by Amy Cross
“Any luck tracking down Victoria?” I ask.
“How do you track down someone who doesn't have a phone?” he replies. “No email, no address. We're so used to being able to follow a suspect's digital trace. When they don't have one, they're almost a ghost. It leaves us floundering.”
“We don't even know for sure that it's her,” I point out.
“No,” he replies with a sigh. “We sure don't.”
“But it has to be,” I continue. “Nothing else makes sense.”
“So what's the back-up plan?” he asks.
I don't even bother replying.
“There is a back-up plan, isn't there?” he adds. “You're just waiting to spring into action, yeah? Please tell me you've got something up your sleeve.”
Grabbing my phone, I bring up Ophelia's number and try once again to get through to her. It's pathetic, but as the hours tick past I'm becoming more and more desperate. I need Ophelia to come swooping in and save the day, but she hasn't been in touch for hours. I'm starting to worry that something might have happened to her, and as my call goes to voicemail again, I realize that this whole situation is collapsing all around me.
“Ophelia?” Nick asks suddenly.
I put my phone away.
“I saw her name on the screen,” he continues. “Is she involved in this?”
“No.”
“Then why -”
“Just leave it.”
We sit in silence for a moment. Checking my watch, I can't help wondering if it's time to rethink this whole operation.
“Shit,” he says suddenly.
“What?” I ask, turning just in time to see a figure marching toward the car. It takes a fraction of a second longer before I realize that I recognize his face. “Shit,” I add.
The figure stops at the car and knocks on the window.
“I think it's for you,” Nick says, grimacing as he turns to me. “Fresh knicker time, eh?”
“What's he doing here?” I ask.
“I imagine he's come to rip you a new hole for this mess,” Nick replies, patting my shoulder. “Go get 'im, tiger.”
Getting out of the car, I force a smile as I come face to face with Michael Adams, the boss of bosses in my department and the man who has been nagging at Halveston for months to have me withdrawn from duty. He's absolutely the last person I want to see right now, and I can only assume that he's come down here specifically to gloat over how badly the night is progressing.
“Pleasant evening,” he says as we stare at each other across the top of the car. “How are things going here?”
“Sir, you're -”
“Disturbing an operation?” he asks. “No, I don't think so. As soon as I heard what you were doing, I thought I should come down here. You've got half a dozen officers staking this place out, but there's no way this is going to work, Detective Foster. I've read the files and it's obvious that you're basing everything on one or two rather tenuous leaps of logic. Still, that's not exactly new for you, is it?”
“Sir, with respect -”
“Bryony Hawthorne is in a police cell right now,” he continues, “but she's not the one we're after, is she?”
“Bryony knows what we're doing here,” I tell him.
“That's good,” he replies. “Perhaps you could have extended the same courtesy to me?”
“As the lead detective on this case, I'm within my rights to take any steps I deem necessary to catch the real killer.”
“The killer isn't going to show up,” he replies. “Do you know how I know that?”
“Sir -”
“It's because I know you, Ms. Foster, and I know that there's no way you could outsmart anyone. You're being played, and the killer has most likely got you parked here on purpose, to keep you tied up while he does whatever's really on his agenda.”
“But -”
“You're in over your head,” he adds. “There are people in the department who think you've got what it takes to become some kind of great detective, but I see right through you. You had some luck early in your career, but there are serious flaws in your character and they're going to hold you back.”
“Sir, this isn't about me,” I reply. “It's about stopping the killer before -”
“Before he embarrasses you?”
I want to tell him to go to hell, but I force myself to stay quiet. The fact that he's actually come down here is a clear sign that he's taking the situation seriously, and I have no doubt that he thinks I'm screwing the operation up. He might even be right. Even if I wanted to argue with him, I wouldn't even know where to begin.
“Not going to defend yourself?” he asks.
“I'll file a full debrief in the morning,” I tell him.
“A debrief?” He smiles. “Well, I'm sure that'll be fun reading. Unless Superman comes flying down to help you, I don't see how you can possibly achieve anything. Wouldn't it be better to cut your losses and get out of here? At least that way you could have the dignity of recognizing your own mistake.”
“I still believe that this surveillance operation has value,” I tell him. “The first two incidents were both associated directly with the college -”
“But neither of them actually occurred here, did they?”
“No, but -”
“So one might be inclined to suggest that this is the last place you should be staking out.”
“The third year students' final show begins in the morning,” I point out. “Everything points to the killer building up to that moment.”
“In a movie, perhaps, but this is real life. And what happens if more lives are lost while you're sitting here in your car for hours on end? How do we explain to the media that our detectives were sitting around staring at an empty building while the killer was getting on with things somewhere else? You've built an awfully large single point of failure into this operation, Ms. Foster.”
“As I said, I'll file a full debrief in the morning.”
He smiles again, and it's clear that he thinks he's got me cornered. Ever since the Daniel Gregory case last year, Adams has been angling to get rid of me, and I'm finally in his sights. Even Halveston won't be able to defend me this time.
“Well,” he adds finally, “I shall very much look forward to reading your report. We should probably arrange a meeting, too, with Halveston and a few others present. I'm going to want to get to the bottom of what's happening here, Ms. Foster. I can't allow anyone in my department to conduct operations without being challenged. But for now, I suppose I should let you get back to your very important work.”
As he walks away, I can feel my heart sinking. Getting back into the car, I'm immediately aware that Nick is trying hard not to smile, but eventually I turn to him.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Say it.”
“I've got nothing to say, except...” He pauses. “I'll do what I can.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he's blatantly going to bring you up before a disciplinary board,” he continues. “I'm just saying, I'll tell 'em you had the best intentions.”
Sighing, I check my phone again, but there's still no word from Ophelia. Whatever she's doing right now, I can only hope that she's safe and that somehow she's managed to come up with something that can help us.
Ophelia
“Ready?”
“Just show me.”
“You're gonna be so impressed,” she continues, with her hand on the door handle. “I've worked so hard to get everything in place. I still need a few hours, just to -”
“Show me,” I say firmly.
We're standing in a corridor in one of the college's other buildings, a few streets away from the main campus. I have no idea why Victoria has brought me here, but from her smile I can only assume that she thinks I'm going to like what she shows me. The truth, though, is that I'm terrified at the prospect of seeing the rest of her plan.
“Behold,” she continues, “the final pa
rt of my project.”
With that, she opens the door and stands back to let me enter the room.
“Oh no,” I say as I step through and see all the bodies on the floor. “Victoria, what -”
“They're not dead,” she replies, following me into the room. “Not yet, anyway. I drugged them all to make it easier while I start getting them into position. My final project is going to be made up of the bodies of all my classmates.”
There are maybe a dozen people scattered around the room, with their almost-finished final projects in place. When Victoria told me earlier that the college had opened an extra space up for the students to work overnight, I should have realized what she was planning. I recognize everyone in here, even Miles: he's slumped against the wall, next to the installation piece I saw him working on the other day.
“I needed them all together overnight,” she explains, “and I realized the college would only agree to that if there'd been a traumatic event. I figured that killing Mr. Wallace would be enough, and I was right. Neat, huh?”
For a moment, all I can do is stare. It's as if I can't quite comprehend what I'm seeing.
“It's a shame Bryony isn't here,” she continues. “I didn't anticipate them picking her up quite so soon, but that's the only real mistake I've made. If that's the only thing that goes wrong, I guess I can't be too disappointed. You saw the models I was working on before, right? This is part of the same thing.”
Crouching next to Miles, I'm relieved to find that he has a pulse. I try to nudge him awake, but whatever she's given everyone here, she's managed to knock them out cold.
“I put a heavy sedative in the water supply,” she tells me. “I knew they'd all make tea and coffee to keep themselves awake, and I was right. Trust me, I might not have spent much time in the main studio, but I've been there enough to observe them. I've been planning this for a year.”
“You can't go around drugging people,” I reply.
“It's for the Dead City project,” she explains. “I've got some resin ready to go. When the final show opens at the college in a few hours' time, there'll be nothing on display except a message telling them to come here. And then they'll find the whole class, frozen in time as they work on their projects. It's going to be like I've captured all their desperate hope in one place, all their deluded attempts to create something meaningful. I'm turning it all around on them. You've got to admit, it's a daring concept. It's very meta.”
“So you're going to kill them?” I ask.
“I'm going to enclose them in a thick-drying resin composite,” she replies matter-of-factly. “It'll kill them, but that's no the point. The point is the art.”
Turning to look at her, I realize that her insanity knows no bounds. My earlier plan to get her away from London, to take her to the farmhouse in Yorkshire, is never going to work. Victoria is truly, permanently scarred, and she needs proper help. The idea of taking her somewhere and helping her might have seemed good at the time, but I was clearly being naive; whatever's wrong with her, it goes much deeper, and all I can do now is find some way to stop her hurting anyone else and then make sure she gets the proper psychiatric care that she needs.
“So what do you think?” she asks, sounding a little nervous. “You understand, don't you?”
“What is there to understand?”
“Why I'm doing it all!” She pauses, as if she expects me to suddenly embrace the whole thing. “It's going to be a commentary on the state of art in the modern world. All these pathetic art students, wasting their time as they try to make something meaningful... That's going to be the subject of my final project. They're going to be captured forever at this moment. In a way, they should be grateful. None of them would ever have gone on to become real artists. I'm freezing them at the moment when they've reached their maximum potential. It would have been all downhill for them from here anyway. They're a part of real art, just not in the way they expected. You understand, yeah?”
I take a deep breath.
“Ophelia? Please tell me you understand.”
“Yeah,” I reply, trying to work out how to handle this. “Sure. I understand.”
“I knew you would. Everyone here... They're all just idiots. None of them are actual artists, they're just pretending. At least this way, they get to be part of an art project. Don't you think this is going to go down in history? In years to come, when people start talking about the great artworks of history, they're definitely going to include the Dead City.” She pauses, as if she's overcome with awe. “I think going away with you would be perfect,” she continues. “I hadn't really worked out what to do for the next stage, so it'd be good to take some time out and plan my next move. We can live together and come up with ideas, like a team. I never thought I'd have a proper friend.”
“Yeah,” I reply, trying to stay calm. “I... Maybe we should just get going now, though. You don't have to kill any more people -”
“Killing them isn't the point,” she explains. “If I could do this without killing them, I would, but I can't.” She checks her watch. “I need to get started. You're welcome to stay, but I can't have too many interruptions. I'm going to be working against the clock. Don't worry, though, I've got it all planned out. If I could pull off that stunt with the plinth in Trafalgar Square, I'm pretty sure I can do this.”
“You're going to start killing them now?” I ask.
“In a few minutes,” she replies. “I just need to go and fetch the resin pots from the storage room. See? I told you I'd got it all worked out. Do you want to stay and watch?”
“While you kill everyone?” I take a deep breath. “Sure. Go and get whatever you need. I'll be right here.”
“And then we can go off together,” she adds excitedly. “It'll be like an artists' retreat. I always envisaged the Dead City as a multi-year project. I can plan properly and then come back eventually with the next part.”
“The next part?” I ask.
“It's my life's work,” she continues, “and this is just the first installment. Sure, some people will get upset 'cause they don't understand, but as the Dead City grows over the years, it'll become more apparent. I'm certain that by the end, people will appreciate my project.” Suddenly she steps toward me and gives me a hug. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“For what?”
“For understanding me,” she continues, squeezing me tighter. “For believing in me.”
“I...”
“It won't just be one-sided,” she adds. “I don't know what you want to do, but I'll help you as well. We can work alongside each other on projects, like real friends. I mean, that's what friends are for, right?”
“I guess,” I reply. “I don't really know.”
“We'll be heroes,” she adds, releasing me from the hug and taking a step back. “To people who matter, anyway. They'll understand.”
“That's all you care about, isn't it?” I ask. “Being understood.”
“It's important,” she replies. “Who doesn't want to be understood? Art is the only way I can communicate.” She checks her watch again. “Enough talk. I have to get started.”
With a huge grin, she turns and hurries back out the door.
I listen to the sound of her running along the corridor, and then for a moment I stay completely still, with the unconscious bodies of the other students all around me. For a few seconds, I can't move, I can't even think, as the madness threatens to overwhelm me. It's almost as if, with every word that comes from her mouth, Victoria reveals more and more of her insanity. Finally, with no other options, I reach into my pocket and take out my phone.
Laura
“Teacher,” Nick suggests.
“No.”
“Writer.”
“Of what?”
“I dunno,” he replies. “Books? Magazine articles?” He turns to me. “Start a blog! Look, I'm just saying, there's more to life than just this one job. You need to be proactive about it, though. Embrace change instead of fearing it.”
“You really think I'm going to get fired, don't you?” I ask.
“I think Adams is after your scalp,” he replies, “and I'm just trying to help. I'll miss you, though. We should still hang out sometimes, like, outside of work.”
“Are you asking me on a date?” I reply with a smile.
“Course not. Just a drink every so often.” He pauses, seeming a little uncomfortable. “Seriously, a date? No, I was just... I mean, I just thought you're always saying you'll join us all out for a drink, but you never actually do it, so I figured getting fired would be a good time to break that habit.” He clears his throat. “I was definitely not even hinting at the possibility of going out on a date. No way. The idea is -”
Suddenly my phone starts ringing, and when I grab it I see that Ophelia's trying to get through to me.
“About time,” I mutter, opening the car door.
“She is involved, isn't she?” Nick says. “I saw her name on the screen again! Jesus Christ, what the hell has she got to do with any of this?”
“Where have you been?” I ask as I answer the call, slamming the door shut and then taking a few steps from the car in an attempt to avoid being overheard by Nick. “Okay, sorry, I didn't mean to sound like your mother there, but I've been trying to -”
“I've fucked up,” she replies, interrupting me. “I'm really sorry, Laura, this is all my fault. I need you to get here right now.”
“What do you...” I pause as I realize that there's something new in her voice, a level of fear and distress that I didn't think I'd ever hear from her. It's almost as if she's... vulnerable. “Ophelia, where are you?”
“In a building on Park Street,” she replies, her voice trembling a little. “It's owned by the college, it's where the students have been working overnight.”
“What? Why didn't anyone tell me about that place?”
