The Dead City (Ophelia book 2)

by Amy Cross

  “I've reconsidered my response,” she continues, looking a little embarrassed. “If you can promise to be discreet, and if you can assure me that this will never get back to anyone, I might be willing to agree to the idea of you spending a day or two at the campus.” She pauses, and it's pretty clear that she still has a lot of reservations about this way of doing things. “I'm not asking you to do this because I'm desperate,” she adds. “It's just that I need to cover every possible angle.”

  “Huh,” I reply, figuring that there's no need to put her out of her misery just yet.

  “No-one can know!” she continues. “I mean no-one! There are rules about this kind of thing, Ophelia, and I wouldn't even be considering something so crazy if it wasn't for the fact that there could be lives at stake!”

  “I understand,” I reply, forcing myself not to smile.

  “I'm serious,” she adds. “I could lose my job if anyone found out!”

  “So this is definitely against the rules?” I ask.

  “I doubt anyone has even bothered to write a rule against something so ridiculously stupid.” She pauses, and then she sits back and stares into space for a moment. “You know what? Maybe this is crazy. Maybe I should just accept that I'm in over my head. Every time I get a big case, I screw it up.”

  “Every time?” I ask. “Like when?”

  “Like the Daniel Gregory case. He murdered Natasha Simonsen and got away with it. He's a free man right now because of my mistakes. Even after a year, that one still hurts. In fact, I don't think it's ever going to go away.”

  “That's one example,” I point out. “Any more?”

  “The Nat Longhouse case didn't exactly go too well,” she points out. “Sure, it helped me prove myself again, but I'm under no illusions. I know full well that I'd never have got it done without your help.” She pauses. “And here I am, asking for more.”

  “There's no harm getting help,” I reply. “Come on, are there any other cases you've screwed up?”

  “This case right now.”

  “You haven't screwed this one up,” I reply. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “But -”

  “And you won't,” I add. “I promise. I mean, I had a lot scheduled for this week, but I can put it aside and go to the art school instead. In fact...” Now it's my turn to pause, as I want for the perfect moment to tell Laura the truth. “I might have already started.”

  “Started what?”

  I smile at her.

  She frowns, and then suddenly the frown turns into a scowl.

  “You did what?” she hisses.

  “I enrolled today,” I tell her with a broad grin. “It's a ten-week access course, evenings only, but it allowed me to get my student card on the spot, and it means I can get about the campus without seeming out of place. That's where I've been all day.”

  “You did all of that without telling me?”

  I nod.

  “Ophelia, that's -”

  “And I've already started making friends.”

  She stares at me, wide-eyed in shock.

  “It's early days, though,” I continue. “I'm focusing on the third year students at the moment, but over the next day or two I'm gonna fan out and really start poking my nose into all the study groups. Aren't you impressed, though? I had to pay four hundred pounds out of my own pocket -”

  “Where the hell did you get four hundred pounds?” she asks. “No offense, but...”

  “It's amazing how much of a stash you can build up if you manage to put aside a fiver each week for a few years,” I tell her. “Most homeless people just sit around begging, but I've always had a different approach. I treat being homeless like a proper job. I budget for each week, and I'm constantly innovating and coming up with new strategies. It's actually quite fun, apart from the freezing cold and the abuse and the lack of security. But, you know, swings and roundabouts. I get by just fine.”

  “I don't even...” She turns and looks over at her mother for a moment, who's dozing in her usual spot in front of the television.

  “Relax,” I continue. “I'm not gonna screw anything up.” I wait for her to reply, but she seems to be lost in thought. “I know this is important to you,” I add, “and I know it's not a game. If you really want me not to do it, then I'll pull back.”

  Again, I wait for her to reply, but as she turns to me I can see the hint of desperation in her eyes.

  “Let me help you,” I continue. “I know I've been pretty manic lately, but that's just because I've been bored. I can focus on helping, I swear. And I totally know that you could solve this case without my help, but with me on-board you can do it faster. I mean, we did a pretty good job with those Longhouse assholes last year, didn't we?”

  Realizing that she's still not convinced, I reach a hand across the table.

  “Deal?” I ask.

  Slowly, she shakes my hand.

  “Don't make me regret this, Ophelia,” she says after a moment.

  “No-one's ever going to find out,” I tell her. “As long as you catch the killer and no-one else gets hurt, what's the harm?” I pause again, wondering if I dare to say those dangerous five words, and finally I decide to give it a go. “What could possibly go wrong?”

  I swear, I can see the color drain from her face.

  Laura

  “Are we artists?” Nick asks as we make our way across the college's reception area.

  “Us?” I reply.

  “I was thinking about it last night,” he continues. “If murder can be art, then why can't police work? Hell, everything can be art if you look at it a certain way.”

  “It's too early for such deep questions,” I tell him, checking my watch and seeing that it's only just 9am.

  “So you don't think we're artists?”

  “I think you're stretching things a little,” I reply, as I spot a familiar figure up ahead. It's Ophelia, and we make eye contact briefly as she passes us in the corridor. I hold my breath for a moment, but fortunately Nick doesn't seem to have recognized her. “We're not artists,” I continue. “We're just doing a job.”

  “God, I hate this place,” he mutters. “There's nothing more pretentious than art students. All they do is sit around all day doodling with paints or gluing crap together and pretending it's an expression of their personality. Where's the skill? Where's the technique?”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I watch as Ophelia disappears around a corner. She didn't even glance back at me, which is good. Maybe, just maybe, this is going to work.

  ***

  “You're looking at an industrial lathe,” Mike Wallace explains as he leads us across one of the college's workshops. “It's a dangerous piece of equipment. First year students are only allowed to operate it under strict supervision. After all, it would only take one mistake for a very nasty accident to occur.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Nick exclaims, “this is like a murderer's wet dream.” He stops next to a large metal dome, with some kind of valve on the top. “And this looks like a big breast.”

  Although I can't help but smile at his way of expressing things, I can see exactly what he means. The workshops at Beacon Court are filled with electric saws, lathes, cutting machines, acid baths... It's insane to realize that the students here have access to so many complex and dangerous pieces of equipment, and I'm starting to realize that someone with the right level of motivation would have no trouble picking up a considerable skill-set while studying here. Suddenly the technical accomplishment of sewing those bodies together doesn't seem as if it would be too far beyond the abilities of one of the students.

  “Is everything supervised?” I ask as I watch a student cutting a piece of sheet metal using a large band-saw.

  “There's always a technician around,” Wallace replies. “Most days there are only a handful of people working here, but with the final show coming up, demand is a little heavier.”

  “But someone couldn't work completely unnoticed, could they?” I continue. “I'm thinking sp
ecifically of a student who maybe didn't want anyone else to see what they were doing.”

  “No chance,” he replies. “From the moment the door opens at eight to the moment the place is locked up at six in the evening, there are always people wandering in and out. You'd be able to get a few minutes alone here and there, but you could never guarantee that you wouldn't be interrupted.”

  As if to prove his point, at that moment a student comes in carrying a couple of lengths of wood, which she starts marking up on a nearby bench.

  “They look more like carpenters than artists,” Nick mutters.

  “And who has keys to the place?” I ask.

  “Keys?” He pauses. “Well, most of the staff, plus the janitors. There are some spare sets floating about, too.”

  “So it's possible that someone could sneak in at night,” I point out, “if they were able to get a set of keys. Is there a surveillance system in place?”

  “The college is monitored around the clock,” he replies, “so I really don't think someone would be able to get away with using the place at night. For one thing, there's a patrolman who keeps an eye on the grounds. If someone was using the equipment, they'd have to turn the lights on, and the place would be lit up like Battersea Power Station.”

  As we get to the far side of the workshop, I look out the window and see that we're overlooking the wasteland that runs from the back of the college down to the edge of a nearby housing estate. In the distance, there are still police vehicles parked near the hut where the killer's tools were found. It's hard to believe that someone could have been working out there alone without anyone noticing, especially if they didn't have some kind of link to the college.

  “Do you want to know what I think?” Wallace asks. “I think you're barking up the wrong tree.”

  I turn to him.

  “No-one here is a murderer,” he continues. “Trust me, murder would require a degree of originality that's beyond all the students we get through the doors of Beacon Court. Our students are basically coming through on rails, creating crappy work and then collecting their degrees before they head off into the real world and end up working in fast food joints. Frankly, I'd be ecstatic if even one student showed the level of original thinking that would be necessary to do something like this.”

  “You don't have a very high opinion of your students' work?” I ask.

  “Every year,” he replies, “I find myself hoping that maybe I'll finally get one who shows a degree of talent. The next Picasso or Van Gogh. And what do I get instead? A bunch of little wallflowers who think they're so daring just because they've found a new way to shock people. I'd never say this to anyone who works here, of course, but the truth is that no-one here is ever going to amount to very much. They all just sail along, dreaming of greatness while churning out crap. And my job is to smile and tell them they're all geniuses. I'm getting very good at lying.”

  I turn to Nick, and I can immediately see from the look in his eyes that he agrees.

  “It's a horrible thing to have to admit,” Wallace adds, “but there's even a part of me that wishes one of my students had committed that murder. At least it'd be an indication of originality and free thought.” Sighing, he turns to me. “I couldn't say any of this yesterday, of course, not in front of Principal Livingstone. She tends to see each and every one of our students as a precious little flower, blossoming here at Beacon Court. I see them for what they are: time-wasters who dabble in art while fooling themselves into believing that they have talent. If one of them had the idea of using murder as a form of art... Well, at least it'd be something new.”

  “So how does the final show work?” I ask. “If it opens on Friday, I assume the students have to have their work in place in advance.”

  “Thursday night,” he replies. “It's always a very hectic time. I guarantee there'll be tears and arguments. The only way I can ever get through it is by drinking myself numb.”

  “So you'll see every student's final project on Thursday?”

  “They're not allowed to change anything after midnight,” he continues. “I have to set some kind of a cut-off point, or they're all be tinkering with it right up until the moment the doors open on Friday morning. All those proud parents come rushing in, convinced that their child is the next great artist. It's all rather pathetic, really.”

  “Are you an artist?” Nick asks.

  Wallace turns to him. “Me? Of course. I've had sculptures exhibited on three continents.”

  “So why do you teach?” I ask.

  “The same reason anyone teaches,” he replies, “if they're honest. Money. I'm afraid the human race throws cash at talentless pop stars and one-hit wonders, while completely ignoring anyone with real talent. I'm not saying that just to make myself sound good. It's a basic fact of life.” He pauses for a moment. “Do you really think that one of our students could be responsible for those images that are circulating online?”

  “It's a distinct possibility,” I tell him.

  “Well...” He smiles, as if the idea genuinely pleases him. “An artist always takes credit for his or her work. If it is one of my lot, I shall take great pleasure in entering that individual for the Turner prize. Oh, and of course I'll be shocked and appalled, as society expects. Now, I have to go and supervise some of the blessed, talentless little hacks. Is there anything else you need me for?”

  “Not at the moment,” I reply.

  “I hope you don't think I'm a bad person,” he adds, heading to the door, “but I actually rather hope that one of my students is responsible. I just can't think which of the little bastards has enough originality.”

  As he leaves the room, I turn to Nick and see that he clearly shares my sense of shock at Mike Wallace's attitude.

  “Interesting guy,” he says after a moment. “A total ass, but interesting.”

  “Not very helpful, though,” I add, as several students make their way past the door. To my surprise, I notice that one of them is Ophelia; she glances at me briefly before continuing on her way. I just hope that she's managing to dig up something useful, because so far Nick and I are drawing a blank.

  Ophelia

  She hurries across the quadrangle, as if she's scared of being seen.

  Naturally, I follow her.

  Victoria Middleton is like a mouse. Whenever she's in a room, she keeps to the edges and tries not to be noticed. She never seems to just hang out somewhere; instead, she comes for something specific, and as soon as she's got it she leaves. It's pretty clear that even the most basic form of human interaction is painful for her, which I guess is why she keeps her gaze rooted to the floor, responding only with the vaguest of mumbles if a fellow student tries to start a conversation. I can't work out of she's shy, or arrogant, or a little of both.

  The craziest thing is that five years ago, I was exactly the same. That was before everything changed, though, and before I learned to survive. Back then, I was terrified of the world. It wasn't a nice feeling.

  As Victoria makes her way across the car park, I keep pace with her, maintaining a distance of about twenty feet. I'm not too worried about her spotting me, since she never seems to look up at her surroundings. Over her shoulder, she has a backpack containing various items that she collected while she was at the campus this morning, and now – just like a mouse – she seems to be taking her little haul back to wherever the hell she calls home. And so far, 'home' looks to be a large building on the other side of the car park.

  Once she's gone inside, I wait for a moment before following. The place seems to be some kind of industrial unit: there are rooms with warning signs on the doors, but Victoria immediately hurries up a set of metal steps to the next floor. I hang back, aware that there's a greater chance of her noticing me, but after a moment I follow up the stairs. I can already hear her footsteps in the distance, hurrying away, so I figure there's no chance that she's going to stop and look back. She's so single-minded, so focused, I feel like an atom bomb could go off nearby
and she wouldn't even glance over her shoulder.

  I remember what it's like to be so scared of the world that you try to pretend it doesn't exist.

  When I get to the top of the stairs, I realize that I've lost track of her. I can still hear her footsteps in the distance, but they're echoing now through the building's open spaces, which makes it difficult to know exactly which way she went. Keen to remain unnoticed, I make my way cautiously to the nearest door and look through, but all I find is a long, empty corridor lit only by the sunlight that streams through a window at the far end. I can hear a noise in the distance, as if Victoria has already started work on her project, which at least means that she's busy and isn't likely to come back this way.

  Reaching the other end of the corridor, I turn right and follow the banging sound. After a moment I come to a door that opens out into a huge, high-ceilinged room. Just as I'm about to take another step, however, the banging abruptly stops. I pause, waiting to hear what Victoria does next, but all I hear is silence. I tell myself that there's nothing to worry about, that there's no way she knows I'm here, but as the silence lingers I start to wonder if there's any way she might be onto me. Finally, figuring that I've got nothing to lose, I take a step forward and look around the corner, and that's when I see the figures.

  The room is empty, with no sign of Victoria. Standing in the center, however, are half a dozen life-size human models, lit only by the dull light that's able to get through the dirty windows that run along the top of the far wall. It's a haunting sight, as if the figures have been frozen suddenly in a moment of contemplation, but from this far back I can't quite see what they're made of. I want to go closer, but I have no idea where Victoria has gone and the last thing I need is for her to spot me, so I take a step back, figuring that I can return later when she's left for the night. One thing's certain, though: whatever she's doing here, it looks like a lot more than just some kind of art project.