The Death Pictures

by Simon Hall

  Adam leaned forwards and stared into the man’s eyes. ‘Tell me yourself. I want to hear it in your words.’

  Kid stared back at him, then looked down at the table and shifted in his chair. ‘Can I get a coffee?’

  ‘When you’ve told me what happened.’

  Kid took a deep breath, fiddled with his earring. ‘It’s just like I said. We’d arranged that I was to go round on Thursday night.’

  ‘Who arranged?’ interrupted Adam. ‘Why?’

  ‘Joseph invited me. He said he wanted to see what I thought of the last of the pictures. He also said he had something else to talk to me about, but wouldn’t say what. Just that he was sure I’d be interested.’

  The plagiarism of his idea, thought Dan. Adam’s theory is holding together. He shifted towards the door a little to get a clearer view of Kid’s face.

  ‘OK,’ said Adam, scribbling down a note. ‘So what happened that evening?’

  Another deep breath. ‘I’ve told you all this.’

  ‘Tell us again.’

  ‘Are you sure I can’t get a coffee?’

  Adam’s look made him continue.

  ‘I went round there at about 7.45, as we’d arranged. I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. So I pushed the door and it was open. I went in and shouted that I was there.’

  ‘Was that unusual? Not getting an answer and the door being open?’

  Kid shook his head. ‘No, it’s happened before. They used to like sitting in the garden at the back of the house. They couldn’t hear a knock there.’

  Adam scribbled another note. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I stood in the hallway shouting for a minute, but there was still no answer. So I went into the lounge and looked out into the garden, but there was no sign of either Joseph or Abi. I started to get worried in case something had happened. You know his condition?’ Adam nodded. ‘So I had a look around. I thought I heard something upstairs so I went up. The door to the bathroom was open and that was where I saw…’

  Kid’s words faded and his chest heaved. He lifted his head up, stared at the blank, low, ceiling. He seemed to struggle to breathe.

  ‘What did you find, Mr Kiddey?’ Adam wasn’t giving him a second to think. ‘What?’

  Another heave of the chest. ‘You know.’ His voice was shaking now. ‘You know damn well what I found. You saw it.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I found Joseph McCluskey lying dead in his bath! That’s what I fucking found, all right? I found him dead, and blood everywhere. All right?!’

  Adam looked down at his papers, scribbled another note, let the silence run. Kid’s face was glowing. He couldn’t stop fiddling with his earring.

  ‘Did you see a knife?’ snapped Adam.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A knife.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the bathroom floor. Next to…’

  ‘Did you touch it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you touch it?’

  Kid stared at Adam as if he was a fool.

  ‘Of course I didn’t touch it! I just ran downstairs and called you.’

  ‘You’re sure about that? You’re sure you didn’t touch the knife?’

  ‘Yes! Of course! Quite sure!’

  Adam stared at him, let the silence run again. Dan could feel his heart pounding. He could sense the trap closing.

  ‘You’re absolutely certain you did not touch the knife?’

  Kid slapped the table. ‘Yes! Of course!’

  Adam nodded, stared into him, waited, waited, waited for the moment.

  ‘Then how come that knife has your fingerprint on it, Mr Kiddey?’

  Kid’s eyes widened. His mouth moved but no sound came out.

  ‘What?’ he gasped.

  ‘How come the knife which cut Joseph McCluskey’s wrists had your fingerprint on it, Mr Kiddey? Can you explain that?’

  Kid sat there, gazing at Adam, shaking his head. His mouth opened and closed. Dan thought he could hear a faint, ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no…’

  ‘Later today, Mr Kiddey, I’m going to charge you with the murder of Joseph McCluskey,’ said Adam, getting up and walking towards the door. ‘Nothing will change that. But I’m going to leave you to have a little think. Because if you tell us what really happened – about what Mr McCluskey said to you regarding the idea you stole – and how you rowed and killed him, then I can tell the judge that in your favour. And that’ll mean you’ll get out of prison in – oh, shall we say – 15 years or so? Wouldn’t you say Dan? 15 years?’

  From the safety of his wall, Dan nodded. He knew what was expected, could play the part. ‘Yes, about 15 years I’d say. Roughly 15. As opposed to, well at least 20 if we have to go through a trial.’

  ‘Oh, at least 20,’ said Adam pleasantly, as a uniformed policeman slipped in through the door to take Kid back to the cells. ‘At least. Judges don’t like the victim’s family and friends having to go through the ordeal of re-living their murder in a court. It’s almost like committing the offence all over again. No, they don’t like it at all. And they hate jealousy as a motive, absolutely hate it. They think it means the murderer could easily do something similar again, you see. They don’t like to see people like that released back into the community. In fact, forget your 20 years. It could easily be a whole life tariff.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Suzanne rang the bell, heard its metallic buzz echo inside the house. She kept her face towards the door, but slid her eyes to the right, onto the window. The faintest nudge ruffled the net curtains. Like a fisherman getting a hint of a bite, she thought. Another sound, this time a creaking floorboard, but the door remained shut.

  A crash echoed along the bricks of the alley by the side of the house. It sounded like a door being flung open. Another noise, this time a voice, shouting, in pain.

  ‘Ow, get off you bastard. Get off!’

  That’s two prime suspects now thought Suzanne, as the smartly uniformed and usefully muscular police officer bundled him up the alley. He wasn’t exactly resisting, but he wasn’t cooperating either. He was dragging his feet, making himself a dead weight as he was pulled along. There was a sneer on his face and he managed a couple of half-hearted protests and some light abuse, but the words were tinged with fear.

  No more interviewing possible rapists alone, DCI Breen had said, no matter how tight resources were. Never underestimate what these people are capable of when they’re cornered. She’d taken Charles Cross’s bodybuilding guru, PC Colin Samson, with her and stationed him at the back of the house, just in case. He wasn’t renowned as clever, but he was certainly big.

  So, there was one basic question that needed answering, and she asked it. ‘Mr Freeman, why did you run from us?’ Or try to, she thought.

  He sipped at the cup of dark canteen coffee and Suzanne took the opportunity to study him. Five feet ten or so, stocky build, yes, it could be him from the description they had. No sign yet he smoked though, and suspects who did usually wanted a fag to ease their nerves as they sat here in the interview room. He could have guessed the police would know their man was a smoker, couldn’t he? But was he that bright? He didn’t seem so, but you never knew. Clever people could hide it well.

  His hair was short, dark, circling a bald ring on the top of his head, his nose flat and wide, as though a flying fist had squashed it. He seemed to peer suspiciously through narrow eyes. Or was that just her imagination? He certainly had the physical power to be a rapist. Did he have the motive and the means? There were those couple of previous convictions, both for assault. It didn’t make him a rapist. But it did show he could be violent.

  Beware starting to believe this is your man, she told herself. Beware. Work through the evidence and come to a
conclusion. Don’t guess, assume or prejudge. But the one piece of evidence that would give them a definitive answer she didn’t have, and had no right to get. DNA, the golden gift to detectives was only his to give, not hers to take. She couldn’t see him volunteering a sample. That scowl said he wasn’t in a cooperative mood.

  ‘I thought you’d come ’coz I wasn’t paying. I thought you was the bailiffs.’

  A man of few words, Suzanne thought. He’d said almost nothing since they’d brought him in. He’d confirmed his name and address, but hadn’t even asked why he was here.

  His voice was thin and oddly high-pitched, almost a whine, as though it had never truly broken. A clue there? He’d know he had a distinctive voice – would no doubt have been teased about it often enough – so was that why he’d stayed silent with the women he’d attacked?

  She checked the file she’d taken from the CSA. Steven Freeman, 34 years old, taxi driver by trade. Married to Julia for 5 years. One son, bitter divorce, maintenance awarded, none received. None at all according to the records. That was the problem with self-employed men, the CSA manager had told her. If they get a salary, we can take the contributions straight out of their pay. But if they’ve got their own business, making their own money, that’s where the system breaks down.

  How to play it? He looked worried, kept tapping his feet on the concrete floor, shifting in his seat and checking his watch. Nerves? Or just thinking about a taxiing shift he was planning to put in?

  She hadn’t told him yet why they’d brought him in. Just a routine suspect to start with, another from the CSA’s list of possible woman-haters for them to eliminate. But his attempted get-away had made him much more interesting. Maybe he did think it was because of the missing maintenance payments, but then again… So, take it gently or surprise him? She studied him for a moment, came to a decision.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about rape, Mr Freeman. A series of rapes in fact.’

  His head snapped up and those narrow eyes widened. His feet stopped tapping. Surprise at the accusation? Or shock at being caught? He said nothing, just looked at her. Suzanne sensed the advantage.

  ‘Where were you last Tuesday, Wednesday and Saturday?’

  ‘I never done no rapes.’

  ‘That wasn’t the question. Where were you?’

  ‘I never done no rapes.’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘Dunno.’ The whining voice was higher now, more strained. ‘Taxiing probably, or at home.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’

  ‘Nah.’ A fast answer she thought, too fast? ‘I live on me own. I drive alone.’

  An idea grew in Suzanne’s mind, making her hesitate before her next question. They hadn’t found a connection between the three women. What if they’d taken a taxi in the last few weeks? What if the driver had been Mr Steven Freeman? A little bit of harmless chat to find out if they were attached, if there was a man in the house. A note of the address to come back to. A drive past once or twice, just to check. Wait a while, let the memory of the flirty taxi driver fade, then strike. But was he a woman hater?

  ‘How do you get on with Julia now, Mr Freeman?’ Suzanne asked.

  The eyes widened again, but this time she could see what was in them. He couldn’t resist the bait.

  ‘She’s a bitch,’ he whined, and for the first time the words came quickly and easily. It was something he’d said many times before. ‘She left me. Threw me out. Took my kid away. Then she wants my money. She’s a bitch.’

  Time to think for a moment, pretend to jot some notes, a trick she’d learned from Adam Breen. Means, motive and opportunity, they’re all there. His record says he can be violent. He’s a bitter man. The taxi link could be a good one. They’d have to check with their victims, then come back to Steven Freeman. But there could be a short cut, couldn’t there?

  ‘Mr Freeman, that’s about all I need to know for now. But I must just ask if you would provide us with a hair or saliva sample for a DNA test, so we can rule you out of our inquiries?’

  ‘No,’ he whined quickly.

  It’d been a busy afternoon thought Dan, as he drove them back to Charles Cross, and it could get busier yet. He hadn’t believed Kid was the killer, but now he had to admit Adam’s theory was looking persuasive. If he was charged before 6.30, it would be another burst of stress and panic to get the news on air. If it was later, he’d have to stay around for the 10.25 bulletin. Well, whatever, that was his job. And it would mean he could have some time off tomorrow morning to have another go at the Death Pictures.

  First, they’d seen the McCluskeys’ neighbour, Mr Jarvis. He’d been a pleasant enough old chap, but a classic nose. Out in his garden all hours. Keeping it pristine, yes, but also forever on the look out for comings and goings and the tantalising prospect of a titbit to talk about.

  Dan and Adam had admired the newly shaped hedge as directed – topiary he’d told them proudly, that was his hobby – and made all the right noises about the colours and variety of the plants he’d bedded in.

  Dan had managed to stifle a laugh when Jarvis had told them about his daughter’s impending wedding at Kitley House, a local stately home. His pride was bursting – his son-in-law-to-be a merchant banker you know, top London firm, old money – but the sums it was costing, oh the money. He was determined none of her desires would be spared. She would have the dream wedding she wanted. Money wasn’t the point where happiness was concerned, was it?

  Dan had to stifle an aching urge to puncture the pomposity with a question about who would be taking the wedding photographs. No doubt a famous London photographer, not one of those sleazy local paparazzi types? But Adam was alongside, needed questions answered, and they couldn’t afford to alienate someone who could be an important witness. Shame. It would have been so enjoyable.

  Abi McCluskey had left the house at 7.15, Jarvis told them. Yes, he was quite sure about the timing. He rolled up his sleeve to show off a new looking silver watch, a birthday present from his wife. He had two watches, one for everyday wear and one for smarter occasions, and he always knew exactly what the time was. Dan looked ruefully down at his own watch. One day he might buy an accurate model.

  She’d said goodbye to Joseph. Yes, he was sure about that, had heard quite clearly from the garden. He might be getting on, but there was nothing wrong with his ears. No, he couldn’t swear to the exact words – and looked crestfallen for it – but they were something like ‘back in an hour or so darling,’ then a pause, then ‘no, I won’t forget the milk.’ She’d left with their Boxer dog, Darwin.

  No, he hadn’t seen anyone else arrive – crestfallen again, he’d gone inside for his tea – until the police at just after eight. Then there was all that fuss with the ambulance and the detectives and the media. And then the terrible news about Joseph. Terrible, thought Dan, but enough delicious gossip to see this scrutineer through the rest of his natural days.

  Abi McCluskey’s story had checked out. Into the corner shop to buy some milk at about 7.30, confirmed by the owner who knew her well. ‘She often comes in around that time as she’s walking Darwin.’ Then just up the road to pop in on a friend for a chat. ‘We wanted to talk about a guided walk on the coast near Torquay,’ the woman had told them. Abi left at about eight.

  Abi had been re-interviewed too. Adam had only one question for her. Was there any possible way that Kid’s fingerprints could be on a knife in your house?

  She’d thought about that, long and hard, acutely aware just what difference her answer could make to a man’s life.

  ‘Yes,’ she’d said finally, making Adam stop tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. He leaned forwards towards her as she sat on the sofa, curled up in the same corner as before.

  ‘How?’ Adam asked slowly.

  She
thought again, closed her eyes for a moment. When she spoke she was careful with her words.

  ‘Kid has been round for dinner a couple of times. In fact, that was the first thing Joseph wanted to do when they’d made their peace, have him round to eat. He was very proud of my cooking and I think it was a symbolic thing for him.’

  Adam had smiled indulgently but his voice was tense. ‘Go on.’

  She was picking at a toenail again. ‘Well, that’s it. He came round for dinner a couple of times. I can’t remember exactly what I cooked, but we usually put whatever it is out on the table and serve it from there. I think it’s much more civilised that way. Then your guests can see what they’re going to eat and have as much or as little as they want.’

  Adam held his encouraging smile.

  ‘So you have the knives out too?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Abi nodded, but didn’t stop picking at her feet. ‘If we’re carving a joint then we’ll have the knife out. Or if we’re cutting bread we’ll have a knife for that too. And for cheese of course.’

  Adam noted that down, much more slowly than usual.

  ‘Abi, this is important,’ he said. ‘I know it’s difficult, but please try to remember. I know you realise how important it is. Can you recall Kid ever using a knife here?’

  She closed her eyes and the skin on her forehead bunched into lines of concentration. ‘I can’t remember,’ she said finally. ‘I think he might have, but I just can’t remember for sure.’

  Adam nodded and shifted in his chair. ‘I understand. It’s not the sort of thing you notice or that sticks in your mind. But can you help me with this? Can you remember when he came round?’

  She got up from the sofa. ‘Yes, I can tell you that exactly.’ By the phone in the corner of the room was a small black diary. She flicked through the pages. ‘The last time was…’ she found the page she was looking for. ‘March the fourth.’ She nodded to emphasise her certainty. ‘Yes, March the fourth. Just under two months ago.’

  Dan saw Adam relax, lean back in his chair, straighten his already pristine tie.