The Art of Murder

by Rebecca Muddiman

Nick shrugged. He wasn’t sure if they truly believed it, or if he hoped they did. He was trying not to think about it. He had other things on his mind. He glanced up at the door and then the clock, wondering when Lynch would get there, how long it’d take before Nick was back in uniform.

  ‘But even if they did buy it,’ Dan went on, ‘what happens when the divorce is final? I don’t think you’ve thought this through.’

  Nick turned away from Dan, knowing he had a point. What was he going to do? He supposed he hadn’t thought about it because things had always had a way of working out for him before. But that was before. If he were being honest with himself, things weren’t exactly panning out the way he’d hoped. Maybe his Irish luck was finally running out.

  He turned on his computer, pretending to be busy in order to avoid Dan’s eye, when he noticed Azrah watching him. Had she been listening in to their conversation? Was there anything she missed?

  ‘Kelly. My office. Now.’

  Nick looked up to see Lynch sweeping past him. Nick had been so focused on Azrah he hadn’t seen the big man arrive. Hadn’t had time to prepare himself.

  He saw the smug look on Azrah’s face, the childish noise Dan made as Nick made his way towards the boss’s office. He tried to recall the excuses he’d come up with the night before. He could do this. He could talk his way out of anything.

  ‘Door,’ Lynch said, and Nick dutifully closed it behind him. He had no desire to let his colleagues hear this anyway.

  ‘What can I–?’ Nick started, but Lynch turned to face him with such force it stopped him.

  ‘Don’t bullshit me,’ Lynch said. ‘I told you to keep your mouth shut. A direct order. And what do you do?’

  ‘If I can–’

  ‘Have you seen the papers? The news? Oh wait, what am I saying? Of course you have. You’ll have been out there at dawn making sure you got a few copies for your scrapbook. Serial killer?!’ Lynch said, slapping down a copy of one of the papers to illustrate his point.

  ‘To be fair, I never used that term,’ Nick said. ‘It was Peter Aronsen–’

  ‘Peter Aronsen isn’t a serving police officer. Peter Aronsen is a peddler of bullshit.’ Lynch dropped into his chair. ‘Why does this feel like déjà vu?’

  ‘Look, I know I overstepped the mark but Aronsen was already stirring things up. He claims to have spoken to two eyewitnesses. For all we know, these people are already talking about what they saw. The art angle could be written up for the next edition.’ Nick sighed, as if he was at pains to have to do it. He took the lighter from his pocket, swirling it through his fingers. ‘This thing was already out there. I was just trying to do a little damage control.’

  ‘Really?’ Lynch asked. ‘And the little tidbit about the backdrop?’

  ‘I never said backdrop. I said canvas covering. In the interest of public safety–’

  ‘This had nothing to do with public safety. This is about your profile.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘And calling him a decorator? Not only is this going to severely impact on the livelihoods of every decorator in the city, which, by the way, I’m already hearing about, it’s also going to piss this guy off.’

  ‘Good. Isn’t that what we want? To get him angry? Anger leads to mistakes.’

  ‘It also leads to escalation.’

  ‘But if people are aware of his MO, it could save lives.’

  ‘Or it won’t. He could change his MO. There was no backdrop at the first murder anyway. What’s to say he’ll use one for the rest of them?’

  Nick hadn’t thought of that. ‘I’m sorry. I was just trying to do the right thing.’

  ‘Bullshit. I have a good mind to take you off the whole damn thing. Even better, I’ll put Azrah in charge.’

  Nick looked up. Lynch had to be kidding. But there was no hint of a smile. No hint it was merely an idle threat.

  ‘I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut. Next time I won’t give any details.’

  ‘Next time?’ Lynch said. This time he did smile. ‘There won’t be a next time. You don’t speak to the media at all.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘At all! Understand?’

  Nick nodded.

  ‘Bring in the others,’ Lynch said, and Nick slid the lighter back into his pocket before opening the door and shouting for Dan and Azrah to join them. He avoided their eyes.

  Azrah stood by the door, her back straight, as if ready to jump as soon as Lynch told her how high. Dan perched on the edge of Lynch’s desk, pulling the newspaper towards him. ‘The Decorator?’ he said, laughing. ‘That’s what they’re calling him? It sounds like a Jason Statham movie.’

  Lynch snatched the paper from Dan’s hands and Dan moved from the desk to lean against a file cabinet.

  ‘Why hasn’t the killer shared his work?’ Lynch said. ‘I’m assuming he takes his own photos. He’d want a memento, right? So why hasn’t he shared them with the media? Posted them online? Surely a guy like this, someone who goes to all this trouble, wants an audience, right? So why hasn’t he shared it?’

  ‘Maybe not everyone needs attention and validation as much as Nick does,’ Azrah said. But before Nick could speak, Lynch got there first.

  ‘No, I imagine most people don’t. But this one,’ he said, prodding the newspaper. ‘I don’t believe he’s most people. I don’t think he could stand it if no one was paying attention.’

  ‘I can start looking online,’ Azrah offered.

  ‘Surely if these pictures were out there we’d already know about it,’ Nick said.

  ‘Not if people didn’t know what they were looking at,’ Dan said. ‘There’s all kinds of weird shit online. Maybe our guy doesn’t post them with the hashtag Death or Murder. Maybe people think they’re looking at art.’

  ‘That’d make sense,’ Azrah said. ‘He clearly thinks what he’s doing is art.’

  ‘Right,’ Dan said. ‘Maybe people just think they’re looking at some asshole art student’s work.’

  Lynch nodded. ‘How’s that angle coming along?’

  Dan shrugged. He’d been tasked with visiting art schools in the area, looking at work going back years, speaking with staff.

  ‘We’ve been in touch with every art school in the city. Clearly we can’t tell them exactly what we’re looking for, but so far we’ve come up with nothing. Most schools use copying as a learning tool.’

  ‘Anyone stand out as a particularly expert copyist?’ Lynch asked.

  ‘Apparently a lot of these kids can knock out a good copy of Rembrandt or whoever. We tried showing them a couple of the backdrops but there’s nothing identifiable. Whoever made them has talent, but there’s no way to ID it as a particular student’s handiwork.’

  ‘Maybe it’s not a student. Maybe it’s a teacher,’ Nick said, and they all nodded. ‘A failed artist, someone teaching a bunch of kids to draw; they might hold a grudge.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Lynch said. ‘Any of the teachers raise any flags?’

  ‘Nope,’ Dan said. ‘All we got was a couple of names of either current or recent students that one of the teachers thought were a bit strange. But we’ve checked them all out. All have alibis for every murder. We’re also checking student records, cross-referencing for anyone with any kind of police record. Someone like this doesn’t start with murder. They had to work their way up.’ He sighed. ‘But the truth is, this guy could’ve gone to any art school in the country. He could’ve been there any time in the last forty years. Maybe he didn’t even go. Maybe that’s his problem. Maybe he didn’t make the cut.’

  ‘Keep looking,’ Lynch said. ‘Widen the search to schools in the state. See if you can get hold of any lists of people who didn’t get in.’

  Nick saw the look on Dan’s face. It was a thankless task, one that most likely would give them nothing. He shook his head. ‘Problem?’ Lynch asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Nick said, despite his standing on thin ice. ‘Unless they start asking people directly whether there’
s anyone they can think of who’d be capable of this, anyone who showed any behavior indicating they could go on to this… I don’t see the point.’

  ‘After your appearance yesterday, I imagine people will have more of an idea of what we’re getting at, direct or not,’ Lynch said and turned to Dan. ‘Keep going. We have to cover all bases.’ Lynch stood up, dismissing the team. But Nick had another thought.

  ‘About him not sharing his work,’ he said, and Lynch crossed his arms but didn’t take his seat again. ‘A lot of artists don’t like to share their work until it’s done. Karen used to write and she hated anyone looking at it until she was finished. Maybe our guy is doing the same.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lynch said.

  ‘But technically he has shared it. With us, at least,’ Azrah said.

  ‘True,’ Nick said. ‘But maybe we’re not his real audience.’

  ‘So you think he’s going to share it with the world once he’s finished?’ Lynch asked. ‘Have we found any links between the paintings yet?’

  ‘Nothing. Other than them all depicting death,’ Azrah said.

  ‘And how many paintings are there that depict death?’

  ‘A lot,’ Dan said.

  ‘So I guess the question is, how many is this guy planning to do?’ Nick said. ‘How long will this be a work in progress?’

  15

  Karen

  Karen sat behind the counter nursing her head while Jamie did the actual work. She realized it wasn’t professional to either be hungover at work or to let her staff do everything while she felt sorry for herself. But it didn’t really matter. There were no customers and Jamie didn’t mind.

  ‘So who led you astray?’ Jamie asked, and Karen looked up, the sharp movement making her head hurt all the more.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t usually drink enough to get in this state. At least not on your own. So you must’ve been with someone.’

  Karen couldn’t meet his eye. For all her bravado the night before, she was feeling a little ashamed of herself. Had she really considered going home with a stranger?

  Jamie stopped what he was doing and went over to the counter, leaning in, as if trying to see her face. She could feel her cheeks redden. Her body had always betrayed her.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘Please tell me you didn’t.’

  ‘Didn’t what?’

  ‘Go out with him. You can’t let him worm his way back in.’

  Her aching head took a moment to catch up. ‘No. I’m not stupid. Actually, his parents turned up, unannounced. They wanted to take us out to dinner.’

  ‘He still hasn’t told them?’

  Karen shook her head.

  ‘So? Please tell me you told them.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Not really? What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I didn’t actually tell them. I hinted and then left. I don’t know what he told them. I don’t really care.’ She couldn’t bring herself to admit she had initially agreed to it.

  ‘Nice,’ Jamie said. ‘So who did you go out with?’

  ‘No one. I went out alone.’

  ‘But it was your birthday. You should’ve called me.’

  Karen paused, a little smile betraying her again.

  ‘What?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘Technically I wasn’t alone all night.’

  She saw the little wince, the expression that gave Jamie away, even though he tried to hide it. She shouldn’t have said anything. Not to him.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said and picked up a stack of books, despite her body urging her to stay still.

  ‘No, come on. Tell me.’

  ‘It was nothing. I was talking to this guy in this bar. That was it.’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘Just some guy. Mark, I think his name was.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. We talked. We drank. That was it.’

  ‘So why are you blushing?’

  ‘I’m not.’ She was. ‘It was… nice. He was nice. He listened. He seemed interested in me, in what I had to say. It made a change.’

  ‘I’m interested,’ Jamie said, and Karen looked at him. She put her hand on his, but realizing it was patronizing, she moved it away. ‘So you didn’t, you know…?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. Maybe part of me wanted to. But I don’t know if it was because I really liked him or if I thought I was getting revenge somehow.’

  ‘If you’re looking for someone for a revenge fuck, I’m always here,’ Jamie said, forcing a smile. ‘You don’t have to go to a stranger. Unless, you know, you want to. So what’s this Mark like? Tall, dark and handsome?’

  ‘Yes, actually,’ she said and saw the wince again. Jamie was handsome, she supposed, or maybe cute would be a better description. But he was neither tall nor dark. She really shouldn’t have said anything. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. I didn’t give him my number. Didn’t get his. I’ll never see him again.’

  She saw the relief on Jamie’s face and was glad the conversation was over. The last thing she needed was more trouble at work. ‘Have you heard any more from Sofia?’ she asked.

  Jamie shook his head, going back to stacking shelves. ‘No. But I heard from this guy who lives in her building that she’d moved out.’

  ‘Where to?’

  Jamie shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ He peered around the shelf. ‘I don’t think you need to worry about her. I think all that talk about suing you was just talk. She’s always been overdramatic. She’ll have found something else to be angry about by now.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Karen gazed at the door, willing a customer to come in. ‘We need to start finding some more writers, get more events going. We need something to get people in and spending money.’

  ‘I could ask my friend Hope. She’s a poet. She had a book published last year.’

  Karen nodded but doubted a poet that no one had heard of was going to turn their fortunes around. They needed someone bigger, someone to draw the crowds. She gazed at the door again, wishing something would happen.

  16

  Michael

  Michael trudged through the streets, his feet aching. This was the third day he’d spent trawling bookstores trying to find his Cinderella. He’d discovered there were just under a hundred independent bookstores in the city and they were spread far and wide. He’d searched online for those that had websites and some listed their managers or even full staff, none of whom were named Karen.

  But what if she’d lied? What if that wasn’t her name? What if she didn’t own the place? He had to try them all just in case. It was only after he’d checked off a dozen places that it occurred to him that she could’ve lied about everything. Maybe she didn’t have anything to do with a bookstore. Yet, he went on. What else could he do? She’d got into his system and he couldn’t let her go. He had to find her.

  Besides, the search kept his mind focused. Without it he’d be ruminating on the idiotic name the media had given him. The Decorator? Really? No doubt that was down to Nick Kelly. Michael had almost leaked his work to the papers so they’d know how wrong they were. If they saw it they’d have to drop The Decorator and start calling him The Artist. But it was too soon. He needed to complete the project before he went public with it. But it was so frustrating.

  So here he was. Day three. He’d checked forty-seven stores with no luck. It would’ve been faster had he not had to go to work. But he couldn’t risk pissing off his boss. He needed the job, shitty as it was. Art supplies don’t pay for themselves.

  He checked his list and walked on. He could see the window of the next store on the list ahead. This one had had a website, but it didn’t list any staff names. It was barely maintained either and Michael wondered why they’d bothered.

  But he pressed on, lurking outside for a moment as if he were checking out the display. He’d had to ask in every store he’d visited, but some people were naturally suspicious when he asked to speak with the owner. Some
assumed he was trying to sell something, others that he was there to complain, their own guilty consciences wondering if it was about them.

  ‘Karen, isn’t it?’ he’d add and he’d see both relief and confusion.

  ‘No one called Karen here,’ they’d say, and Michael would give a description in case she’d lied. But no. Nothing.

  And then… Lucky number forty-eight.

  He saw her through the window. She was standing on a stool, reaching up to the top shelf. Her shirt was pulled up and he could see her pale flesh. He couldn’t see anyone else around, no customers or staff who could be future witnesses.

  He opened the door. Karen turned at the sound and almost fell from the stool when she saw him. Michael reached out and steadied her as though they were actors in a rom-com.

  ‘What’re you doing here?’ she asked and climbed down. ‘How did you…?’

  ‘You mentioned where you worked.’ Always more believable than “I was just passing”.

  ‘Did I?’ she said and he could see the doubt. But she knew as well as he did how drunk she had been. It was entirely possible.

  ‘I wanted to see how you were. You disappeared the other night. After all those cocktails, I worried you’d passed out in the bathroom,’ he said and saw her face flush.

  He noticed him then. A short guy lurking behind a shelf, listening in. Michael wondered if he should leave but he couldn’t help noticing that Karen didn’t look unhappy he was there. Maybe he was onto something. She turned and noticed the short guy and blushed some more before ushering Michael to the office at the back of the store.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have left like that. I’m just… I don’t…’

  ‘It’s all right. As long as you’re okay.’

  ‘I’m fine. The hangover only lasted two days so…’

  Michael laughed. ‘Maybe next time we could stick to one drink,’ he said. ‘Or one kind of drink at least.’

  ‘Next time?’ Her eyes flicked over to where the short guy had been standing. ‘I don’t know. Things are kind of complicated right now.’