by Ashley Dyer
Carver seemed distracted. “Ask John Hughes to send a team of CSIs to the bedsit, will you?”
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll get on it.”
She turned to leave, and Carver spoke again.
“I had the first batch of names from Fenst’s bank today.”
“Yeah, you told me.”
“Just a list of names and addresses—they’ve promised to send the adjudicators’ correspondence separately; Mr. Fenst had apparently archived them under a separate password—their tech specialists are working on it.”
Ruth regarded Carver coolly. He’d flipped from terse and uncommunicative to overexplaining in an instant. There’s something he doesn’t want to tell me.
“Boss,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“The entrants who didn’t make it to the final round are marked off,” he said.
“That’s . . . helpful.” Frustrated, she looked into his hazel eyes and saw sadness.
For me?
“Oh, God . . . Adam’s name is on the list, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“But wait,” she said, recovering fast, though she still felt sick. “He’s getting commissions, started his own business. And he’s already won an award,” she suddenly remembered. “I don’t see why he’d go psycho over a minor knockback.”
“What’s that award?” Carver asked.
“I’ll check,” she said, embarrassed to have shot her mouth off without having the facts to hand.
He gave her a look that fell somewhere between exasperation and sympathy.
“You want me to go and pick him up?”
“He’s already on his way in. He’ll be questioned under caution.”
“Of course, I’ll get the CSIs sorted, then—”
“I’ll task someone else with the interview, Ruth.”
“Boss,” she said, “I need to do it.”
“There’s no way I can let you,” Carver said.
“Don’t you trust me to be impartial?”
“Come on, Ruth,” he said. “You know you can’t be, where Adam is concerned.”
Ruth took a moment to compose herself. Carver was working according to protocol, but they both knew he didn’t always—his flagrant manipulation of his working hours was evidence of that.
“Adam is angry. Questioned by a stranger, he’ll clam up, refuse to cooperate. At least let me try.”
Carver began to shake his head. Ruth hated talking about her private life. But she supposed Carver already had more inside knowledge than most, so she took the only option she had left: a plea to his compassion.
“Look, Greg, Adam turned up at our house last night. He was drunk; things got a bit heated. So—”
“So tensions will be high—all the more reason to leave this to someone else.” She began to argue, but he cut her short. “That’s my final word on the matter, DS Lake.”
The use of her rank settled it—Carver was not going to budge.
In the event, Carver conducted Adam’s interview himself—another break with protocol.
Two hours later, he called Ruth out of the incident room and they stood outside.
“He’s given the names of friends who will vouch for him on at least three occasions when Ferryman exhibits appeared.” Carver kept his voice down, clearly wanting to apprise her of the situation before he let the rest know. “I’ve got someone checking now.”
“Okay,” she said.
“But you know as well as I do that an alibi provided by friends is dodgy at the very least.”
That stung. “I suppose that depends on who your friends are.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Nothing.” She took a breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just—this is hard, you know?”
“I know, Ruth,” he said. “Why d’you think I interviewed him? It’s actually a bit below my pay grade, you know.”
She did know, of course, and she saw in the set of his brow that he was genuinely trying to do what was best for her—as her senior officer, and as a friend.
“Yeah,” she said. “Thanks.”
He grunted.
“I mean it.”
This time he nodded.
“I asked about the artwork that was turned down by the competition judges,” Carver said. “He wasn’t forthcoming. When I pushed him, he said, ‘You’ve seen the submission.’ But as we both know, the actual submissions aren’t kept on digital file, and because Adam didn’t make it past the submission stage, that wasn’t much help.”
“He shares a flat above an art shop front with two friends out toward Clarence Dock,” she reminded him. “He might have it stashed there.”
“He claims he destroyed the piece—said it was no good.”
“And you think he’s lying.”
“Not a doubt in my mind.”
“Was there a description of the work? Submission notes?”
Carver hesitated and she got the impression it was out of consideration for her feelings.
“What?” she said.
“The submission notes describe the work as an exploration of gendered violence. The title was Battered Wife.”
Ruth swore softly.
Carver’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he checked the screen. “The DC I sent to check on Adam’s whereabouts on the nights of the ‘exhibits,’” he said.
He answered the phone, but didn’t switch it to speaker, said a few words, then hung up, asking the constable to keep him informed.
“Two of Adam’s alibis check out,” he said. “And the people he was with on the night of Catch the Gamma Wave say he worked through the afternoon at the tattoo studio with them, and when Adam received a DM from Kharon on Instagram, they locked up the shop and went straight to the old railway arch in Dingle.”
“So maybe Adam is telling the truth,” Ruth said.
“And maybe his friends are just loyal.”
She bit back a sharp answer; it was a fair assessment, and in his position, she would have said the same thing. “So what’s the plan?”
“We can’t arrest him on the basis that he seems to have a chip on his shoulder,” Carver said. “And a solicitor turned up partway through the interview—she’s demanding that we charge or release him.”
Ruth thought about it, trying to remain objective. “The options are to arrest him and start the PACE clock ticking, or turn him loose and haul him back in if we need to. Option two would give us more time to check him out.”
He sighed, letting go of the tension in his shoulders. “You’re right—I’ll talk to the custody sergeant.”
Ruth said, “Okay.” But she couldn’t let it go at that. “Boss?”
“What?”
The corridor was empty, so she asked straight out: “What did you see?”
They both knew that she meant Carver’s synesthesia, his auras.
“Rage,” he said simply. “I’m sorry, Ruth, he really resents you.”
“He ended up in care because I couldn’t deal with our messed-up home life,” she said. “I think he’s entitled to a certain amount of resentment.”
“You were a kid yourself.”
She saw sympathy in his eyes. Ruth could face down aggression, hate, sarcasm, and mistrust; it was easy—she just donned the psychological armor she’d worn since young adulthood. But sympathy? She couldn’t put a guard up against that, and she didn’t want Carver to see just how deeply this was affecting her. She needed to stay on this case. So she did the only thing she could think of; she changed the subject.
“Why did Adam ask for a solicitor?”
Carver looked thrown by the question.
“He didn’t—she just showed up.” He paused, clearly weighing the fact with greater significance now.
“So who sent her?” As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t, because a name popped into her head.
“Honestly, I thought maybe you had.” He offered an apologetic smile.
“Honestly, I might have, if I’d thought of it,�
�� she admitted. “So who . . . ?”
“An associate at Felix Welsh and Co. Do you know the firm?”
“I know of them,” she said, deliberately vague, wishing she’d thought of a different distraction. “Fairly high end.”
In fact, Felix Welsh & Co. represented the guilty-as-sin rich; they wouldn’t pick up the phone for a tattooist and jobbing artist like Adam. But if someone like Dave Ryan were to make the call . . . And Ruth happened to know that Felix himself was Dave Ryan’s go-to man in legal matters.
63
Forty minutes later, Ruth Lake was waiting for Adam outside the custody suite.
He cursed under his breath. “You escorting me out now?”
“I thought you might like to leave through the main entrance, instead of sneaking out like a scally. But . . .” She turned her hands palms up, leaving it up to him, knowing he’d take the more dignified option. In truth, she wanted to show Adam out through the front of the building because it would give them more time to talk.
The way things went, she might have saved herself the trouble. Her brother was not in a chatty mood. He glared straight ahead, walking at a brisk pace, ignoring her questions about his friends, the interview, the artwork Fenst had rejected for the prize.
To hell with it, just ask him.
“What’s in the picture, Adam?”
He looked askance. “The painting, d’you mean?” He carried on walking. “Do you even care?”
“It’s called Battered Wife—yes, I care.”
“You want me to explain it to you?”
“I’d prefer to see it.”
“Nuh-uh.”
She stepped in front of him and turned, barring his way. His eyes blazed for a second; then she read only contempt in them. Staring into her brother’s face, she thought she really didn’t know Adam at all. Okay, then, treat him like the stranger he is.
“DCI Carver said a solicitor turned up during your interview.”
“Got a problem with me having legal representation, Sergeant?”
“Everyone’s entitled,” Ruth said. “But here’s the thing—most people we bring in for questioning would have to ask for a phone book to look one up.”
He shrugged. “I guess I was lucky.”
“Or prepared.”
“Oh, so you assume I’m guilty.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Really? ’Cos that’s how it sounds.”
“You know what I do have a problem with?” she said, feeling her anger rise. “Who’s paying.”
“What d’you mean? She said this is pro bono.” His other responses had felt like an act, but this felt genuine. Adam was confused.
“Dave Ryan is Felix Welsh’s biggest client,” she said. “He organized your legal counsel.”
Adam sidestepped her and began walking again. “So what if Ryan is with the same company? Like I said, this is pro bono.”
“Yeah, well, money isn’t the only way to pay.”
“Fuck off, Sergeant.”
They had reached the foyer and he turned briskly toward the door, then stopped dead, staring at a man who was talking to Tom Ivey. Tall, fair-haired, his crew cut bedewed with raindrops, it was Graham Milner.
Milner was carrying a large black artist’s portfolio.
“What’s he doing here?”
Ruth looked at Adam. “You know him?”
“You could say that.”
More hostility. “What’s he to you?”
He didn’t answer.
Milner glanced away from Ivey for a moment and smiled in recognition at Ruth; she lifted her chin in acknowledgment.
Adam looked from Ruth to Milner, an expression of pure hate on his face. Tom Ivey gestured to Ruth, and Milner approached, portfolio case in his left hand, his right out, ready to shake hers, but he slowed as he noticed her brother.
“Adam?” In the slightly pained look on his face, Ruth saw embarrassment and perhaps regret.
Adam sucked his teeth. “Fuck this.” He strode out the door without looking back.
Milner watched him leave.
“Mr. Milner asked to speak to a member of the team,” Ivey said.
“Thanks, Tom,” she said, dismissing him with a polite nod. “How can I help you, Mr. Milner?”
“That was Adam Black, wasn’t it?” he said.
“How do you know him?”
“I tutored him—only for a half semester—about . . . eighteen months ago? He was in his second year at Fairfield,” he said, staring pensively at the empty doorway Adam had disappeared through. “Attended a couple of my modules. Talented student.”
Milner dragged his gaze from the doorway. “Sorry,” he said. “I know you’re busy. I brought . . . That is . . . I thought . . .” He lifted the A3-sized carrier. “Some of Karl’s work. I thought it might . . .” He stopped, seeming suddenly abashed. “I don’t know what I thought, really. It’s just—I can’t seem to get his peers to open up, and I wanted to do something . . .”
“I’ll take a look,” she said, holding her hand out.
He seemed suddenly reluctant to pass it to her; perhaps he thought he was wasting her time.
“Sometimes it helps to understand the victim as a person,” she said.
He seemed relieved—grateful, almost. When she took it, the grip was warm and slightly slick. She guessed that the exchange with Adam was partly to blame for his discomfort. Interesting that Milner recognized her brother.
“You must see hundreds of students,” she said. “Yet you recognized Mr. Black after a short teaching interaction, eighteen months ago—he must have made an impression.” Ruth herself could never imagine forgetting a face, but she knew that most people could be thrown off even by seeing a person out of their usual context—and Milner had remembered Adam’s name, too.
“Oh, I’m usually terrible with students,” he said with an embarrassed smile. “I have to keep a crib sheet in my desk drawer—but Adam was exceptional. And when one of your students wins an award, it tends to stick.”
“He won an award?” Ruth feigned ignorance, thinking, He wasn’t lying about that, then.
“UK Street Art ‘Young Talent’ category—for the under twenty-fives.” He added with a rueful smile, “Oh, to be young and cocksure again.”
It wasn’t a characterization Ruth would have made, but it seemed Adam had changed in more ways than she’d realized.
“I wonder what he’s working on now?”
“Trompe l’oeil, mostly,” she said, without thinking.
He glanced quickly at her, and she saw surprise in the quirk of his eyebrows, then embarrassment that he’d assumed a level of ignorance in her. Odd, how different he was outside of the classroom. He’d seemed so at ease among his students.
“He didn’t complete the course?” she said.
“What made you think . . . ?”
“You seemed disappointed.”
He sighed. “I think I let him down. If I’d handled things better . . .”
Ruth cocked her head and waited. It was a technique that worked well in the interview room. Silences made people uneasy, and if you doubled the strain by showing an interest, they felt obliged to say something interesting.
“We had a . . . difference of opinion over an ethical question,” Milner said. “It resulted in Adam dropping out.”
Ruth remembered what Adam had said about ethics not being his strong point, and curiosity piqued, she said, “What happened?”
Milner shook his head, apparently still angry with himself.
She kept her eyes wide, her posture receptive, sending the message that it was okay, that she was listening, that he could tell her anything—that she wouldn’t be shocked.
“Imitation, modification, experimenting with form—it’s all part of an artist’s evolution and Adam was—I’m sure still is—very mature, in that respect. At that time, he was dabbling in bioart. It’s a niche group who create art from living tissues.”
The base of Ruth’s
scalp began to prickle. “For instance?”
“On the microscale, it could be bacteria, or nerve cells, or genetically engineered skin tissue—a three-dimensional landscape composed entirely of different bacteria with a range of colors and forms—for instance. But Adam became interested in macrolevel art, and because that deals with whole organisms, it can raise controversy.”
“I can imagine,” she murmured.
“Certainly, it’s challenging. When you draw attention to the grotesque and bizarre in nature, you can get knee-jerk responses from those who prefer their art to be soothing and lovely, and to complement the color scheme of their family room.”
He smiled, and she saw the merest hint of mischief in it.
Ruth was thinking of Adam talking about the prospect of a live rat being smashed under a weight, its remains spattered across two canvases, the sharp thunderclap of noise as Adam had brought his hands together, startling the late-night travelers.
“He mentioned Rick Gibson,” she said.
“Did he?” Milner grimaced. “Fetus earrings, cannibalism, squashed rats—shock art,” he said, “without much artistry. There are better examples—Suzanne Anker, for example, has produced a truly remarkable range of work.”
“You described this bioart movement as ‘niche,’” Ruth said, hoping it might narrow the focus of their inquiry. “Would you call it marginal?”
He laughed. “A select group, but far from marginal—Suzanne Anker’s work has been exhibited at the Smithsonian in Washington and the Getty Museum; she’s lectured all over the world—including the Royal Society in London.”
“I don’t get it,” Ruth said. “If bioart is a valid art form, how did Mr. Black get into trouble?”
“Adam was strongly focused on the integration of humans into artwork,” he said, and Ruth’s stomach did a slow roll. “He had been experimenting with an installation based around Joseph Wright’s painting of the infamous Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump.”
“I know it,” Ruth said. “It was in at least three of my chemistry textbooks at school.”
“So you will know that in the painting, a cockatoo is trapped in a bell jar, and all the air is being gradually removed by a pump.”
Ruth nodded. “It’s a classic experiment of the eighteenth century. Wright’s painting was a reflection on Lavoisier’s new ‘oxygen theory.’”
