by Simon Hall
‘Hello again, Abi,’ said Adam, sitting on a chair. ‘You know Dan, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was faint and trembling. She didn’t ask what he was doing here.
Adam explained. ‘Dan’s been attached to the investigation into Joseph’s death to help the media provide accurate coverage. I hope that’s OK with you?’
‘Yes. Fine. Whatever.’
Dan sat down on a chair in the bay window, out of the way. Best leave this one to Adam, he thought. He wasn’t good at dealing with emotions, particularly when it came to women. A quick jabbing thought of Kerry and the scene in the restaurant surprised him.
‘I know it must be a very difficult time for you, losing Joseph, then our investigation into his death, then this attempted break-in,’ said Adam in a soft voice. She nodded, picked hard at a toenail.
Adam studied a sheet of paper, then spoke. ‘I’ve got your statement about what happened earlier. Is there anything else you can add?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t have any sense of what the person was like? A man or woman? Big or small? Young or old? Even a smell they might have left? Like tobacco for example?’
‘No. I just saw the broken glass,’ she gestured through the door and to the dining room, ‘and this shape running across the lawn.’
Adam noted that down. Dan knew if this had been an ordinary attempted burglary, the report would have been filed and forgotten, no hope of any progress. But not here, not with the suspicious death of a famous figure, the prospect of a reward worth more than a hundred thousand pounds for the person who solved his riddle and a serial rapist on the loose.
‘Abi, I can see you’ve got some of Joseph’s pictures on your walls. But is there anything else here someone might be desperate to steal?’ Adam asked. Dan could see he was following the same thoughts. Not for the first time, he found himself reflecting how the job of the journalist and detective weren’t so very different. ‘Is the answer to the riddle here?’ Adam continued.
She shook her head slowly. ‘No. It’s in the safety deposit box in the bank. The only copy.’
Dan had expected that and saw Adam had too. McCluskey would have suspected someone might try to find a short cut to the answer. If it hadn’t been for the fruitless hours he’d spent trying to solve the man’s riddle Dan would have respected him even more.
Abi McCluskey drew her legs closer. She looked pale, exhausted, eyes dark, no make-up, no jewellery, wearing just jeans and an old T-shirt. It had ‘The Waterside Arms, Beer Festival 2002’ printed on it. Dan would love to have asked… could he ask? Was it something to do with the Waterside? Just a little clue…
He checked himself. He was here on trust, in a murder inquiry. It was scarcely the time to start asking about McCluskey’s riddle. But still, as he was here, it was too good an opportunity to miss.
Abi’s attention was on Adam, so he subtly – he hoped – scrutinised the room. There was nothing that seemed to be a link to any of the numbers or places. The only obvious well-known book was an Oxford English Dictionary of quotations by the fireplace. Still, it was an idea. He had one at home, the same edition. What was on page 98? He got out his handkerchief, pretended to dab at his nose, then tied a knot in it. It would remind him later.
‘Abi, we’ve almost finished disturbing you.’ Adam lowered his voice. ‘But there is one more thing I’ve got to ask.’
She stopped picking her toes and looked up at him. Suddenly frightened, Dan thought. Her eyes certainly looked wary, flicking from Adam over to him, then back again. What was she scared of?
‘You said you had something else to tell us,’ continued Adam. ‘What was it?’
Her eyes were back on her feet. Remarkably tiny, thought Dan, perhaps size four. A soft pink varnish on the nails.
‘Was it to do with Joseph’s death?’ She nodded, not looking up. ‘Abi,’ said Adam, his voice more urgent. ‘Was it to do with Kid?’
She nodded again, but said nothing. Dan waited, Adam too, used the pressure of silence, pushing her to fill it. They could sense the words were near. She was gathering herself to tell them. It was important, they knew that now.
‘He was going to let him know.’ Her voice was so soft Dan had to strain to hear, but he didn’t want to move forwards, risk breaking the moment. ‘Sorry, Abi, who?’ asked Adam. ‘Who was going to let who know?’
She looked up and her voice was stronger. ‘Joseph... Joseph was going to let Kid know.’
Another pause, then Adam prompted, ‘What? Let him know what?’
‘Let him know that he… he had to… he had to say it.’
‘What? Say what Abi?’
‘To get it off his chest… to clear it up… before he… before he died.’
‘What? Say what? How?’
‘He was going to record some talks about his life… Joseph was… the story of his life… and he was going to tell Kid… tell Kid he’d have to put it in.’
The door opened and the police officer walked in with a tray of mugs. He was about to speak when he caught Adam’s look, hurriedly put the tray down and left again.
‘Sorry, Abi,’ continued Adam gently. ‘What was Joseph going to tell Kid?’
She stood up from her chair, took one of the cups, blew on it, then sipped at the steaming liquid. She stared out of the window for a few seconds, then turned back to Adam, the words coming in a rush.
‘You have to understand that Joseph was well aware he was a great painter, Mr Breen. He knew many people would want to study and read about him when he was gone. He knew his life had often been controversial. So much had been written about him, he wanted to put his own side of everything before he died. He was going to record it all in a series of tapes, for whoever might want to use them after his death. He was determined every word had to be the truth, no spin, nothing like that, a full and honest account of all that he’d done and why.’
Adam stood up too. ‘I understand Abi. But what was it that he was going to tell Kid? What was so important?’
Abi McCluskey put down her drink, then breathed out a long sigh. ‘I have to tell you, Mr Breen. I know I do. It’s not easy, but I know I have to tell you.’
Adam let the silence run, then prompted, ‘What is it Abi? What do you have to tell me?’
She nodded slowly, closed her eyes for a second, then spoke.
‘Kid copied him. He copied Joseph’s idea. For the sculpture. The sculpture Kid did that won the national competition. The one that made him famous. The rotting burger one. The Statue of Liberty one. That was Joseph’s idea… Joseph’s… and Kid copied it.’
* * *
Will Godley sauntered out of his terraced house in the Coxside area of Plymouth to find a police car parked on the road outside. A smartly uniformed, middle-aged officer was leaning against the bonnet smiling. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said cheerily.
‘Morning,’ replied Godley gruffly, getting into his Escort.
‘That your car is it, sir?’
A colourful range of sarcasm and abuse filled his mind, but Will Godley had a feeling it wasn’t a good idea to upset this man. ‘Yes, officer,’ he said, getting back out of the car. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No, no problem, sir,’ the man replied. ‘I’ve checked your tax and tyres. They’re all in order.’ He ignored the frown that produced. ‘No, it’s just that I’ve been given this new beat to patrol and I like to get to know the people here, their cars, that sort of thing. It’s always good to know the people you’re looking after.’
‘I quite agree, officer. That’s how policing should be, just like the old days.’ Godley got back into his car, wound down the window. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get to work.’
‘Of course, sir. Have a good day now.’
Godley was about to drive off when a thought surfaced.
‘So can we expect to see a lot of you, officer? Where is this new beat of yours then?’
‘Just here, sir,’ said the policeman, still smiling. ‘Just right here.’
There were plenty of pretty nurses and one or two with blonde bobs, or flame hair, but they weren’t the ones he wanted. He’d paid them close attention though and they’d seemed to enjoy it.
It was funny he thought, how the clothes you wore brought a different reaction to what you did. With his usual fat-lensed camera slung around his neck, and his jeans and battered body-warmer, he’d often produce anger and sometimes even violence in those he was trying to snap. But put on a white coat and a stethoscope and your attentions were suddenly much more welcome. No camera on show of course. He had a small digital model in his pocket, ready to whip out if the moment came. That was all he’d need, the one lucky break.
The oncology ward was his target, but he knew he couldn’t hang around it for too long. He’d done a couple of sweeps and that would have to be enough for today. He reckoned that, given the various shift systems, four visits at different times over four or five days should cover just about all the staff without raising suspicion. The place was full of doctors, coming and going. Look like you knew what you were doing and you just blended in. No one ever questioned you. He’d learnt early in his career how powerful a bluff could be. And he’d done it so many times now he was an expert. A Professor of Bluff. Or, in this case, a Doctor.
It was just a hunch of course, but he’d played them before and they’d paid off. It was certainly worth a go. Where else was McCluskey likely to meet someone he could become so close to that he’d want to paint them? And what was he talking about anyway? Close? Sex was what he meant, and sex was what the papers wanted, why he’d been offered such a lucrative pile of cash to snap McCluskey’s last lovers, immortalised in the Death Pictures. Sex sells, it was as simple as that.
He didn’t intend to miss out on such a juicy prospect. He could feel the sun on his face as he lay in the deck chair on the beach sipping a pina colada, in… Where would it be this time? Greece? Spain? Somewhere more exotic? The Bahamas? The money that was on offer would fund the break easily and leave plenty left over too.
He walked back along the tiled corridor towards the lift and exit. That was enough for day one. OK, he hadn’t found her, but there were plenty more chances ahead. Patience, that was the watchword of the paparazzi. Patience. His time would come.
Dirty El looked down at his name badge as he got into the lift. The fancy dress shop was right. It was convincing. Dr McCoy he’d decided on for himself. It was a slight risk, but he liked that little touch, couldn’t resist it. What was life for without a bit of fun? He could almost hear Captain Kirk calling him.
‘There’s your motive,’ said Adam, as Dan drove them back to Charles Cross. He stretched out in the passenger seat and straightened his tie. He looked annoyingly relaxed now, a transformation of his earlier mood. ‘I think you’ll have another good story tonight. Yesterday an arrest, today a murder charge.’
The traffic was crawling through Mutley Plain, down to one lane because of a delivery to a bar. They passed the Old Bank pub, a window cleaner working hard at the glass, fresh white suds sopping onto the pavement. ‘There might even be time for a celebratory drink tonight,’ Adam continued, following Dan’s look. ‘The High Honchos will be delighted and I can get back to the real business of catching the rapist. Everyone happy.’
‘Mmm,’ mused Dan. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t see what. Was it that the image he’d built up of Kid didn’t make him feel like a killer? ‘Tell me how you imagine it, then,’ he asked.
Adam closed his eyes. ‘Kid goes round as arranged. He’s expecting just to have a couple of drinks and a friendly chat. They’ll talk about the last Death Picture. One artist to another, as it were. But as we know, McCluskey was into clearing up his unfinished business. Taping talks about his life is part of that, as Abi’s just told us. I’m guessing McCluskey told Kid he was going to record the thing about the sculpture being his idea. Kid panics. He’s about to be exposed. It’ll be revealed that his most famous work wasn’t his own idea. You know what these arty types think of plagiarism. In one moment, Kid’s reputation was going to be destroyed. So he killed McCluskey and made it look like a suicide.’
‘Mmmm,’ said Dan again, tapping a finger on the steering wheel. ‘How did he do it, then?’
Adam shuffled his notes, found the page he was looking for. ‘We know McCluskey was very close to the end of his life. The cancer was taking its toll. He was on big doses of morphine and weakening fast. The autopsy found lots of the drug in his bloodstream, along with some alcohol. Abi told us he liked a few drinks in the evening. That combination must have made him very weak. I don’t know exactly how it happened, but Kid grabs the knife and either threatens McCluskey with it, or forces him upstairs somehow. Then he runs the bath, pushes him in and cuts his wrists. McCluskey dies quickly because of his condition and the drugs and booze.’
It sounded convincing enough thought Dan, but… but what? It was fast thinking on Kid’s part, wasn’t it? Fast and extremely cunning. To invent a plan that would make murder look like suicide in just a few seconds. Could he himself have done that? Probably not, but then Adam had warned him never to be surprised by what desperate people could do.
‘Wouldn’t the autopsy have found some marks on McCluskey if he was forced to do all that?’ Dan asked. ‘And wouldn’t Kid have blood on him?’
Adam nodded sagely. ‘There were marks. Bruises on McCluskey’s wrists, arms and knees, as though he’d been dragged upstairs. There were bruises on his shoulders, as if he’d been kept pressed down in the bath. It wouldn’t have taken that much force to get McCluskey to move. He might have been so weak it needed hardly any. And as for blood, when you cut someone’s wrists, it doesn’t spurt out. It just flows, and fast if the body’s hot as it would have been from the bath. It’s the old classic way of committing suicide. Kid wouldn’t have had blood on him if he did it carefully. Then he just sits there, makes sure McCluskey doesn’t try to escape and watches him die.’
Dan found himself still struggling to imagine it. ‘What about Kid’s prints on the knife? Were they conclusive?’
‘Absolutely. The knife handle had been wiped, as you’d expect. Criminals know to do that. They’re not stupid and they’ve seen it all on TV. But sometimes they miss something and I think that’s what happened here. McCluskey’s prints were on the knife, but there was also one other clean and clear print too, right up by the blade. We’d taken Kid’s prints as a matter of routine because he found the body – or claimed to have. It’s a perfect match. I reckon Kid wiped the knife, then pressed McCluskey’s fingers around it so his prints would be there and it would look like suicide. But he missed that tell tale one of his own. The one that tells us it wasn’t suicide, but murder.’
Dan had to admit it sounded like a good case. There was just one more thing nagging at him. ‘So where does the attempted break in the night McCluskey died fit in? And the other one, come to that? And the rapist?’
‘No idea,’ said Adam as they turned into the police station. ‘Maybe they don’t at all. Maybe the attempted break ins were just someone trying to get in and find a hint about the solution to the riddle. A painting worth more than a hundred grand is a pretty powerful lure. Or they could just have been mundane attempted burglaries. And as for the rapist, I doubt very much it was him. His attacks have been carefully planned. He goes for women, alone with their kids. He wouldn’t have picked McCluskey’s place to try to get in. It just doesn’t fit with his targets.’
Unless that’s what we’re meant to think, said Dan to himself, too quietly for Adam to hear.
The interview room was the same one they’d solved the Bray case in. A low grey concrete ceiling seemed to loom oppressively just above Dan’s head. The whitewash of the brick walls
was slapdash, smeared with vague streaks of faded colour, tinted green by the buzzing strip light in the centre of the ceiling. At the end of the room, a tiny oblong barred window allowed in just a hint of the world outside. It was always cold, whatever the weather, and echoed with every word or movement.
Kid was sitting at the table and jumped up when Adam walked in, Dan following.
‘What the hell am I doing in here?’ he shouted, gesturing wildly. ‘I demand to be freed. I’ve done nothing. This is outrageous…’
Adam ignored him, let his anger blow itself out as he settled himself on one of the two chairs on the side of the table nearest the door. Dan stood behind him. The plastic chairs were uncomfortable and besides, on the television, one cop always stood while the other sat.
‘Good morning, Mr Kiddey,’ said Adam pleasantly, looking up at him. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Kid stared silently at him, then did.
He was in his early 40s Dan guessed, neither fat nor thin, about five feet ten tall. He ticked off one question on his mental list. Kid would certainly be strong enough to force a dying McCluskey into a bath and hold him there.
He wore a flamboyant shirt that looked like its pattern was simply random sprays of bright colour. It reminded Dan of Loud. His face was long and thin, his hair blond and cropped short, almost a crew-cut. His skin seemed pale. Naturally so, or because he knew he was a killer about to be uncovered, Dan wondered? He wore a small silver stud in his left ear and another on the left side of his nose. Kid’s hand trembled over an ashtray full of a pile of discarded roll-up cigarettes. He still didn’t look like a murderer, but Adam was right, you never could tell. When he’d mentioned the man’s campaigning against poverty and charitable work to Adam in the car, the detective was entirely unruffled. Look at all the doctors who became killers, he’d said.
‘I’d like to ask you about what happened when you went to see Mr McCluskey,’ began Adam, fishing a piece of paper out of his case.
‘You know what happened. You’ve taken a statement.’
