The Death Pictures (40 page)

It sounded like an American game show host, he thought. But she smiled at him, then turned to the camera.

‘The clue is this.’ Her voice was strong and measured, no faltering. ‘Why are the pictures hanging here in the gallery prints and not the original paintings?’

She stopped, nearly catching him. He hadn’t expected it to be so short.

‘Repeat that for us will you please, in case anyone missed it the first time around?’

She nodded, still smiling.

‘Why are the pictures hanging here prints, and not the original paintings?’

* * *

Dan spent that night going over what Abi had said. Even when he slept it was fitful, and always with the recurring question rattling in his mind. Why should it be that the pictures in McCluskey’s own studio were prints?

The first reason was the obvious one. McCluskey had given the originals away, to make money for whatever causes he’d chosen at the time. But that wasn’t an answer which could in any way solve the riddle. It had to mean there was some difference between the prints and the originals. But what could that be? They were the same in every way weren’t they? That was the point of prints, given the power of modern technology. The detail and the colours were as alike as they could possibly be. He’d seen the original of picture ten and a couple of the others along with their prints, and hadn’t noticed a single difference.

He’d had an idea as they were de-rigging the camera, cables and lights. What about McCluskey’s signature? Each print was individually signed. What if there was some subtle difference in each, something he’d added or left out, some letter perhaps? Or a series of letters that spelt out a message.

He liked the idea, felt the familiar growing excitement, along with the equally familiar expectation of failure. He’d studied them, Abi watching him, that calm smile still on her face. Thousands of people had been in here before doing just the same, thousands more would follow over the next week. She was sure he wouldn’t see anything, he could tell that. And she’d been right. He’d found nothing. All the signatures were identical. But while he’d had a chance, he’d examined each print, just to see if there was something in there that could possibly be a hint. Still he’d found nothing.

The only other idea he’d had was that it might be something in the canvas of the originals. But that was hardly a fair challenge. Then the riddle could only be solved by the people who owned or had access to the paintings, and they’d been dispersed to a range of organisations. So how could any one person find a pattern in them? Unless the answer was contained in just one of the originals, and Dan couldn’t see that would be fair either. It didn’t tally with what Professor Ed had told him. That McCluskey would have ensured the answer was available for all, but made it so cryptic that no one could get it and he would have the last laugh. Well, he was certainly doing so at the moment.

The thought that the answer must be somewhere in front of him had been both a comfort and an irritant. He’d checked through the pictures again. But still he found nothing, had no ideas, couldn’t see what the answer might possibly be.

Across the country Dan imagined thousands of other people in their lounges and studies, at their work desks, all scouring the images. He wondered what conclusion they’d come to. The same as his? No idea... Not a clue…

His copies of the pictures and his notes had eventually been dropped grumpily back into their box and consigned to their home, underneath his bed. His excitement had evaporated and he felt deflated. He’s suffered too many disappointments chasing McCluskey’s riddle. He was sick of it.

Now, this morning at work, he’d got in to find Lizzie already at her desk and fizzing. Her honed fingernails flew over the computer as she checked news and gossip web sites for stories on the Death Pictures. Her search had thrown up tens of thousands of matches. A four-inch stiletto heel ground into the patchy carpet beneath her chair.

‘We’ve generated massive interest,’ she buzzed. ‘Massive! What a scoop! We’ve broken the news of the clue. Now let’s break the news of the riddle being solved. Someone must have got it. I want it first. I want the winner on the programme. I want Abi. I want art experts. I want the charities that have benefited from the pictures. I want…’

Dan trooped away and sat down at his desk, wondering where to go next. He made all the obvious calls. He tried Abi, who told him that thousands more guesses had come in, but none had been right. None even close in fact. That would do for a bit of the story, but he needed more.

He rang the places with the nine remaining original Death Pictures, a list of charities, companies, dealers and art collectors. He’d managed to speak to all of them. They’d been caught up in the mystery and were keen to say their bit, but it had led nowhere.

They’d all heard the clue and come to the same conclusion he had. It must be something in the canvas of the original paintings. They’d checked, but found nothing. They had also checked the frames – he hadn’t realised they too had been chosen by McCluskey – but found nothing there either.

Lizzie was pacing the newsroom, casting occasional machine gun stares over at him. He got the message. A follow-up story was non-negotiable. He called Abi again, just after six o’clock for the latest information.

‘We’ve had several thousand calls and emails now,’ she said, sounding content. ‘And I can tell you that none are right, and none are even close. As of tonight, the riddle remains unsolved.’

Dan asked her when the answer would be revealed, but she’d again said in a week or so, depending on factors which are still, and which will remain, out of my control. Will remain, he wondered? What did that mean? What could be happening to influence her timing? And if it was so important to Joseph McCluskey, how could she have no control over it? It was annoyingly bewildering, and he’d risen to it.

‘Is that another clue?’ Dan asked.

‘If you want it to be.’

‘Is it?’

‘If you want it to be.’

‘Meaning?’

‘If you knew the answer to why it was out of my control, that would certainly help you with the riddle. It wouldn’t give you the answer, but it would point strongly the right way.’

Dan had sat there, phone to his ear, baffled. He couldn’t even think of a decent follow up question.

‘Any hints?’

‘None.’

The merciless clock ticked on towards broadcast time. He should hang up, get ready for the programme. Dan doodled a few squiggles on his notebook. One looked like the mobile phone from the first Death Picture. He should thank Abi and say goodbye. Where his next question came from, he didn’t know.

‘Why did Joseph want me to have the final clue? Why me?’

He wasn’t sure whether to expect an answer, but he got one anyway. And it wasn’t what he anticipated, not at all.

‘He liked you,’ Abi replied, her voice misty. ‘He’d seen your news reports and said they were thoughtful and perceptive. He was interested in crime too, and he liked the way you seemed to understand criminals’ minds. He’d heard you had an insight into people and he wanted to meet you in that obituary interview you did. He wanted to see if you’d have any idea about the solution to the riddle. He reckoned you had a decent chance. And if you didn’t get it, he thought you were a fit messenger to give the rest of the world a go.’

Dan hadn’t known how to react then, apart from to feel guilty for all the times he’d cursed Joseph McCluskey and his riddle. He had a bourgeoning sense the world was a far less rich and colourful place without the infuriating artist. He was surprised to find himself wishing he’d known the man better.

‘You miss him, don’t you?’ Dan asked.

It was the first time he’d made Abi hesitate before replying. It was ten past six now, just 15 minutes until he was on air. There was no time for such questions, but he couldn’t help asking it anyway.

Finally, she said, ‘More than you can possibly know.’

Then one more question, just time for one more. Lizzie was hovering, glaring over at him, an icicle heel fraying the carpet. She wanted her follow-up, wanted him downstairs in the studio, ready for the programme. Hundreds of thousands of people would be watching, waiting.

‘How do you think I’ll feel when I know the answer?’ Dan asked.

This time the reply was instant. ‘You’ll kick yourself, as I think everyone will. The one thing I can promise you is that it’s been right there in front of you all the time. It’ll make an extraordinary impact when the answer’s revealed. You’ll be amazed at what it’ll do. The repercussions will be quite a show.’

Dan went on air feeling a mixture of irritated and lifted by the conversation. He’d told the viewers the riddle remained unsolved, despite thousands of guesses, and that only a week or so remained before they would all know. And he reported what Abi had told him, that no one should give up because she could guarantee the answer was there in the pictures, right in front of them. But there would be no more clues to help, and the time to see it was running out, and quickly.

Chapter Twenty-four

Dan stood watchfully on one corner of the street, Sean, the Universal reporter on the other. Nigel and Pete, the two cameramen lingered by the court entrance, alert, waiting. El was with them too, pacing back and forth, occasionally stroking his long lens. There was one big problem with Plymouth Crown Court for journalists. There were two ways the prison van could bring the defendant in and they’d guessed wrongly before. Dan didn’t want that to happen today, not at the start of a big case like this. The long awaited McCluskey murder trial.

They’d cut a deal, him and Sean. Each would stand on one street corner and shout to the cameramen when the van appeared. You could put rivalries aside and work together on court cases. It made sense. The only information you got was what was said in the trial. However great your guile, or however subtle and penetrating your interview technique, they meant nothing when all you could do was observe the words of the barristers, witnesses and the judge. All that distinguished was how you wrote the story, and Dan was confident his way would be better. At least he hoped so.

The ban on filming in court meant you needed all the pictures you could get. A shot of the prison van coming in with the defendant was the classic way to start your report. So here they stood, waiting for it.

Behind him, Dan heard a shout. ‘Coming, coming!’

He spun around. Sean was waving, Nigel and Pete running towards him, hoisting their cameras onto their shoulders. Around the corner trundled the white van, a line of small, metal barred windows along its sides. El ran with it, held his camera up to the windows, let off a few flashes. It was a one in a hundred chance he’d get Kiddey, but worth a try. A shot of him being delivered to court at the start of the trial would be worth thousands of pounds. The barrier shielding the court car park shuddered up and the van was inside, parked safely around the back, out of sight. Good, thought Dan. One decent sequence of pictures for his report. Now for some of the people who’d feature in the case.

He checked his watch. 9.20 it said, so probably half past. The trial was due to start at ten. He stood with Nigel outside the front steps of the court, ready to film the judicial procession. Barristers, witnesses, police officers, anyone who could be useful to show the viewers when he was writing about what they said in court.

‘It’s the golden quarter,’ hissed El. ‘They’ll all be here in a minute. Between 9.30 and 9.45, that’s when they like to arrive. Not too early, they’ve got to be a bit cool, but still plenty of time to prepare. The sacred golden quarter.’ El grinned as he polished his camera lens with a dirty looking sleeve. ‘I’ve got another holiday booked too for after the case, courtesy of Joseph McCluskey and his women,’ he added. ‘Off to Spain again. Can’t wait.’

He broke into a tuneless warble. Dan sensed a dreadful limerick coming, but wasn’t quick enough to stop his friend.

‘The death of poor Joe,

Made many feel low,

But for El it’s a hoot,

It brought him some loot,

So now on his hols he can go!’

Even El had the decency to look ashamed at that one.

Adam walked around the corner, dignified and upright, wearing what looked like a new suit. Dark blue, his favourite colour, single-breasted, sober and smart. Just right for a Detective Chief Inspector. He always made even more of an effort than his usual impressive dress sense when he knew he’d be filmed. He nodded to Dan as he walked up the court steps. They never made a public show of being friends. People might start to suspect where some of Dan’s stories came from.

A couple of barristers strode in, wigs and briefcases under their arms. They were always keen to be filmed, it was good advertising to be associated with a big case. The prosecution counsel, Tristan Wishart, even agreed to walk in again when Pete wasn’t happy with the first shot he took.

Inside the court, the press bench was crowded with a line of hacks, all chatting to each other. Dan had expected it to be busy, so he’d nipped in earlier to see an usher whose son he’d taken out for a week’s work experience. A reserved sign had duly appeared on the seat nearest the door. Always be prepared to leave fast if you needed to, in case the defendant’s or victim’s families made a run for it after the verdict. They were vital shots and interviews, jubilation or tears, depending on the outcome.