The Death Pictures

by Simon Hall

  ‘Sure.’ Godley’s face warmed into a smile. Dan could see he’d been rehearsing what to say. Many interviewees did that too, especially when it was something they felt strongly about, a message they wanted to get across as best they could.

  Nigel clipped a small personal microphone to Will Godley’s shirt, then retreated. ‘Ready,’ he said from behind the camera.

  ‘OK, Will, we’re off,’ said Dan gently. ‘So first of all, tell me what’s happened with the police following you?’

  He was fluent, relaxed, a good talker. He told Dan about the officer outside his home, outside his work, even outside the pub and how it had led local people to believe he was a paedophile. Good stuff.

  ‘What effect has it had on you?’

  A brief hesitation, the man’s eyes closed momentarily, then the anger flared. ‘It’s wrecking my life. Wrecking it,’ he spat. ‘The police following me has made me feel paranoid, like people are out to get me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done. I’m just an ordinary, hard-working man. I don’t know why they’d want to pick on me. I used to get on well with the people round here. They don’t talk to me now. They think I’m some kind of criminal. And the people at work are asking questions about what I’ve done and I just don’t know what to tell them. I don’t know what I have done.’

  Good stuff, thought Dan. Very good. The man’s either innocent or a fine actor.

  ‘Finally, Mr Godley,’ Dan prompted, ‘What do you think about the way you’ve been treated by the police?’

  Colour flushed in his face. No pause this time, the answer instant.

  ‘I think it’s a disgrace. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve got no criminal record, nothing. I’m an ordinary, honest man and I’m being persecuted on a whim. And I can’t believe they’re doing this to me at a time when you’d think every police officer should be out on the beat trying to catch this rapist. It’s a disgrace.’

  Dan couldn’t help but be impressed. Good interview, he thought, very good. An intelligent, articulate man this, no bumbling inadequate or raging misogynist, the picture Dan had always had of a rapist. Did Adam really believe this could be their man? He couldn’t see it, those words sounded genuine. But we need to know, Adam had said. We desperately need to know. This morning, we can clear or convict two of our three suspects. All we need is a tiny helping hand from you… and just a little illegality and immorality involved... all in a good cause, of course…

  ‘That’s it, Will, as simple as that,’ Dan said. ‘Thanks for seeing us, we appreciate it. We’ll leave you in peace now. We just need to do a couple of pictures of you outside where the graffiti was sprayed, but that’ll only take a minute.’

  ‘Sure. Was the interview OK?’

  ‘It was great. Really good. Wasn’t it Nigel?’

  The cameraman nodded. He was coiling up the microphone cable. They were almost finished. Now, Dan thought, he had to make his move now. He itched his back again.

  ‘Excuse us if we dash along, Will, but, as I said, we’ve got to get this on the lunchtime news.’

  ‘Sure, no problem. I appreciate you coming to see me.’

  Now, it had to be now. One chance, just one. Now. Once they were outside it would be much more difficult to come back in. Dan felt his heart pounding, controlled his voice.

  ‘Our pleasure, Will. Just before we go outside, could I borrow your loo? I haven’t had time this morning, it’s been so busy.’

  ‘Sure.’ No pause, no searching look, not a trace of suspicion. ‘It’s at the top of the stairs.’

  Dan tried to walk nonchalantly upstairs and into the bathroom. He closed the door and locked it, checked it twice then leaned against it. He took the tiny plastic sample jar Adam had given him out of his pocket and looked around. There, on the windowsill, a comb. Carefully he pulled half a dozen hairs free and placed them in the jar. His hands were shaking. He sealed the lid and breathed a deep sigh of relief. He even remembered to flush the chain before walking back downstairs, still itching hard at his back.

  The lunchtime news edit was tight. By the time he got back to the studios it was 12.50. Just 40 minutes until the bulletin. Dan jogged up the stairs and into the edit suite. ‘Slash and burn time then,’ said Jenny, taking the tape.

  She laid down some shots of Will Godley pointing to the wall outside his house where ‘peedo’ had been sprayed. Then they edited in the last part of Godley’s interview, calling his treatment by the police a disgrace.

  After that it was pictures from the library of officers on the beat at night time, looking out for the rapist. Dan recapped on the crimes, the extra patrols and the operation to try to catch the man. Then it was the interview with Adam, some of the most extraordinarily candid words he’d heard from a senior police officer.

  ‘I hate to admit it, but basically we’re stumped. This man is clever and has been leading us a dance. He’s way ahead of us and I can’t see much chance of catching him, not unless we have a real stroke of luck. I can only hope we’ve scared him off and stopped him committing any more of these dreadful crimes. All I can do is to warn women out there to be careful and watchful.’

  Dan scratched away at his back as he heard the words again. Extraordinary. But Adam had insisted on using them.

  His mobile warbled. Adam, as if on cue. Great timing. The edit suite clock said 1.24. Six minutes to go and his report was the lead story. Lizzie was pacing the corridor outside. He could hear the ominous beat of her stilettos on the floor.

  ‘Adam I can’t talk, I’ve got to finish the report,’ Dan said quickly. A fast sentence burbled back from the phone.

  ‘Yes, yes I did get them,’ he replied. ‘Yes, they’re safe and sealed. Yes, I understand they’ve got to go to the lab straight away. Yes, you can come up now and get them. Got to go.’

  Lizzie knocked on the door. 1.27. ‘Two minutes,’ called Dan. ‘Just the pay off to do.’

  His back was itching worse than ever. No time for anything clever. He scribbled some quick and obvious words about the police still wanting to hear from anyone who might be able to help with their investigation and signed off in the standard way: Dan Groves, Wessex Tonight, Plymouth. 1.28 now. Jenny laid down a shot of police on patrol to cover his words, rewound the tape, ejected it and dashed it into the transmission suite.

  Deadline beaten by a minute Dan thought, scratching his back. Tight, but not the worst by any means. He’d known tapes go in as the newscaster read the cue to the story.

  ‘Good report,’ said Lizzie after the bulletin. ‘I’ll be happy with the same sort of thing but a bit longer for tonight. That was amazing what that copper said, wasn’t it? It looks like they’re completely stumped. That’ll send a shiver through the women of Plymouth.’

  Dan walked back to his desk and put down his satchel. He realised he was hungry. The morning had been so busy he hadn’t had time to think of food. He headed towards the stairs and the canteen. Lizzie held up a hand as he passed her desk.

  ‘Before you slope off, are you across McCluskey’s funeral tomorrow?’

  ‘Yep,’ he lied. ‘One hundred per cent. Got it all sorted.’

  At least it wasn’t his first lie of the day. Far from it. He didn’t like lying, but sometimes there was no choice. Like when you were hungry, or, as Adam had said, in the interests of justice. He just hoped his friend was right. They’d know by tomorrow.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The man could have been the definition of acting suspiciously. His coat was too thick for this warm, spring morning, the clear sky full of the golden promise of a beautiful day. The baseball cap was pulled down too far over his face. He was blatantly nervous, his eyes flicking around the shop. And he was sweating, his neck shining with the glistening moisture.

  It was just after eight o’clock. Adam had stopped in to the shop on the corner of Peverell Park Road to get
some headache tablets. He hadn’t slept well, restless with the anticipation of that call from the lab today. At worst, two prime suspects could be ruled out of the inquiry, leaving Mr Edward Munroe, the Devil’s Advocate, firmly in their sights. Not bad for the least appealing outcome. At best, they’d have their man.

  He could feel the gathering of a dull, bass pain in the back of his head and wanted to stop it before it gained momentum. He’d dropped in to the store on the way to Charles Cross and checked through the painkillers. He wanted something powerful, but which wouldn’t make him drowsy. Then he’d noticed the man, lingering at the DVD section, pretending to read through the films.

  Adam slid to the side of the shop and busied himself checking the magazine rack. He picked up a copy of Devon Society and turned to an article about the Dartmoor Folk Festival. Morris dancers were frozen in a leap, sticks crashed together. He turned his back to the man, watched him in the mirrored strips at the side of the rack.

  He was looking around again, feeling nervously at his coat, up by his chest. Adam was sure there was a bulge there. He kept his head down, intent on the article, his eyes angled to the mirror.

  A young man with wild blond hair finished buying cigarettes. The woman assistant called a cheerful goodbye and he was out of the door. There were just the three of them in the shop. And now the man was moving, striding over to the till. He was still looking around him, one hand up by his chest. Adam kept his head fixed down, stared into the mirror, but took a couple of sideways steps towards the counter.

  The man fumbled under his coat. A flash of tapering steel split the air and the woman behind the counter stepped back, her hands flapping to her mouth. Adam couldn’t hear any words, but he could see the blade. A chopping knife, a foot long, held in a shaking hand, just a couple of feet from the woman’s chest. She reached for the till, opened it and the man leaned hungrily over to the blue and brown notes, grabbed for them.

  Adam moved, three quick strides. One of the man’s hands was fumbling in the till, the other held the wavering knife. Adam grabbed it at the wrist, twisted hard, pulled it up behind his back in an arm lock. The knife clattered to the tiled floor. He used his weight to ram the man into the counter, bent him over it, forced his face into the unyielding wood.

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ he said calmly to the woman. She was standing back, open mouthed, looked ashen. ‘Call 999 and ask them to send a car. Tell them Adam Breen’s caught an armed robber in the act.’

  She nodded and reached for the phone. The man shifted slightly as though testing for resistance and Adam gave his arm an extra twist. He yelped, then groaned.

  A good omen for the coming day, Adam thought.

  Dan was surprised to find himself enjoying the funeral. He’d expected the swamp to inflict its full draining weight, but when he woke that morning it had gone. He wasn’t surprised. It was like that, as familiar as an unwelcome acquaintance. Fickle and whimsical, it would come calling when the world was running for him and he should be happy. It could stay away when life was against him and he should be miserable. He ought to know better than to try to anticipate it.

  It was a beautiful morning for a run and they’d both delighted in it. Rutherford had on his tongue out, smiling face. For once, Dan had even managed the twenty laps of the park he’d set himself. Why did he feel so much better, he wondered? Was it because he couldn’t shake off the buzzing feeling that today he might at last make some progress into McCluskey’s riddle? That he might finally get one over on the infuriating artist and find out who the woman in the first picture was? He grimaced about admitting it, but when he woke he’d got the Death Pictures notes out from under the bed and worked through them again.

  He hadn’t even had to put on the black jacket and tie he kept in the car. He’d called Abi, and she’d said no dark clothes and no sorrow. That was the request to all who were coming and it went for the media too. And they had come, in their hundreds.

  He’d caught a brief glance from El, who’d shrugged, then gone back to his scanning and weaving in the crowd. With his black sunglasses he reminded Dan of an American Secret Service man, always searching for a threat. No sign of a beautiful redhead so far and it wouldn’t be easy finding her in this throng either. Especially as it was a sunny day and many of the women were wearing hats.

  Trinity Church on Mannamead Road, local for Abi. A beautiful building, much favoured by marrying couples. No spire, but one tower, flat-roofed, its black arched windows resonating with the clamour of the calling bells. The proud stone was local, tinged yellow from the invisible assault of traffic fumes and with elegant fluting curves arching upwards like stretching trees. A necklace of green grounds surrounded it, sprays of bushes and trees, ideal for wedding photographs. A rainbow of dots flecked the grass. It was one of the few remaining places that didn’t ban confetti.

  Inside a mighty organ dominated with its pyramid of wooden pipes. Ranks and rows of dark stained pews stood in lines like well-drilled recruits. The church was warm with that mellow, technicolour spectrum of soft light from the aged stained glass windows. The still air filled with contemplation.

  What would McCluskey have made of the attention, Dan wondered? There were all the local great and good here and hundreds of his fans, come to pay their respects. The front of the church was already ringed with flowers, many bluebells again, lots of bunches with prints of the Death Pictures attached. Five camera crews and countless photographers worked the crowd, the interest from the local and national media so great that a pool facility was being operated inside the church. Only one cameraman was allowed in, Universal TV’s, one photographer and reporter, both from the Press Association.

  It was the same arrangement they made for Royal Visits, to save an unseemly gaggle of hacks cluttering the regal way. Dan couldn’t help but think McCluskey would be laughing again, up there in the clouds, looking down and holding his sides. The same arrangements for him as for the Queen…

  More people were converging on the church in knots and lines. All were dressed in the summer colours Abi had requested, no hint of black. The crowd was growing, spilling out onto the pavement and into the Mannamead Road, one of Plymouth’s main routes. The traffic stopped and began to tail back up the hill. A couple of police officers made vain attempts to herd people out of the way, but there were too many and they were too intent on the church. It was like trying to herd cats.

  Nigel crossed the road away from the church to get a wide shot of the people and congestion. Dan stood behind him, watching his back. It was always dodgy filming in crowds, particularly with cars around. He thought about doing a couple of interviews with the mourners, but there was no point until after the service. Touching as it was now, it would be much more emotional then. An occasion like this demanded public tears.

  ‘Oi, seen her yet?’ Dan spun around. It was El’s voice, but where was he? ‘Oi!’ he heard again.

  It was coming from above. He looked up. El was sitting in the bough of a chestnut tree in the front garden of one of the houses facing the church. Like a mischievous spirit, Dan thought.

  ‘I haven’t had a sniff of her yet,’ El shouted. ‘This sun’s the bloody trouble. Loads of the women are wearing hats.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to pray for the weather to change,’ Dan shouted back. ‘But I wouldn’t have thought the Lord would be particularly entertaining of your requests, the sins you get through.’

  There was a flash of the El grin. ‘The devil looks after his own though, doesn’t he? Keep an eye out for her will you? Drinks on me if you see her. And lots of ’em.’

  A fine incentive, Dan thought. They crossed back over the road for Nigel to get some closer shots of the flowers and tributes. The police had managed to clear the crowd and the traffic flowed again, a couple of good-natured blares of horns as the cars trundled past. The bells had subsided, the air now rumbling with excited chatter, huddles of
friends and strangers all comparing memories of McCluskey.

  Dan eavesdropped on a couple of the conversations. Sexy, rogue, brilliant, annoying, arrogant, teasing, wonderful were some of the words he heard. Everybody had a passionate view. Joseph McCluskey had certainly made his mark.

  The babble died away as the service began, relayed on loudspeakers to the crowd who couldn’t get into the church. They stood in respectful silence. Nigel filmed close-ups of some of the faces around them as they listened. Tears and smiles for the poignancy and humour in the address. Even a laugh when the vicar told the congregation he’d checked the church for any clues to the riddle of the Death Pictures and had found nothing, so they didn’t need to waste their time looking.

  El bobbed back, the grin gone. His habitual body warmer was tied around his waist and he wouldn’t stand still, his head flicking from side to side, scanning the crowd.

  ‘Still no bloody sign of her and the service is almost done,’ he groaned. ‘They’ll all be off in a minute and that’ll be it, my one chance gone. Goodbye to all that money. All that work for nothing. Bloody weather,’ El growled at the sky.

  The organ exhaled the thunderous chords of a final hymn, a modern one Dan didn’t recognise. The congregation began slowly shuffling out. He grabbed the microphone and did a few short interviews. Uplifting was the consensus. Yes it was sad he was gone, but he’d given the world so much. This was a time to remember that and celebrate, not just mourn. Dan understood, but wasn’t surprised to see a couple of people in tears, Nigel zooming the camera in on their faces. That would be the headline shot, the golden picture that summed up the story.

  ‘Quick,’ hissed Nigel urgently, taking the camera off his shoulder and striding towards the church’s arched doorway. ‘Over there.’