The Death Pictures

by Simon Hall

  Dan looked up, then moved fast after him. They pushed their way through the crowd to where a group of journalists had surrounded Abi McCluskey. She was wearing a floral dress and straw hat, looked relaxed, not at all tearful. Well spotted Nigel. They’d almost missed the most important interview of the day. Above him, Dan was aware of a darkening in the sky. The sun was being dowsed by the razor edge of a front of silver cloud sweeping in from the west.

  ‘It was a beautiful service,’ Abi was saying. ‘Quite beautiful. I think it struck just the right note. Joseph didn’t want his funeral to be gloom and darkness. He enjoyed his life and lived it to the full. We all miss him, of course. We miss him terribly. But I want to remember him for the good times. The service will be part of that.’

  A couple more questions from the reporters, the usual stuff, her reaction to the number of people turning out here and what she would like to say to them? She was delighted, flattered, would like to thank everyone, as she knew Joseph would. Then a cheeky one from a journalist Dan didn’t recognise, from one of the national papers probably.

  ‘The riddle still hasn’t been solved. Do you have any clues for the people who are trying?’

  Her face changed in an instant. ‘It’s not a day for that,’ she snapped, glaring at the man. ‘Forget it. There are still months left to work it out. Maybe when we get nearer the deadline.’

  Interesting, Dan thought. He reached into his satchel and made a note in his diary to call her again in a few months. A clue would be big news if the riddle still hadn’t been solved.

  The cloud had covered the sky now and gathering gusts of wind swirled around the church, ruffling the bluebells and pictures. The crowd fragmented. Some moved away, others stayed in little groups, chatting amongst themselves. Reporters checked the messages left with the flowers, took down notes for their stories, thoughts, bits of colour, comments overheard. El sped amongst them, sweating heavily. From his urgency, Dan knew he still hadn’t found the woman.

  ‘What next chief?’ asked Nigel, resting the camera on the ground but standing over it protectively. ‘I’ve filmed lots of good stuff. Are we done here?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ said Dan. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else worth getting. I’ll do the report chronologically. It’ll start with the crowds outside and talk about how much interest the funeral attracted. We’ll have a bit of traffic disruption too. Then we’ll cut to the service from the Universal pooled pictures – they’re being fed back into base in a while – then we’ll have the people coming out and some of the interviews with them. We’ll have a bit of Abi talking, then finish with some pictures of the flowers outside the church and I’ll mention the riddle still hasn’t been solved.’

  Dan considered for a moment. ‘Perhaps I’ll conclude with some thoughtful line like, “Joseph McCluskey may be gone, but he’s left behind an enduring and enticing puzzle which will ensure he won’t be forgotten,” ’ he added. ‘How about that?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ said a wry-looking Nigel. He was well used to Dan’s lyrical flights. ‘I just hope my pictures are as moving as your words.’

  They set off for the car when Dan saw a flash of emerald green floating by just over the stone wall surrounding the church. It triggered something in his mind, a vague memory of a woman he’d once taken out on a date. Nothing had come of it, they didn’t really click, but it was more than that. There was something else his brain was telling him was important. What was it? What had stirred his subconscious?

  Another memory surfaced. That was it. He didn’t like her dress sense. Green. He had a powerful vision of green. She wore a bright green top, did so because it went best with her hair. Redheads always wear green, he remembered her saying. Always green. It goes best by far with the hair.

  ‘Come on, quick,’ he said to Nigel. They jogged round to the gate and out into the road. There she was, just ahead. A green hat, she was wearing a green hat and dress. No sign of any hair though. Whatever colour it was, it must be pinned up under her hat.

  ‘El,’ Dan shouted, waving. The photographer was still standing by the church, hands on hips, staring down at the ground. He looked round, shrugged, then came ambling over. Dan waved for him to stay back. He didn’t want to scare off his prey.

  ‘Madam, excuse me, madam,’ he panted as they caught up. She turned, stopped walking, looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Sorry, don’t worry. I’m not stalking you, much as you’re very worthy of it,’ Dan gasped with his best winning smile. Some charm never hurt. ‘We’re from Wessex Tonight, the local TV News. We’re looking for people who were inside the church to interview. I noticed you coming out and wondered if you’d mind having a word?’

  She stared at him for a moment, almost knowingly he thought. Or was he imagining that? Wishing it? ‘Of course,’ she said pleasantly. ‘He was a great man. I’m happy to talk to you about him and the service.’

  Dan studied her while Nigel hoisted the camera up onto his shoulder. His memory for faces wasn’t good, but he thought it was her. She was beautiful, a finely drawn pale face, lovely cheekbones, good full lips. He still couldn’t see her hair though and that was the real test. Just one way to check. From the corner of his eye he could see El sneaking around the side of a car towards them.

  Nigel hoisted the camera onto his shoulder. ‘Ready,’ he said.

  Here comes the moment, Dan thought. We have to see her hair. How to do it? How to do it subtly and not lose this chance. If she doesn’t agree, I can scarcely pull her hat off, can I?

  ‘Just before we do interview you,’ Dan said, trying to make his voice sound light, ‘Would you mind taking your hat off please? It casts a shadow over your face which makes the picture difficult to expose properly. Doesn’t it Nigel?’

  A quick tap from the side of his foot into Nigel’s ankle prompted the right answer. ‘Yes, oh yes, it’s very difficult,’ said the cameraman. ‘A nightmare of light and shade.’

  She stared at him again. Was she going to do it? Did she know what he was up to? Suspect it? Would she walk away, or play along? His heart was thumping again, an odd thought wandered through his mind that it had done too much of that recently. To his side he could see El sneaking closer, caressing the long lens of his camera like a sniper in a battlefield.

  Her head tilted coyly. ‘Of course,’ she said at last. ‘I wouldn’t want to not look my best for the television, would I?’

  Slowly, so slowly, she slid the hat off her head. It was pinned up and shorter than in the first picture, but her hair was vivid and red. Dan was sure now, quite sure. He couldn’t see it, but he knew El was behind him somewhere, the camera motor whirring, the lens zoomed in on her. The radiant trademark grin would be back on his face at the thought of mission accomplished and his fattening bank account.

  Deep breath, he had to go through with the interview now. And El had what he wanted, so he could ask, couldn’t he? Might even get a scoop out of it. Might even get a clue about the riddle.

  ‘So what was it like?’ Dan began.

  ‘It was wonderful.’ She had a deep, husky voice with a hint of the Devon burr. ‘It was a beautiful service, a great tribute to a great man. Everybody knows what a brilliant artist he was, but not everyone knows what a great man. I was lucky enough to know him personally. He was simply wonderful. He was kind and caring and so generous and he’ll be sorely missed. A great man.’

  He knew it was her now, knew it, knew he was safe in his next question. A simple one.

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Dan asked quietly. She looked at him, a smile crinkling the edge of her mouth, another coy tilt of her head.

  ‘You who?’

  He knew it was, and she knew he knew.

  ‘You, in the first of the pictures?’

  The smile spread, but Dan thought he saw a misting in the green of her eyes.

  ‘Yes. Yes, it
is me.’

  She didn’t need to say anything else, but he had a couple more questions to ask. The first was one of the oddest he ever had, he thought later. The second was a risk, but he’d try it when he saw how she responded to this one.

  ‘Err… why are you riding a mobile phone?’

  She wasn’t perturbed at all. ‘Now that I’m afraid I don’t know. I have no idea. He was a great man, but his imagination wasn’t always the most predictable. That was part of his genius. He saw and thought things that other people couldn’t.’

  Dan nodded, tried an understanding smile. He had the sound bite he needed for his report. It was safe to try the difficult question.

  ‘What do you think about Lewis Kiddey being arrested for his murder?’

  She stared at him for a second and he couldn’t read her expression. Then she turned, walked quickly away. Dan went to follow, but she waved him back.

  ‘Joanna,’ he called. ‘Joanna!’

  She hesitated, almost looked around, then kept walking, faster now, her head bowed. He thought he heard some words, but her voice was wavering and she was breathless. It sounded like, ‘Never, never… never. He could never do it.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Adam exchanged glances with Suzanne, a look they’d shared countless times this morning. He checked the clock. Only another couple of minutes had ground by. Claire’s chair scraped through the silence of the room as she got up and asked again if anyone wanted tea or coffee. No thanks. He’d had enough tea this morning for a week. Suzanne didn’t want anything either and he was sure Claire herself didn’t. She just wanted to puncture the tension. Escape this room.

  He glared at his mobile. Nothing. Silent. There was a signal, a strong one. The battery was fully charged. His phone was working perfectly. Nothing wrong at all.

  He’d called the lab three times this morning. They were used to detectives doing that in big cases, but even their patience could fray. We’ll call you as soon as the results come through, the technician had said. The very second we hear, we’ll pick up the phone and call. The machines are crunching the samples. They’re immune to being hurried and we’ll call you the very second. Don’t worry, we will. But you calling us is just interrupting all the other work we’ve got on. We’ll call you as soon as we know.

  He was tempted, but he knew he couldn’t ring them again. It would achieve nothing, they would call when they had the results, but it was tempting anyway just to have something to do. He, Suzanne, Claire had all tried to work on other cases, go through files, think about alibis and lines of investigation. But it was a charade. They were all thinking about, and waiting for, the results of the DNA test on Will Godley.

  Still, at least they’d solved one crime, Adam thought. Not an investigation he knew anything about, anonymous people in a far away place, but at least they’d cleared it up. Sussex police had been grateful enough.

  Steven Freeman’s DNA profile had come through, with mixed results. Are you ready for this, the technician had asked? Adam had managed not to lose his temper, but only just. Of course he was bloody ready. He’d been waiting by the phone to hear, hadn’t he?

  ‘He’s not your man. Not yours at least.’

  ‘What? Explain?’

  ‘He’s not your rapist. Totally different DNA pattern. Sorry.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  A very audible and pointed sigh on the line. The scientist’s way of telling a Detective Chief Inspector not to annoy him.

  ‘Yes, we’re quite sure thank you. Quite sure,’ said the piqued voice.

  He felt an instant deflation, had to sit down on a desk, shook his head at the other detectives in the MIR. Some gritted their teeth, a couple turned away in frustration. Others mouthed and uttered oaths. One banged a fist on a table, a pounding resonance in the echoing room. It summed up their feelings. Chance gone. No go. The rapist still free and probably preparing his next attack.

  ‘Hello? Hello?!’

  The voice on the line again. Adam composed himself, loosened his tie.

  ‘Yes, sorry, I’m still here,’ he managed.

  ‘I said he’s not your man, but he is someone else’s.’

  ‘What? How come?’

  ‘Your Mr Freeman is wanted on suspicion of grievous bodily harm in Sussex. Brighton in fact. Some sort of fight outside a bar. A bloke got badly beaten and put in hospital. He’s suffered permanent brain damage and needs 24-hour care for life. A sample of blood taken from the scene matches Freeman’s. We’ve alerted Sussex.’

  Adam couldn’t convince himself it was anything other than a consolation prize. He’d spoken to a Detective Inspector Rawson in Brighton and he was grateful, would be here later to talk to Freeman. Not much talking needed really. That was the great thing about DNA. Little room for doubt.

  So that was one crime cleared up at least, and a serious one too. And it explained why Freeman didn’t want to give a sample. But it was no comfort, was it? It wasn’t the crime, the one he was chasing. No comfort really. Not when you still hadn’t caught the man who’d carried out three rapes here in your patch, and planned to carry out three more.

  Now they were down to two then, two suspects. It was one of those, or... He didn’t want to think about the or. The fact that it could be someone else entirely, someone they hadn’t even had a sniff of yet. Not a thought he wanted to entertain. It would mean their inquiry had got precisely nowhere. Wasted time, wasted effort, no leads. Nowhere.

  Nowhere that is apart from the damage it’d done to his career. That conversation with the Assistant Chief Constable, the second he’d had in a couple of days, that wasn’t pretty.

  ‘Adam, what the hell are you doing appearing on TV saying we’re stumped? And why are you tailing Edward Munroe?’

  ‘He’s a suspect sir.’

  He’d expected the call, but that hadn’t made dealing with it any easier. First accused of wasting resources, now blundering in scaring the public and making the force look inept. That and persecuting innocent pillars of the community. It certainly wasn’t pretty.

  There’d been an explosion of snorted disbelief on the line. Adam held the phone away from his ear.

  ‘First things first,’ growled the voice. ‘What are you doing telling a bloody journalist we’re stumped?’

  ‘The truth, sir.’

  ‘Yes, but can’t you be a bit more bloody diplomatic, man? Say something like ‘we haven’t got him yet, but we’ve plenty of lines of inquiry to pursue and we are confident of a result.’ Something a bit more reassuring for the public? It makes us look like we’re no-hopers otherwise.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I will in future.’

  What else could he say? He knew that interview would cause trouble, but he’d thought it was worth the risk. He could hardly talk about what he was really thinking.

  That seemed to calm Flood a little and distract him. Important that he was distracted, Adam thought. He wanted to close down this part of the conversation, didn’t want Flood asking too much about why he’d said what he had in the interview and certainly not going into what else he was up to in the inquiry.

  The phone buzzed again. ‘And what about Mr Munroe?’ Adam noted the mister, not many people accorded that accolade. The movers and shakers dining network in action. He could see them, dressed up in their dickie-bow ties, passing the claret, swapping power stories.

  ‘He’s a suspect sir.’ Adam tried to keep his voice neutral. ‘He wouldn’t give a DNA sample, he has a reason to dislike women and he has no alibi.’

  Another snort. ‘And he’s an eminent local barrister with friends in high places.’ Like you, Adam thought, but didn’t say anything. ‘You can’t possibly tell me you think he could be the rapist,’ Flood continued. ‘That’s absurd.’

  ‘He’s a suspect, sir and we have to treat him just like t
he others. We have to be fair.’ No response. ‘Imagine what the press would say if it did turn out to be him and we hadn’t been following him as we had the other suspects.’

  Another pause on the line. Adam could hear his boss’s brain working. The media, that was the one thing always guaranteed to worry him, the prospect of a savaging in the press. Bad for the force, bad for Flood’s hopes of one day making the top job.

  ‘Well, now we’re not tailing the others, I take it you’ll be leaving Ed… err… Munroe alone.’

  The slip made Adam feel better. He could see almost hear the little chat his Assistant Chief Constable and the pillar of the community had had before this phone call.

  ‘Yes, sir, of course,’ he replied.

  ‘Right, well, that’s enough for now then. But try and keep it together more will you? You’re a senior officer, one of our best. I expect better from you.’

  He wouldn’t be applying for any promotions in the near future, Adam thought as he put down the phone. Not unless his little plan came off. And even then, he wouldn’t be telling Flood how he cracked the case.

  He wasn’t sure he wanted promotion anyway. A Detective Superintendent he’d be then, yet more big cases to supervise, yet more of a workload. What would Annie make of that? He didn’t have to imagine. They were on the verge of getting back together and he applied for a job that would mean even more pressure.

  He glared at his mobile again. Still mute. Suzanne was drumming her fingers on the board with Rachel’s picture, looking at the notes there but not seeing them. Claire was staring out of the window, over at the city and Plymouth Hoe, the red and white hoops of the lighthouse of Smeaton’s Tower lofty above it.

  Adam’s mobile rang and he jumped, grabbed it, then swore. He shook his head at Suzanne and Claire, who lapsed back to their drumming and staring.

  ‘Hi Dan, not a good time,’ said Adam into the phone. ‘I’m expecting an urgent call. No, we’ve no news on the DNA yet. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.’

  What would they do if there was a match, he wondered? What could they do? That little scheme of his to get Godley’s DNA was a sharp one, and Dan had done his bit in stealing the hair. But, whichever way it went, if there was or wasn’t a match, that just left them with a whole new set of problems.