He’d approached her at a gallery opening. He made her laugh, showered her with attention, and by the end of the night, she had given him her business card. He had taken her to dinner once, and been to her home three times.
The first time he went there, he knew immediately what the project would be. Phoebe had a sword hanging on the wall in the living room and it was like a light bulb appearing over his head. It was perfect. Caravaggio’s David with the Head of Goliath.
He looked down at Phoebe’s lifeless body and stood up. He took the sword down from the wall, feeling its heft in his hands before he brought it down on her already open neck. He was pleased that it severed the head with one blow. It was much easier than it had been with Irene. Though, if he’d known it would be so efficient, maybe he would’ve forgone the first part and just used the sword. But, he supposed, decapitation without restraining someone was probably quite difficult.
He put the sword aside and looked around the room to work out the best place to stage it. He’d put some thought into it, how best to do it without a backdrop, and realized he would have to be part of the tableau himself this time. Not that he minded. Some of the best artists used themselves in their work. And it wasn’t as though he was going to hide much longer. The only problem he faced was that he would have to leave the scene incomplete for the cops to find. But there was a way around that too.
Michael prepared himself, removing his shirt and replacing it with a sheet, draping it across his body as David had in the painting. He pulled the black drapes closed to act as the backdrop. And then he positioned his camera on the bookshelf, setting the timer before moving back into position. He tried a few times to get the framing right before picking up the other props.
In his right hand he held the sword, in his left Phoebe’s severed head. Her eyes and mouth remained open as they should be, the blood dripped onto the floor. Michael looked at her, pensively, as the camera snapped.
He put the props down and moved to the camera, checking he had captured it well enough. When he found the perfect image, he wiped his bloody hands on the sheet and removed the memory card, uploading it to Phoebe’s computer. He left the image on the screen, hopeful the police would find it in order to see the work as it should be.
Then he turned his attention back to the room and how best to leave it. He could just abandon it now he was done, but it felt disrespectful. There had to be something he could do. And then he saw it. Standing in the hall was a statue. Some ugly sculpture of someone or other.
Michael dragged it into the living room, standing it in front of the drapes. Picking up Phoebe’s head, he tied her hair around the outstretched hand, hoping it would hold. In the other hand he balanced the sword. It wasn’t ideal, but they’d get the point. But in case they didn’t, Michael found a Post-It and scribbled “Detective Kelly” onto it before sticking it to the laptop screen.
Satisfied he was done, Michael washed and dressed. He’d considered staying the night at Phoebe’s. She had no one in her life, no one who would come over and find him. But he’d left Nick’s burner phone at home, and though it would be fun to mess with Nick, he figured the media circus that’d come along with the detective would benefit him too.
He retrieved the camera and took a moment to add his latest piece to the draft email he had saved. Should he send it now? He knew it would be tricky to include his final piece, unless Nick Kelly was kind enough to let him do a little admin before arresting him. Though, that was doubtful. Michael didn’t quite trust the man. But he didn’t want to risk being caught before his final act, so decided to press send in the morning, before he finished the project for good and moved on to the next stage in his life.
71
Nick
Nick approached the apartment carefully, first checking the street before staring up at the windows. There were no lights on so he went up, but stopped to listen at the front door. The last thing he wanted to do was interrupt. But there was no sound.
He walked into the darkness, risked turning on a light, unsure what he was hoping for. How would he really react if he stumbled upon Karen’s dead body? The first thought that came to mind was that he’d be pissed. If he found Karen but Fisher had already left, he would be seriously angry. But there was nothing. He walked through the apartment to their bedroom, her bedroom now. Nudging the door open, he saw the bed was empty.
It was almost three a.m. and Karen wasn’t home. That wasn’t like her. Was it possible Fisher had her somewhere else? Nick grabbed the phone from his pocket and checked there’d been no missed calls. But again, nothing. Besides, why would Fisher change his MO now? Why not do it in the apartment like all the others, especially when he had a free pass?
Nick realized there was a simple answer to that – to screw Nick over. If Fisher killed her somewhere else, Nick wouldn’t be able to get the credit for catching him. Maybe Fisher was planning to skip town afterwards, despite what he’d told Nick. It was possible he’d taken Karen back to his place and killed her there. If he was going to leave anyway, there was nothing to lose. People would know it was him but he’d be gone.
Or maybe he’d have done Karen quickly and quietly like Elena Jones so it looked as though it was nothing to do with Nick’s case. For a brief moment, he wondered if Fisher would make it look as though Nick had killed her himself. He had realized, somewhere along the line, that playing the grieving widower might be a stretch, to people who knew him and Karen anyway. But that would never happen. Michael Fisher would never let anyone else take credit for his work. If Karen was dead already, she would be part of some elaborate scene the police had yet to find.
Nick closed the bedroom door and went to his own room, lying back on the bed fully clothed. He was too tired to change or to shower. He just wanted to sleep. But he knew he needed to figure out a way to find Fisher if he was trying to screw him over. Nick tried to remember everything he’d done, any loose ends, the story he would tell Lynch and the others when the time came.
He had no doubt that Karen would die, if she wasn’t already dead, he just wasn’t sure if Fisher would stick to their plan and that was what worried him. He’d thought that as long as Karen died, he would get what he wanted, most of it anyway. He had so much to gain if Fisher did as he was told. But if Fisher screwed him, he had a hell of a lot more to lose.
72
Karen
Karen woke up disorientated. She looked around, unsure where she was. And then she remembered. She lay back against Jamie’s pillows and stared at the ceiling. She had turned up the night before, or rather early in the morning. Jamie had been sleeping and came to the door bedraggled and less than pleased, both for being woken up and for her disappearing with his car. But once he saw her, the way she was shaking, he seemed to forget about his irritation and let her in.
She asked if she could stay there but didn’t tell him why, only that she couldn’t stay in the apartment with Nick. Jamie didn’t press, he’d been telling her to leave for months, though she could tell he wanted to know what had finally happened to change her mind. But she couldn’t tell him. She didn’t want him involved, didn’t want to put his life in danger too. Besides, she knew how crazy it would sound. Maybe even Jamie wouldn’t be on her side this time.
Around two a.m., Karen could barely keep her eyes open, the adrenaline rush had worn off and she needed to crash. Jamie insisted on her taking the bed and disappeared to change the sheets while she brushed her teeth. Despite everything going on, despite all the thoughts swirling around her head, she was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. And now, in the daylight, she was having doubts.
But before she could think about it too much, Karen looked at the clock and, seeing it was almost eleven, jumped out of bed. She went through to the living room but the couch was empty. She checked the bathroom, but Jamie was gone.
Karen went back to the living room and saw a note on the table. She picked it up and tried to decipher Jamie’s appalling handwriting. The gist of it was he’d g
one to work and was happy to take care of things himself so she could rest, and that she could stay as long as she wanted. There was also something about the milk in the fridge but she couldn’t make out if it was an invitation to use it or a warning not to.
Karen made herself some coffee, without milk. She figured it was best to stay away from the store and keep her head down, for a little while at least.
After she’d drunk the coffee, she climbed into the shower and tried to calm herself with deep breaths, tried to think of other things, but she couldn’t help herself. Did Nick really hate her that much? She’d admit that she’d had less than charitable thoughts about him in the last few months, but it was nothing compared to this. He actually wanted her dead.
She wondered if it was purely about the apartment or if he despised her so much he wanted her gone from the world entirely. The thought made her breath catch in her throat and she had to hold on to the wall to steady herself. What had she ever done to him to cause this much hatred? And it wasn’t even that he wanted her dead, he wanted her murdered by a man who had done horrific things to his victims. It wasn’t enough to kill her, she had to be mutilated too. Was that what Nick really wanted? Or was it easier that way? If he could get this man to do it for him, there’d be little chance of any suspicion landing on Nick.
Karen realized the water had run cold and turned off the shower. She got out and looked at herself in the mirror, swiping away the condensation with her palm. Taking another deep breath, she told herself it would be over soon. She was going to do something about it.
Once she was dressed, she went back to the living room and saw her phone flashing a message. She felt herself go very still, afraid to pick it up. What if it was him?
Forcing herself, she grabbed the phone. A missed call from Jamie. Karen let out the breath she’d been holding and listened to the message. There was some paperwork he needed but couldn’t find. Did she have any idea where it was?
Karen did know where it was. She’d left it on the table at home, having told herself for several days in a row she’d deal with it. And now it couldn’t be put off any longer and she’d have to go home and get it.
Collecting the key Jamie gave her, she left the apartment, then the building, nervously looking around as she did. She thought it was unlikely Mark/Michael would look for her there, but Nick would. She took in every face she could see, every car idling, but saw no one familiar. She hailed a cab, texting, On my way, as she climbed in.
When she got home, she listened outside the door before going in. There was no reason Nick should be there. He was always at work at this time. But she knew she couldn’t rely on normality anymore.
When she was content there was no one inside, she opened the door. She checked the table but couldn’t see the paperwork and realized that Nick must’ve “tidied” it away. She looked through the magazine rack, checked drawers, even the trash in case he had been feeling especially spiteful, although in the greater scheme of things, throwing away paperwork seemed rather trivial. In fact, all of this seemed trivial.
She stopped and looked around, her eyes settling on Nick’s bedroom door for a moment, before going into her own room. The paperwork was on the nightstand. Had she put it there? It seemed pointless of Nick to move it there so maybe she had. Picking it up, she took it to the living room and got out her phone, scrolling down the names in her contacts and dialing.
After the number had rung a couple of times, Karen hung up, her heart racing. Her hands shook as she tried again, this time calling Jamie, not Mark.
She was grateful Jamie didn’t pick up, not sure she’d be able to keep her voice steady or that she wouldn’t break and tell him what was going on. After the beep, she left a message telling him she had the paperwork and would bring it as soon as she could.
Karen opened the front door and then remembered Paulo. There was no way Nick would’ve fed him. So she went over and uncovered his cage.
‘I’m sorry, buddy,’ she said as he hopped about on the perch. She only let him out of the cage when she was home, frightened in case he escaped, but she knew he didn’t like being locked up all day long. But there wasn’t much she could do about it now. She wondered if she should take him to Jamie’s, although he was about as keen on the bird as Nick was.
As she was feeding Paulo, her phone went again and she picked it up, about to tell Jamie she was on her way.
‘Hey,’ she said and then her heart stuttered as she heard Michael Fisher’s voice.
73
Michael
‘Hi. What’s up?’ Michael said, wondering why Karen had called and then hung up before he could answer. Not that he wasn’t glad to hear from her. He had thought that he’d have to make the first move to get this show on the road. Instead she’d called him.
But now there was silence on the other end of the phone.
‘Karen?’
‘Sorry,’ she said, her voice a little shaky. ‘I misdialed. Sorry to bother you.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ he said, pressing his ear to block out the sounds of city life as he walked. ‘I’m glad you called. Are you busy? Maybe we could get lunch or something.’
‘No,’ she said too quickly, and Michael wondered what had changed since Sunday night when she’d been keen for him to go back to her place.
‘Is everything all right? You sound… weird.’
‘I’m fine.’
He could hear something in her voice, not just disinterest. She sounded scared. Was it possible she knew? Had Nick bottled it and warned her to stay away from him until he could catch him? No. That wouldn’t happen. So what was it?
‘Something’s wrong,’ he said and started walking faster. ‘Tell me.’
‘It’s… I saw you with someone,’ she said and Michael felt his stomach tighten.
‘Karen, I told you I’d been on dates with other people. You said it was okay.’
‘I know. But I guess it’s not. I guess I’m not okay with it.’
‘Can we talk about it? I’ll come over to your place.’
‘No! I’m not at home.’
Michael listened as the bird squawked in the background and he picked up his pace. He’d already been heading that way. He’d scoped out the bookstore earlier in the morning and when there was no sign of her, he’d assumed she was home. And now he knew it. He also knew she was lying about it.
‘Okay,’ he said as he turned the corner onto her street. ‘Maybe I’ll see you soon.’
74
Nick
It was almost lunchtime when Nick heard the burner phone in his pocket ring three times before cutting off. He looked around before taking the phone out, making sure it had actually rung, that he wasn’t imagining things. One missed call, the display read, and Nick felt pressure in his chest, as if he was being crushed by something unseen.
He wondered if anyone had noticed the phone call or that he looked as if he was about to have a heart attack, but no one was watching. In fact, there weren’t even many people around. Dan was off somewhere, no doubt still pointlessly searching art schools across the country. Lynch was in yet another meeting. Best of all, Azrah was nowhere to be seen, and apart from a brief appearance first thing, had been gone all morning. Nick didn’t care what she was doing as long as she wasn’t there, watching. The last thing he needed was her scrutiny.
For a brief moment, Nick considered that Michael could’ve struck again. There was one more face on his wall. But Nick would’ve known if there’d been another murder. He would’ve been told. Right?
He guessed everyone was following the few leads they had, hoping that it would get them somewhere in the end. And while they did that, Nick sat at his desk, frozen. He knew he should do something. Just sitting there, staring into space, was conspicuous. But he couldn’t move. He was so tired. He’d been awake most of the night, listening for any sign of Karen coming home, or for the damned phone to ring. But there was nothing.
The thoughts churned over and over. What if Fisher
screwed him? What if he was found out? What if Karen didn’t die? Nick berated himself for getting into this mess in the first place. What had he been thinking? There were too many loose ends. He’d told Fisher that no one would care, not if Nick caught the killer who’d been terrorizing the city. But did he really believe that? Was it likely that Lynch or Azrah would just let it go? It wasn’t like the old days. These days the paper trail was everything.
Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe Nick could stop it. Maybe he could find Fisher and take him out and then let someone else find the evidence in the house. But what reason could he give for killing a man in the street? There’d be witnesses. Even more scrutiny.
Nick knew he needed to sleep. He couldn’t think straight.
Maybe he could leave. He could empty his bank account and go. Fuck his job. Fuck Karen. Fuck Michael Fisher.
Nick’s foot tapped furiously under his desk. It was such a mess.
And then the burner phone rang and everything stopped. His tapping. His thoughts. His heart.
Nick checked if anyone was looking, before taking out the phone to make sure.
This was it. It was happening.
He grabbed his jacket and left without a word. His stomach was churning and he wondered if he had time to go to the bathroom. How long would it take for Fisher to do it? Surely it took a little time to do his thing. But he couldn’t risk Fisher getting away afterwards. If that happened, it had all been for nothing.
Nick jumped into his car, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat, and drove towards home, his mind racing. What if it went wrong? Then what?
The Art of Murder Page 22
