life, more detail than he needed but it was interesting to read. Born in Plymouth, undistinguished years at school, went on into the sixth form for a year, didn’t like the idea of more education, left and began painting. No formal training, he just decided to have a go. His work was quickly recognised as having what the cuttings of the time called ‘great potential’, and for once that wasn’t the usual journalists’ hype. He started off in portraits – the briefing implied that was a sure way to fund your living expenses, flattering the pompous who desired immortality on canvas – then moved into more abstract work.

One cutting detailed his first London exhibition, a minor gallery but it was a start. More followed, the venues growing progressively bigger and better known and his paintings began to sell around Britain. His lifestyle was as colourful as his works, making lurid stories for the tabloids.

‘The Dishonourable Lady’ read one photocopied headline. A minor titled member of the local aristocracy had posed naked and highly suggestively on the steps of a National Trust home for one work, causing a predictable outcry. She was barely 20, he 40. An affair had duly followed, outraging her family. It was all good publicity and the painting had sold for a record sum for a McCluskey. There was a string of women, his technique apparently a simple one. Paint them, then bed them.

Dan couldn’t suppress a chuckle. He put down the notes and got up to fetch himself a beer from the kitchen, thinking what a creative way of working McCluskey’s was.

He pondered what ale to have from the multicoloured collection of cans in his cupboard and thought of Kerry, whether she would be interested in a call or text message from him. Stour, he decided, pulling the red tin from the plastic netting of its pack of four, good Kentish ale. It reminded him of his college days. A thought of Thomasin in her tight yellow summer dress lingered teasingly too, like the beautiful ghost she was. Dan pulled open the tin and poured it quickly, watched bubbles fizz through the amber liquid. He forced his thoughts back to Kerry. It wasn’t a night for sinking in memories of a lost past.

‘Either commit to giving it a chance, or leave me alone,’ she’d said, and he hadn’t heard from her for ten days now. There’d been no sex since, and he wouldn’t mind a quick bout, but after that, then what? He knew he’d lie there, feeling guilty about the implicit promise he’d made and not sleep, then spend the next few days trying to avoid her. It was a well-worn path. Maybe the flowers could stay in the vase in the hall. They brightened the place up.

His mobile rang and he jogged back into the lounge, shifting a sniffing and curious Rutherford away from the phone with his knee.

‘Hi, Adam, how you doing?’

‘OK, Dan, just about OK.’ He sounded tired, his voice thin and hoarse. ‘I’m off home, but I just wanted to call you first. She’ll do it. She wants a couple of days to compose herself and recover a bit and she wants me and Suzanne there too, but she’ll do it. Oh, and she wants to be anonymous as well. Is that all OK for you?’

‘Sure, Adam, that’s fine. I’ll be sensitive with her, don’t worry. You going to call me when you’re ready to do it?’

‘Yes, I will.’

Dan waited for Adam to say goodnight and hang up, but nothing came, just the hum of the phone.

Finally he asked, ‘Are you OK?’

‘Just about.’

‘Sarah?’

‘Yes.’ The phone rattled with a sigh. ‘And Annie and Tom.’

He’d fancied a night in on his own, a couple of beers, reading up on the interview with McCluskey and a decent sleep, but Adam was a good friend… Well, at least it would stop him trapping himself with Kerry again.

‘There’s beer here if you need one.’

‘I’ll be there in 20 mins.’

Dan sat back down and scanned through the rest of the briefing. McCluskey’s paintings begin to receive national acclaim. A series of major exhibitions. The odd tabloid story about broken relationships and spirited feuds with other artists. Becomes a Royal Academician, to the horror of some of the older art establishment, some very spicy quotes there. ‘This is the Royal Academy, not a sordid Soho Drink and Porn Club you know…’

Dan chuckled again and patted Rutherford’s head. He was beginning to like the man more and more.

Married to Abigail Duggleby, ten years younger, met when she modelled for him. Much cynicism about the chances for the relationship in the press, all confounded. Twenty-two years on they were still together and apparently happy and devoted, even as he prepared to die.

Ten months ago diagnosed with cancer of the oesophagus, a secondary tumour in his liver making it inoperable, given nine months to a year to live. Decides to spend his remaining months finding reconciliation with all his enemies – quite a number according to the notes – and raising money for charity. And here’s how, the idea that captivated the country.

‘Ten pictures I will paint,’ a newspaper article quoted him as saying, ‘roughly one for each month I expect to remain on this planet. Each will be auctioned off for a charity of my choosing. Each will have a very limited number of prints made, also to be sold for good causes. I will keep one of each of the sets of prints which will be exhibited on my studio wall. Hidden within the sequence of ten pictures there is a coded message of great importance to me. The answer to the riddle has been left in a safety deposit box in my bank in Plymouth, to which only my wife Abigail has the key. From the moment of my death, you have six months to solve the riddle. The person who does will be given the original of the last of my pictures. If it’s not solved, it’s up to Abigail what happens to the painting.’ There was a photograph of the artist standing by an easel, moodily glaring at the camera.

They’d become known as the Death Pictures, and the rest of the folder contained images of each of the nine so far revealed, along with notes on what had happened to them. The first original had sold for just under thirty thousand pounds, the money going to a grateful St John’s Hospice in Plymouth. From there, the values had risen fast. The final picture was expected to be worth more than a hundred thousand and there had already been countless attempts to solve the riddle. None had been successful.

Tomorrow, Joseph McCluskey would unveil the last of the Death Pictures at his studio on Plymouth’s Barbican and Dan, along with scores of other journalists, would be there to interview him. Not just a quick chat though, as Lizzie had made clear.

‘I could send anyone for that,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve no idea why, but people seem to open up to you. He must be nearing his time now. I want you to do a proper interview with him, a good long and detailed one that we can use as an obituary when he does die. His wife Abi is a friend of a friend of mine. She asked if we could do something like this. She even asked for you. She said Joseph liked some of the other reports you’ve done, particularly on the Bray case. It’s a huge story, so don’t balls it up. I want it long, I want it good and I want it poignant.’

One final note in the file, from another reporter who’d interviewed McCluskey after the unveiling of the first Death Picture. ‘Man’s an arsehole. Full of himself. Horribly arrogant. Answers questions with questions. Thinks he’s cleverer than everyone else. If interviewing, be prepared for a rough ride, and don’t bank on getting anything useful.’

Dan rolled his neck and stared out of the bay window. Interesting. Was that why Lizzie wanted him to go? Because they hadn’t got a good interview from McCluskey in the past? He felt himself starting to look forward to the meeting.

The doorbell buzzed. Rutherford jumped up sleepily, managed a half-hearted bark and gave Dan a questioning look. ‘Ok fella, no worries, it’s just a friend in need, lie back down,’ he reassured the dog.

He opened the door to find Adam leaning against the wall outside. The top of his shirt was unbuttoned and his tie drooped forlornly down his neck. Dan handed him a can of Bass and he walked heavily in, taking off his suit jacket, which he flung at the coat stand. It missed.

‘Shall I stick a duvet on the spare bed, mate?’ asked Dan, picking the jacket up and dusting off some fluff. He must get round to doing the hoovering sometime, he thought. That, or get a cleaner in, more likely.

Adam flopped down on the sofa and nodded.

‘Yeah. Duvet, bed, and some whisky beside it.’ He took a deep draw on the beer, then another, while Rutherford sniffed at his impeccably polished shoes. ‘What a bastard of a day,’ he groaned. ‘And I know there’s worse to come if we don’t get this guy soon. Much worse.’

He couldn’t sleep. He’d expected that, but wondered why it would be. Guilt or excitement? Now, at last, he knew.

His naked body cuddled up around the second of his calling cards, like a child with a precious Teddy Bear. He stroked it, his fingers toying with the plastic point of its peak, rubbed it through the tingling hairs on his chest. Those ecstatic minutes earlier wouldn’t leave his mind. They played again and again, the memory never losing its sharpness or thrill. He wouldn’t sleep at all tonight, he knew that now. He was too awake, too alive. Too eager for the next time.

Chapter Two

Heavy snoring was grumbling through the door of the spare room, so Dan whispered ‘shhh’ to Rutherford, slipped the lead around the dog’s neck and they edged quietly out of the front door. He could do with a good run to clear the thickness in his head after the beer and Adam’s outpourings of last night. He had a big interview to do today and wanted to feel fresh for it. He suspected he’d need to be sharp to handle Joseph McCluskey.

April had brought with her a fine morning, the awakening topaz sky bisected by the single white vapour trail of a lonely jet. A pair of magpies hopped and chattered to each other on the roof of the garage next door, oily rainbows shining in their blue-black feathers. Wasn’t it two for joy? That’d be good, he could do with some. Spring was warming the world but there was still a nudge of chill in the air, so he broke into a jog. Rutherford matched the pace effortlessly beside him, the pads of his feet beating a soft rhythm on the tarmac.

They headed down the hill from Hartley Avenue into Thorn Park and Dan freed Rutherford from the lead. The dog shot off through the watchful chestnut trees, skidded across the dewy crystal grass to stop to sniff a scent, ambled back, then sprinted off again, just missing his master’s legs. Dan nodded to another dog owner who smiled understandingly at Rutherford’s antics, then began running laps of the park. A couple of miles would do, to wake him up and give him time to go through the competing thoughts jostling in his mind.

So Adam’s on-off marriage was off again. It was like a soap opera.

When they’d first met, in the weeks leading up to Christmas, Adam had been living in a one-bedroom flat away from Annie, his wife and young son Tom. Dan had initially thought it had been the usual story of a man putting his work before his family. Sad but familiar, mundane even. Then Adam had told him about Sarah, how what happened to her had driven him to become a detective and how he couldn’t betray her by giving it up, not even by easing back.

He’d agreed with Annie to ask his Chief Superintendent for a better ‘work-life balance’, as the police had called it, and for a while it had made a difference. But that was over Christmas when the festive spirit meant there was a lull in the violent and deadly crimes that demanded a Detective Chief Inspector’s attention. He’d spent more time with Annie and Tom and they were edging towards reconciliation. But then there was a murder to deal with, a drugs killing, then a kidnapping, and now this rape.

Annie knew what a rape case meant. She’d been through it before, knew that she would scarcely see her husband until it was solved. And even when he was there beside her, his mind would be away, exploring the alibis and angles of the investigation. Her patience had stretched and finally snapped. Adam was back in the hated flat again.

They’d been through it all last night. What should he do? He wanted his family and his job, but couldn’t bear the thought of betraying Sarah. As always, Dan had no answers; he was there to listen and keep Adam plied with beer until he fell into a dark sleep. It had become a familiar supporting role.

An excited yelp signalled that Rutherford had found a stick. Good timing, Dan was glad of the respite it offered from the run. The beer was still a heavy weight in his stomach and head. But first they had to go through their familiar routine. He wrestled the dog for it, and faced with growling, jaw-locked determination he pretended to give up, looked around and found a better stick under a lime tree. Rutherford immediately dropped his and galloped towards the new prize, giving Dan a chance to grab the original and hurl it off through the trees. The dog sprinted happily after it.

So what about Kerry? Should he give it a try with her? He liked her, but that was about it. Was liked enough to justify continuing a relationship? He couldn’t see himself ever falling in love with her and wanting to spend years together, probably not even months if he was honest. He knew she felt very differently. Those hints about two flats being far more expensive to keep than one were hard to ignore, but he’d set his face and managed it.