The Dead City (Ophelia book 2)

by Amy Cross

  “Mike Wallace,” I mutter, feeling a wash of horror pass through my body.

  “So what do you think?” Nick asks, turning to me. “Is it art?”

  Part Two

  Ophelia

  “What exactly are you planning?” she asks.

  “I just need to check something out,” I reply, keeping my eyes on the dark building on the other side of the college's parking lot. “It's no big deal. I'll be home in a few hours.”

  As soon as those words leave my lips, I feel a shiver pass through my body. Did I really just refer to Laura's place as 'home'. Even though it was obviously just a slip of the tongue, the thought makes me feel uncomfortable. I think I'm maybe getting too comfortable around her.

  “Have you got anything that might be useful?” she asks, with the sound of sizzling food in the background. “I'm starting to feel like we're looking in the wrong place, and forensics haven't been able to come up with a damn thing.”

  I watch as the security guard wanders toward the main part of the campus. Checking my watch, I see that he seems to be going past roughly once every hour, and so far there's no sign of him having a dog with him. That's good. Guard dogs complicate things.

  “Ophelia,” Laura adds, “are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I'm here,” I reply. “I'll tell you about it later. I don't know, but I want to poke around.”

  “It's dark outside,” she points out, “and the college is closed. I hope you're not -”

  “Breaking and entering?” I ask, unable to keep from smiling. It's like she thinks I'm some kind of Dickensian street urchin. “No sweat. Nothing like that. I'm merely expanding my undercover activities to include a little after-hours work, that's all.”

  “Ophelia -”

  “And now I've got to go,” I add as the security guard disappears around the back of the college's main building. “I'll see you in a few hours!”

  Cutting the call, I slip my phone away before hurrying across the empty car park. The security guard won't be back around for at least an hour, and I've been watching the place for long enough to know that Victoria Middleton has been gone for a couple of hours. When I reach the dark maintenance building, I hurry around the side and find the window I propped open earlier. It only takes me a moment to crawl inside, and finally I make my way into the corridor and then over to the same set of metal stairs I climbed earlier.

  I stop for a moment, listening to make sure that there's no sign of anyone else being here.

  Silence.

  The place is definitely pretty spooky, but I'm pretty sure I'm alone.

  A couple of minutes later I reach the large room where I spotted Victoria's work when I was here this afternoon. I don't dare to even use the light from my phone, but fortunately there's enough moonlight streaming through the windows to allow me to at least see my way around. There's debris all over the floor, and it's clear that this space is supposed to be empty, yet I can see Victoria's mannequins in the moonlight. Whatever she's up to, she blatantly doesn't want to be disturbed.

  As I get closer, I'm struck by just how spooky this set-up seems. The six life-size human figures are still standing in a circle in the center of the room, and as I get closer I realize that they seem to be made of some kind of resin, which gives them a curiously realistic but also kinda melted appearance. The closest one has its mouth open and its head tilted up, as if it's crying out, and as I examine the others I realize that they all seem to be posed in varying expressions of distress, almost as if they're howling at the moon. Some are bent over, others have got their arms raised toward the ceiling, and one looks to be frozen at the moment of collapse, as if some unknown trauma has struck suddenly and without mercy. I'm no art critic, but I can't deny that the figures are miles better than anything I saw back in the art school's main studio.

  “Creepy,” I mutter, making my way around the circle.

  I stop in front of one of the figures and take a closer look at its face. It's certainly expressive, and I quite like the rough method that Victoria has used. The skin of the models seems to be some kind of semi-transparent resin, while there's a darker frame in the center, holding the entire thing in shape. I reach out and touch the face, running my fingers over the bumpy surface. For a moment, it's hard to stop imagining Victoria working alone in here, spending all her time creating these models.

  Over by the far wall, I find a work bench covered in various tools. There are saws, chisels, screwdrivers and various other items that I don't even recognize. Whatever Victoria's working on here, she clearly has plenty of equipment. Figuring that I can probably be a little braver, I take my phone from my pocket and use the light of the screen to look at a notebook that has been left behind; flicking through the pages, I find endless diagrams showing figures in different positions, as well as anatomical drawings and handwritten notes in a sprawl that I can't even begin to decipher. In a strange way, the notebook reminds me of my own, in the sense that it's clearly designed to be incomprehensible to anyone other than its owner.

  The similarities are really starting to pile up.

  I spend a few minutes going through the rest of her notebooks. I'm able to make out one or two of her scribbled sentences, but for the most part I focus on the drawings, which all seem to be related to the creepy tableau in the middle of the room. Based on what she's drawn, it appears that she's got a plan to develop quite a few more of these figures and eventually create a small army, although it's not really clear how she's going to get the job done in time for Friday's final show, or how she intends to get them all to the exhibition space. Her notes are all incredibly detailed, though, and it's clear that she's been working on all of this for a long time. When I get to the final page of the final book, I find a drawing of what appears to be the completed project, together with a title.

  “The Dead City,” I say quietly.

  I pause for a moment.

  “I like it,” I add finally. “The Dead City. Cool.”

  Figuring that I should probably think about getting out of here, I turn and head back across the room. After a moment, however, I spot something in the far corner, and I take a quick detour to discover a sleeping bag and a couple of backpacks, with plates and garbage strewn around. Crouching down, I pick up one of the books that has been left on the floor, which turns out to be a guide to basic human anatomy. I check the contents of a nearby plastic bag and find that it's full of out-of-date prepackaged sandwiches, undoubtedly liberated from the bins behind a nearby supermarket. There's also a neat little collection of coins, sorted according to their value and piled up against the wall.

  Figuring that Victoria seems to be living rough here, I'm suddenly struck by the realization that she could come back at any moment. Besides that, I also feel as if I'm intruding; after all, I've squatted in abandoned buildings before, and I wouldn't have liked it if some random person had started going through my stuff. Getting to my feet, I turn and hurry across the room, heading to the door -

  Suddenly she steps out of the shadows, right in front of me.

  “Jesus!” I shout, just about managing to stop myself before I collide with her.

  She stares straight at me, her face illuminated only by the moonlight.

  “Hi,” I continue, my heart racing as I try to work out how the hell I'm going to explain myself. “Remember me? My... My name's Ophelia.”

  No response. She just stares at me as if she's deep in thought.

  “Victoria, right?” I add, reaching out a hand. “We met earlier. You were burning some stuff in the furnace and I came over to make really bad small-talk for a few minutes.”

  I wait for her to give some indication that she remembers, but as the silence grows I start to feel increasingly uncomfortable.

  “You're in the third year, aren't you?” I continue. “I was in the studio earlier and I think I saw you coming by. I was kinda hoping to grab a word with you some time, to ask you about the stuff you do. I'm just on one of the access courses, but I figured I
could use some advice.”

  Again, she doesn't reply. She simply stares at me without even a flicker of emotion in her eyes, almost as if she's frozen in place like one of her models.

  “Okay,” I continue, “I think I'll just -”

  Before I can say another word, she steps closer.

  “I really didn't mean to snoop,” I tell her. “I didn't know anyone was here. I just came to take a look around, that's all...”

  She stares at me, and after a moment I notice that she's reaching under her coat. Seconds later, she pulls something out, and as the blade glints in the moonlight I realize that she's holding a knife.

  Part Five

  Laura

  “Bryony Hawthorne!” I shout as I force the door open. “You're under arrest on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say can be -”

  Stopping in the middle of the chaotic bedroom, I stare at the bed itself and realize that it's empty. The duvet has been pulled aside and there's a rumpled patch where someone clearly has been sleeping, but for a moment I start to worry that somehow she was tipped off about us and managed to get away. I have visions of newspaper headlines splashing the news that Detective Laura Foster has somehow allowed a serial killer to slip away into the night. There'll be more deaths, more bodies, more horror...

  Turning back to the door, I pause before hearing a toilet flushing nearby. A fraction of a second later, a side door opens and a young woman steps out with a startled look on her face, while wearing a faded old t-shirt and some jogging bottoms.

  “Who the hell are you?” she asks.

  “Bryony Hawthorne?” I reply with relief, as Nick prepares the handcuffs.

  “Yeah,” she continues. “What the hell are you doing in my room?”

  “Bryony Hawthorne,” I continue as Nick makes his way behind her and starts attaching the handcuffs, “you're under arrest on suspicion of multiple counts of murder. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult legal counsel, and if you don't have a lawyer, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as I've explained them to you?”

  “What are you talking about?” she asks, pulling away from Nick and stumbling over a pile of clothes as she heads to her bed.

  “Bryony,” I reply, “we need you to come with us.”

  Hearing a noise nearby, I turn to see that Bryony's housemates are standing by the door. I guess it's not every day that the police come storming into their shared house.

  “Can you leave us alone, please?” I ask them.

  No reply. They just stare at us, goggle-eyed.

  “Can you leave us alone, please?” I ask again. “This is police business.”

  As they head back along the corridor and start muttering to one another, I turn back to Bryony. She looks absolutely shocked, as if she never in a million years expected anything like this to happen. I've seen killers at the moment when they're caught, and there's always a glint in their eyes, the faintest hint that they know the game's up. Right now, I see nothing like that in Bryony's expression; all I see is fear and confusion. If she's acting, she's doing a hell of a job.

  “Laura?” Nick mutters.

  I turn to him.

  “Do you want to do the honors, or should I?”

  “I...” Turning to Bryony, I realize that this situation feels very wrong. At the same time, I can't exactly stop now, not with all the evidence pointing at her. “We found your prints at the site,” I tell her. “In multiple locations, actually.”

  “My prints?”

  “Partial matches, but enough to be used against you. We were able to match them to the prints that were collected from you about a year ago when you were cautioned for cannabis possession. So far, we've got one full match and three partials, which is more than enough to present in a court of law. I'm confident that we'll find more prints as we continue to search the hall, and we'll also be going through your room here. The warrants are all lined up.”

  “Prints?” She stares at me, then at Nick, and then back at me. “Warrants? What are you talking about?”

  “We found your fingerprints on the door that leads into the church hall,” I continue. “Fresh prints that can be conclusively dated to within the past forty-eight hours, on the door at the Ashbury Park church hall. Not only on the door, but also on one of the benches and on a light switch.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We also found your prints on the body. For someone who was so careful with the first murder, you sure as hell slipped up this time around.”

  “Murder? What murder?”

  She stares at me for a moment, before a flash of realization crosses her face.

  “Are you talking about those photos?” she asks, starting to panic. “Do you mean that weird stitched-together thing?”

  “Let's do this down at the station,” Nick says, stepping past the piles of books and clothes on the floor and trying once again to cuff Bryony. This time, she doesn't resist at all, and within a couple of seconds the handcuffs click shut around her wrists.

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” Bryony continues, her eyes glistening with tears. “I didn't have anything to do with what happened! All I did was look at the photos!”

  “Take her away,” I tell a uniformed officer as he enters the room.

  “No!” Bryony shouts, trying to pull away before Nick grabs her arms and firmly pushes her toward the officer.

  “Let's not make this difficult,” he tells her.

  “You've got this wrong!” she shouts as she's led out of the room. “Can't we just talk about it here? I haven't done anything! You can't arrest me when I haven't done anything!”

  She continues to protest her innocence as she's led along the corridor. As her voice becomes increasingly distant, I pause for a moment until I realize that Nick is watching me. There's a look in his eyes, as if he's studying my reactions. I hate it when people do that.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he replies, “just... For someone who just solved a huge case, you don't look too happy.”

  “Maybe that's because...” I pause again, as a thousand thoughts rattle through my mind. Turning, I look around the unkempt room. There are old plates and empty soda bottles and DVD cases everywhere, and wires running between various computers and other machines. It looks like a pretty normal student room, and somehow the whole situation feels wrong. Nick would laugh at me if I started talking about things like instinct and gut feeling, but somewhere deep in my subconscious I'm hearing alarm bells.

  “We did solve it,” Nick adds. “With the forensic evidence alone, we've got her. Unless two people can have the same fingerprints, we can prove that she killed Wallace and arranged his body.” He waits for me to answer. “Right, Laura?”

  I nod.

  “Great,” he continues, clapping his hands together. “So there's no need to fuss, is there? Job done, back of the net.”

  “Sure,” I reply uncertainly.

  “So are you coming out for a drink after we've done the first interview?” he asks. “A few beers, maybe some cocktails, maybe even on to a club later. Seriously, with how hard we work, we need to hit the town to let off some steam. Tricia and the others'll be there.”

  “A drink?” I turn to him.

  “Don't over-think this.”

  “I'm not -”

  “Yeah, you are. I can see it in your eyes. Just unclench for once, yeah?”

  “I'm not over-thinking it, I just -”

  “It's done,” he continues. “We've got her, Laura. Her fingerprints are at the scene and on the body. They're literally on the damn corpse, okay? Partials, sure, but the important thing is that she screwed up and we've got her. She wasn't some kind of criminal mastermind, she was just some dumb kid who went way out on a limb. Don't go over-thinking everything and talking yourself out of it. Just be happy that it was less of a pain in the arse t
han it could've been, okay?”

  “Why was she so sloppy?” I ask.

  “Sloppy?”

  “The first murder was perfect,” I point out. “There wasn't a shred of evidence, not even a flake of skin. And this time, she killed Mike Wallace and left a ton of prints behind. So why the sudden lack of care?”

  “She got lucky the first time,” he replies, “and unlucky the second. Simple as that. Anyway, look at this room, it's a tip. How do you think anyone who lives like this could cover their tracks?” As if to prove his point, he kicks a couple of sweaters away from the side of the bed, uncovering several crumb-covered plates. “Do you really think she could attach Mike Wallace to the ceiling of that church hall and not leave a mess? That crime scene was a total dump.”

  “I know,” I reply, “but that's not the problem. It's the first body, the one on the plinth at Trafalgar Square. That's the one I don't think she could have managed. That one took precision and skill, and planning, and coordination. Look at this place. Bryony Hawthorne can't even coordinate her bedsheets.”

  “Laura,” he says with a sigh, “we've got her. Case closed. Let's just get back to the station, talk to her, get a confession, do the paperwork, and go get drunk. Give me five minutes in the interview room with her and I'll get it all down on paper. You saw her, she's already on the verge of breaking, so we just need to get her to admit what she did and we're done. Case over, job well done, potential promotion for both of us. Okay?”

  I turn and look over at the far side of the room, where a part-torn R.E.M. poster is hanging off the wall. There are other posters too, for bands like The Breeders and The B-52s. Making my way to the desk in the corner, I look down at a set of plans for some kind of art project, presumably part of her final show; nearby, there are some documents from some local coffee shop, confirming her new job. This is a college kid's bedroom, not the lair of some serial killer mastermind.