The Smoke In The Photograph

by Kit Tinsley

  THE SMOKE IN THE PHOTOGRAPH

  By KIT TINSLEY

  Also by Kit Tinsley

  Beneath

  Dark County

  The Wilds

  By Kit & Siobhan Tinsley

  Thirst For Blood

  © copyright 2015 Kit Tinsley All rights resereved

  Thanks to Richard Dutton and Siobhan Tinsley for editing duty

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to

  Brian W. Tinsley

  A great artist and greater father

  CHAPTER ONE

  Julia saw the little bead of sweat run down the estate agent’s piggy face and knew there was something he wasn't telling them. He had been so willing to suggest this house, and virtually shoved the leaflet into her husband's hands.

  'I think this one would be perfect for you, Mr and Mrs Draper,' he had said with a broad smile, that looked insincere.

  Steven had looked at it, giving the estate agent no indication of his thoughts, then handed the brochure over to her. The house in the picture was beautiful. The kind of house that Julia had always dreamed of owning. A large Victorian house, that had been thoroughly modernised according to the information. It was also located within the exclusive cathedral area of Lincoln. A stone’s throw away from the hospital where Steven worked. It looked far too grand for them to afford; it was verging on being a manor house. Julia looked at the price at the top of the page, and had to check twice. The house was placed on the market for less than quarter of a million. How was that possible? It should have cost at least five times that. There had to be some kind of catch. Julia had learnt long ago that if something seemed too good to be true, it usually was.

  Julia looked at Steven. She could see from his frown that he was wondering what was wrong with the place as well.

  'It looks lovely, Mr Criar,' he said, 'but, it's a little more expensive than we were looking for.’

  Criar nodded.

  'Yes, but it's certainly a bargain,' the estate agent said.

  This was true. They could probably get a mortgage on a house of that price. After all, Steven owned their current house, in Darton, outright, and that would give them a considerable chunk of the money. It would mean living a little more frugally though in order to afford the mortgage payments. It would be different if she was still making money, but since she had been ill she couldn't face the thought of putting brush to canvas. Her biggest fear was that she would never be able to paint again, that somehow her problems had robbed her of the ability. Art had been her life for so long, she didn't know if she would be able to do anything else.

  She looked at the photograph again. Part of her yearned for the house though. She noticed a small, grey twirl of something in the photograph. It was misty, almost not there at all, but it was a definite shape. It was in front of the house, almost as if it was coming up from the driveway like steam, and yet it wasn't tangible enough to be steam.

  Criar must have noticed her puzzled look.

  'Is something wrong? ' he asked.

  Julia looked up at him.

  'No,' she said, then chose to point out the mark. 'I was just wondering what that is? '

  She held the photograph up for Mr Criar and pointed at the strange, twirling shape. He squinted at it through his wireframe glasses; the expression made his features look even more pig-like.

  'I'm not sure. Perhaps the photographer was smoking,'

  That was feasible, but as someone who had smoked since she was a teenager, Julia didn't think so. She had taken many photographs whilst smoking, and knew that it could create weird images on the photograph. Not like that though. Cigarette smoke would be a constant, swirling mist in the photograph; it wouldn't just start half way up the picture and end so abruptly.

  She considered arguing this point, but elected not to do it. Steven hated it when she talked about smoking. The good doctor would probably want a divorce if he found out she was still sneaking the odd one when he wasn't around. She hated lying to him, but she supposed he had his own little secrets. It was the way of life.

  'As I was saying,' Criar continued, 'the house is being sold at an amazingly low price for its size and location.’

  'Why is that?' Steven asked. Julia could see his mind working. He was wondering how much renovation work the house needed in order to be liveable. Sometimes she wished he could just get wrapped up in the moment, like she did, but she supposed his practicality helped to balance out her own impulsive nature. She was the creative, guided by instinct and passion. Steven was a scientist, guided by reason and learning.

  'Well, you know, sometimes these things just come along,' he stated in a jovial manner.

  This was when Julia noticed that bead of sweat. It trickled down from his receding hairline, down the side of his face, and his puffy cheek. He was lying. He knew something about the house. Something he did not mean to tell them. It was clear that the estate agent was desperate to get the house off his hands.

  'Need I remind you that, by law, you have to disclose anything that could lower the value of the property.'

  Steven stared at her in amazement. She liked to surprise him. She wouldn't tell him she had actually been quoting some TV movie she had watched while he was at work a few days before.

  'I'm sorry,' Criar said, 'of course you don't. It's just...'

  'Just what? ' Julia said cutting him off.

  Steven now looked even more shocked. She knew he wouldn't expect her to be so forthright. Steven had always seen her as something of a pushover, especially since she had been ill.

  'Julia, it's okay.'

  'No,' she said. 'We have a right to know'

  Criar sighed.

  'It's just we've never dealt with a situation like this before,' Criar said. 'You see, the house was the scene of a brutal murder.'

  She had expected to hear the house was full of dry rot, or had an infestation of wood worm, not anything so horrific.

  'Oh my God,' Julia said. 'What murder?'

  Criar shifted in his chair. It was clear he was uncomfortable.

  'It was the first victim of the Lincoln Ripper.'

  Julia heard a sharp intake of breath from her husband. She was sure that, to Criar, Steven's expression looked as impassive as ever, but she could see something in his eyes. He was always so guarded emotionally that it was hard to tell exactly what he was thinking, but it was plain this information bothered him.

  Of course Steven had every right to be shocked, and so did she. The Lincoln Ripper had been killing women in the city for the past six years, and as yet there seemed to be no clue as to who he was, or if he would ever be caught.

  'We've been trying to sell the place for well over three years now,' Criar said. The burden of the house was clear in his voice. 'At the price it's worth, though, no one is interested.'

  'So now you've tried lowering the price to see if someone takes it off your hands?' Steven said.

  'Pretty much, yes,' Criar admitted. ‘The owner no longer cares about the money. He just wants to be rid of it, and its memories. He hasn't lived there since it happened.'

  Steven nodded. Julia thought he looked almost rueful.

  'Yes, I can imagine,' he said. 'Poor guy.'

  Julia could not believe it. She had moved to Lincolnshire from London. During her time in the capital, stories of brutal murders were a part of daily life, but since moving to this quiet, rural, county, she had become re-sensitised. The first few Ripper murders had taken place before she met Steven and moved to the county to be with him.

  She looked back at the picture of the house. It really was gorgeous; something about it seemed to be calling out to her heart. It was pleading with her to buy it, to give it new, happy memories to l
ive with, to make it a home. They had always talked about wanting a big family someday, and this house would be the perfect place to do so. It was so important to Julia to have a family, to raise children, to care for them, in the way that no one had ever really done for her.

  She looked across at her husband. He was stony faced, as he always was in these situations, not wanting Criar to read whether he was interested or not. Something was bothering him. She could see that, and was sure he would tell her what later.

  Criar could read her far easier she felt. The fact that she wanted the house was written all over her face. Julia was, and always had been, an open book. Her life had been too complicated to ever try hiding things from people.

  'Why don't you take that with you?' Criar handed the brochure to her, then turned to Steven. 'You can think it over.'

  Steven rose and shook the little man's hand first.

  'Thank you, Mr Criar.'

  Criar offered his hand to Julia. She shook it and noticed how sweaty his palms were. The estate agent must have been desperate to get rid of the house.

  'And thank you both,’ he said. 'I hope to see you again soon.'

  Julia thanked him as Steven turned and walked towards the door. She was still holding the information leaflet for the house. She took one last look at it. Once more, the house in the picture called out to her. It was just like love at first sight, the same thing she had felt with Steven. She still wondered what the mysterious, smoke-like twirl in the picture was, but it just seemed to add some sort of magic to the picture. She folded the leaflet carefully and placed it in her handbag. She then walked over to Steven, who was standing by the door looking impatient. She had her work cut out trying to get him to agree to purchase the house.

  Criar watched the young couple leave through the office front door. The wife had seemed very keen on the house, despite its grim history. The husband, on the other hand, was much harder to read. Criar couldn't decide if he wasn't interested or was just playing hard ball. If it was the latter, Criar would be more than willing to bring down the price even more. He doubted that Mr Swanson, the house's owner, would mind. Swanson appeared even more impatient to be rid of the house than Criar. This was hardly surprising though. Who would want to retain possession of the home your wife was brutally murdered in? Especially when she fell victim to a serial killer, who was still very much at large.

  Criar had often wondered how Swanson had gone on with his life after the murder. Mrs Criar was no oil painting, but then neither was he, yet he could not even imagine his life without her. If it had been her, not Mrs Swanson, the estate agent doubted he would have had the strength to carry on. He would have probably taken his own life.

  He pushed the thoughts out of his mind, and leant back in his chair. He could see the young couple, the Draper's, walking down the street. He was trying to tell if they were discussing the house already. It was possible. Mrs Draper seemed to be doing most of the talking, while her husband listened.

  Criar just hoped they would take the house so that he didn't have to go there anymore. Every so often he would have to carry out a showing at the house. He tried to fit these in during the day, but this wasn't always convenient for potential buyers and they would ask to see the house in the evening. The place made him feel uneasy, especially at night. It was no doubt just the knowledge of what had occurred there, but he never felt alone in that house. The hairs on the back of his neck instinctively rose just thinking about it, especially that damned attic studio.

  He walked from his desk into the back of the shop. His junior sales advisor, Mark, was making them both a coffee.

  'How did it go?' he asked Criar as he entered the tiny kitchenette.

  'I'm not sure,' Criar said, lighting a cigarette, despite the fact it was illegal for him to do so now. There was only him and Mark in that day, and both of them smoked.

  'Can I pinch one of those?' Mark asked. Criar handed him the packet and lighter.

  'The wife seemed keen. She couldn't stop looking at the house,' Criar said.

  'The husband?' Mark asked.

  'Hard to tell,' Criar said. 'He wasn't giving anything away at all.'

  'Do you think they'll buy it?' Mark asked, handing Criar back the cigarettes.

  Criar thought about it for a moment, inhaling deeply on his cigarette.

  'I hope so. I really hope so.'

  Julia looked around their bedroom, the one they had shared since she had moved up from London five years ago. She had always liked the room, especially once she had got Steven to agree to let her redecorate. Steven was a wonderful and intelligent man, but he knew nothing about interior design. Once she had made the house feel more like hers, rather than just his house that she had moved into, she had loved the room. Now though, as she lay in the bed, reading her magazine, she could only see it for the pokey little box it was, that the whole house was.

  The house in Lincoln had stuck in her brain. All night she had been sneaking looks at the leaflet whenever Steven left the room. She didn't understand why, but she knew she was destined to live in that house. After all, they had only gone into the estate agents on a whim, after months of idle conversation about moving into the city. There were so many other estate agents they could have picked, but fate had led them to Criar, and the house.

  Steven was standing next to his wardrobe, undressing and putting his clothes neatly away. She laughed at the way he did this, especially as she would just throw her clothes on the floor when undressing. She also enjoyed watching him as he revealed his toned body. At thirty-seven he was in good shape, better than she was and she was six years younger than him.

  She had loved him from the moment she had met him. That night had also been fated. By rights, they should never have met. Steven had been attending a medical conference in the capital, and she had been on her way to the Tate gallery for a party her agent, Fran, had insisted she attended.

  It had been raining, and she had been standing in the street, soaking wet in an evening dress, trying to hail a taxi. Every taxi that went by seemed to already have a fare. She considered going back home, getting changed into a jumper and sweat pants and telling Fran to go fuck herself, when a cab pulled up beside her.

  The rear door opened and the man in the back with dark blonde hair and twinkling blue eyes, asked if she would like to share his cab.

  Julia never made it to the gallery, and Steven never made it to the lecture he was supposed to attend at the conference. Instead they had dined together. Laughing all night. By the end of that weekend, when Steven had to return to Lincolnshire, they were a couple. Within a month they were engaged, and within a year they were married.

  Four years of marriage, and some very tough times, later she loved him more than ever.

  'I liked it,' she said.

  Steven turned to her, his eyebrow raised.

  'Liked what?' he asked.

  She held up the brochure for the house.

  Steven sighed as he got into bed.

  'I'm feeling much better now,' she said. 'I'm going to start working again soon, then we could easily afford it.'

  Steven shook his head. His stony face had obviously not been just for Criar's benefit earlier.

  'Why not?' she asked.

  'Could you really live there, knowing about the murder?' he asked.

  This question surprised her.

  'Yes,' she answered matter-of-factly. 'Why? Couldn't you?'

  Steven shrugged.

  'I don't know to be honest.'

  Julia giggled. She couldn't believe that her super-rational doctor of a husband was acting so nervous about living in a house with a bloody history.

  'Ooooh,' Julia waved her arms above her head. 'Scared of ghosts are we?'

  Steven looked at her with a cold gaze; she thought she saw a hint of anger behind his eyes. The look that let her know he thought she was being childish.

  'No, of course not,' he said. 'I just don't know if I could happily live in the shadow of such a grisly death.
What with your problems, I don't think it's such a good idea.'

  She threw her magazine on the floor and turned to face him fully. She felt the heat of her anger flush her cheeks. There it was, his excuse for everything these days: her problems.

  'First, as I said, I'm feeling much better, and second, you're a fucking doctor for Christ's sake. You see death every day of the week nearly.'

  He looked away from her, his bottom lip protruding a bit too much, as it always did when he sulked. It made him look like a petulant child.

  'I know that, so I don't want to have to deal with it when I come home.'

  If she kept going along this path it would end up in an argument, and that was the last thing she wanted to be doing right now. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself and then smiled at him. She picked up the information leaflet from her bedside cabinet and handed it to Steven. He shook his head in defeat and took it from her and began to read out loud.

  'A lovely, large, detached Victorian property in the most sought-after area of the city of Lincoln,' putting on his best salesman voice. 'Comprises five bedrooms, two bathrooms, two reception rooms, dining room, large kitchen with all mod cons, conservatory, and very large attic studio with dark room.'

  She nestled against his chest.

  'It would be perfect for us,' she said, looking up at him with doleful eyes. 'You could have one of the reception rooms as a study, and I could have the attic studio to paint properly again. It even has a dark room.'

  Steven laughed.

  'But you don't know the first thing about photography. Don't you remember the mess you made of our holiday snaps last year?'

  Julia slapped his naked chest, then laughed.

  'You bastard. At least I never got my thumb in shot, unlike somebody.'

  She snatched the leaflet back from him and held it up, tapping the strange, twirling mark on the photograph.