The Death Pictures

by Simon Hall

  Again he emphasised the last word, let it hang in the silent courtroom, his eyes running over the jury. Then he drew himself up and turned to the judge. ‘Your Honour, we call our first witness. Abi McCluskey.’

  She rose from the back of the court, dabbing her eyes with a tissue, walked slowly forwards. She kept her eyes straight ahead, careful never to slip a glance towards Kid in the dock. He leaned forwards, pressed a palm to the glass, seemed to mouth some words, but she didn’t look, just walked on and up the wooden steps into the witness box.

  That evening, Dan sat with Jenny in an edit suite and they put the report together. He started with the van arriving, talked about Kid being brought to court for the beginning of his trial for McCluskey’s murder. There was a shot of Wishart over some of the quotes from the barrister’s opening address, then the first of Dan’s pieces to camera. He added more of what Wishart had said and some colour about the court being packed with journalists and the public.

  They used some library footage of the police cars and cordon around the McCluskeys’ home on the night of Joseph’s death, while Dan recapped on when and how he’d been found. Then it was another piece to camera when he talked about Abi’s evidence, going out, walking the dog, and her shock at coming back to find the police at her house, her husband dead. She’d also testified about how Joseph had planned to tell Kid that night about his audio diary and the secret of the statue. Dan added that she’d cried through much of the opening of the trial. He could almost feel the viewers hurting with her.

  To end, he used a couple of shots of the court building, and the dull but legally necessary; ‘Mr Kiddey denies murder. The trial continues tomorrow.’

  ‘Great stuff, just great,’ Lizzie fizzed after the programme, her eyebrow arched to a fine peak. ‘I can sense the ratings shooting up. What a pity the trial’s such a short one. But then, there are the Death Pictures too, aren’t there?’ The eyebrow arched further. ‘We’ve got the answer to the riddle to look forward to as well. Why not see if we can get Abi to reveal it live on air too, like she did that clue? I want us to be the first with the answer. I want everyone tuning in to us to see it. I want us to be known as the Death Pictures station…’

  Dan pulled a dubious face, but Lizzie’s momentum was unstoppable.

  ‘I know Abi’s probably a bit upset at the moment, but she’ll come round. It’s wonderful stuff, such mystery, and violence and death too. I couldn’t have written a better plot myself. The viewers will be loving it. Oh, God bless Joseph McCluskey.’

  Dan lay on his great blue sofa that night, Rutherford at his feet, determined this time he would finally make some headway into the riddle of the Death Pictures. But he wasn’t sure he believed himself.

  He was interrupted just once, not by work as he’d half expected, but by Adam.

  ‘You didn’t put me on,’ the detective said ruefully.

  He sounded more cheerful. Dan wondered what had been wrong. Annie and Tom was the usual explanation, but he’d said it wasn’t that, didn’t seem to want to go into the reason.

  He’d been worried Adam had found out about him and Claire. He’d have to tell him soon. He’d been waiting to see if the liaison came to anything – no point bothering him if it didn’t – but they seemed to be growing closer and enjoying it, so he would have to know. Dan felt a nudge of concern. Adam could be very fatherly with his officers, and he knew only too well how good Dan was with women.

  ‘You didn’t give any evidence today,’ Dan said reassuringly. ‘Tomorrow you’ll be on, worry not.’

  The phone rattled with a chuckle.

  ‘Now that gives me a dilemma. That was a new suit and tie and I wanted them to make their TV debuts. So do I now wear the same suit two days running, or change into something which I’ve already been on TV in?’

  ‘That sounds agonising. I think you’ll just have to wrestle with it tonight and I’ll see what you come up with tomorrow. By the way, you’re sounding chirpier. What’s happened?’

  ‘The start of the case. It’s gone very nicely indeed. I thought Wishart did a cracking job. It shouldn’t take the jury long to come back with a guilty verdict if it goes on like this.’

  Yes, it had been a powerful opening, and the evidence sounded strong, but Dan still wasn’t quite convinced. What was making him doubt Kid’s guilt? Nothing he could identify, just one of those feelings.

  ‘We’ll see,’ he replied, running a hand over Rutherford’s head. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from all this crime reporting, it’s never try to predict the outcome of a case.’

  Dan took another gulp of beer and went back to the Death Pictures. He’d managed to convince himself the trial did have some relevance and he spent the evening looking for anything that could be a hint about the court building, or the law, or… well, anything. Three hours he lay there, three hours and four tins of beer, and what had he come up with?

  Dan sat up and stretched. Nothing. He’d found nothing, and he’d started to disbelieve his idea anyway. How could Joseph McCluskey possibly have put any reference to the courts or justice in his pictures unless he knew he was going to be murdered? And clever and scheming though he was, he could hardly have predicted that, could he?

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The guilt was back. He’d woken to find it as fiery as before. The distraction of the first day of the trial had only dampened it. Had he slept much? He wasn’t sure. If he had slipped into the blissful blackness, it was only a temporary respite before the remorse jabbed him awake again. Was he, a Detective Chief Inspector, responsible for a man’s murder?

  OK, so Godley was a rapist. And he couldn’t be sure that what he’d leaked to Dan had led to the attack on him. But it felt that way. He’d have to do something about it, couldn’t carry this around with him. He had to know.

  Adam tried to think of something else, distract himself. But not even the usually pleasant dilemma of his wardrobe and the thought of standing in the witness box pushed it from him mind.

  He needed something else to hang onto, like a drowning man clutching for help. His family, his life. It was all getting better. Annie was still asleep next to him, just stirring, he thought, her breathing growing lighter as it did when she rose close to consciousness. He was back at home. They were getting on well, rebuilding their marriage. There were still issues to tackle. He was working too many hours, as ever, but he didn’t know if that would ever change. Wasn’t it said you married the police force when you became a detective?

  Annie seemed to be coping more easily now. He wondered if it was because she’d concluded it was better to have him around for most of the time than not at all. Tom was growing older too, would need them both in the difficult teenage years to come.

  A fine boy and a handsome one. He could see trouble with many a heartbroken girl’s father ahead. He imagined himself standing on their doorstep, defending the lad, just as his dad had done for him. At least that brought a half smile. Tom would be awake in a minute, demanding breakfast and the bathroom. He’d better get dressed, get sorted. It was an important day.

  The new suit, it had to be the new suit again. He’d bought it specially, after all. It deserved its moment of glory. He could disguise its appearance two days running with a different tie.

  The guilt hit him again, like an opponent who wouldn’t lie down. It wasn’t going to seep away. He’d have to call Jack and see how his investigation into Godley’s death was going, see if they’d uncovered a motive yet. He could have called him sooner, but… but what? He knew what. He was frightened of what he might hear.

  A plain burgundy tie, that would do.

  Day two of the trial, and Adam would get his TV appearance. He’d given his evidence, how the fingerprint on the knife matched Kid’s, how the artist had been arrested and questioned, the story he’d told. It was interesting, Dan thought, although nothing like as d
ramatic as yesterday. A shame. But it was still good stuff and Adam and his new suit would feature strongly. Nigel had filmed him walking into court this morning.

  Dan shifted uncomfortably on the wooden press bench. He’d been sitting for three hours now and his legs were stiff. They were too long for this space, he couldn’t stretch out properly. A break would be a relief. Could he risk nipping out for a coffee in the court canteen? Was this stuff worth listening to? It was one of Greater Wessex police’s fingerprint experts, Neil Whelton MSc. Wishart had insisted on emphasising the Master of Science qualification to the jury.

  Mr Whelton had been called so the prosecution could establish beyond all doubt the print on the knife was Kid’s. Wishart seemed to have done that to his satisfaction and sat down. Edward Munroe, the defence counsel, stood to cross-examine the witness.

  ‘Mr Whelton, you’re sure it’s my client’s fingerprint, I appreciate that. But are you sure it’s a contemporary print? What I mean is this. We’ve heard evidence from Abi McCluskey that Mr Kiddey had been round for dinner on several occasions and could well have used the knife in question to cut bread?’

  Neil Whelton checked his notes, found a page. A tall, studious, stooping man, he wore a double-breasted dark blue suit, which looked like it only came out for weddings, funerals and trials. It was the fashion of five years ago, bought when he’d been heavier. It hung off, rather than embraced him.

  ‘The knife had been through the dishwasher, sir, according to Mrs McCluskey, many times since Mr Kiddey last dined with them. We did some tests on how many washes it would take for the prints to be wiped off. We believe two at most. And that’s at the very most. One would usually be sufficient. So I think it extremely unlikely the print could have been a residual one from weeks ago.’

  Munroe saw his opening.

  ‘Unlikely, but not impossible?’

  Whelton considered this, like a computer running through an equation to reach an answer. ‘Not impossible, no. Fingerprints can linger longer than people realise.’

  Dan could see what would come in Munroe’s closing speech. ‘Members of the jury, to convict my client, you must be sure beyond reasonable doubt that he killed Mr McCluskey. But I put it to you, if it’s possible his fingerprint on the knife came from a previous visit, you cannot so be sure...’

  In front of him, Adam was shaking his head. He’d seen it too.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Whelton,’ continued Munroe. ‘Before you stand down, may I ask you about one further oddity in this case, something yet to be explained satisfactorily. A trace of residue you found on the knife. Talcum powder, I believe?’

  The fingerprint expert looked down again, found another page in his notes.

  ‘Yes, sir. We found traces of talcum powder on the handle.’

  ‘Odd again, Mr Whelton, wouldn’t you say? Can you offer us any explanation for that?’

  ‘No, sir, beyond that it was a bathroom and there could have been small, dust like amounts of powder on some surfaces. They might have been disturbed by the paramedics or police and got on to the knife.’

  ‘An interesting theory, Mr Whelton, thank you. I’m grateful. But let me offer you another, if I may. It’s this.’

  Munroe waited, turned to the jury, let his eyes run over each of the silent faces.

  ‘Criminals sometimes use talcum powder to help their hands fit into tight gloves, don’t they? So they don’t leave fingerprints at the scene of their crime?’

  Whelton paused, then replied, ‘Yes, sir, I believe they do.’

  ‘So we could in fact be seeing evidence of some criminal intervention here. Some unknown intruder being the one who carried out the alleged attack on Mr McCluskey – if indeed there was one – and leaving only that little trace behind. And that would fit with the attempted break-ins to Mr McCluskey’s home, would it not? There could be a powerful motive to break in if someone wanted to try to find the answer to the riddle he’d set?’

  ‘That’s your theory, sir, not mine.’

  Adam shook his head again. Dan couldn’t help but agree. He’d seen it before, defence barristers with little ammunition to defend their clients resorted to muddying the waters, trying to confuse the jury with false trails. Throwing skunks, they called it in the legal trade.

  But that stuff about the talc was interesting. Why was it buzzing around in his head like an annoying summer fly? Did he believe there might have been some mystery assailant? No, he didn’t think so, surely there’d have been some evidence of it? But the idea was still there, and his subconscious wasn’t letting go of it. It did that when it thought there was something important going on that he’d missed, but wouldn’t always tell him why. Leave it be, it would come to him when it wanted. Talcum powder...

  The rest of the afternoon session was more forensics stuff, too scientific and detailed for his report. Dan did his pieces to camera, then Nigel drove them back to the studios and Jenny edited the story. Not so powerful tonight, Dan thought, and it only made third slot on the programme. But it was still interesting, and important. And he’d done as good a job as he possibly could with the material he had.

  Tomorrow would be better. That was when the defence began their case. Kid would go into the witness box to tell the jury he hadn’t killed McCluskey. The best of luck to him, Dan thought, it would have to be a hell of a performance. The evidence against him looked compelling.

  That evening, Dan took Rutherford for a run, then, in a fit of energy, cooked some pasta for his tea. He even managed to fry some greening bacon and boil down a tin of tomatoes to make a passable sauce. Rutherford padded into the kitchen to watch the rare spectacle. Dan thought he detected a look of amazement on the dog’s face. He ought to cook more often, he thought, not just unwrap and heat up. But then, there were lots of things he should do. He still hadn’t managed to find a cleaner for the flat, despite months of telling himself to.

  The thought about the talcum powder was still bothering him. Why? It couldn’t be anything to do with the Death Pictures, surely? Of course not. How could it? But it wouldn’t stop teasing his brain, so resignedly he did what he’d promised himself many times now he would never do again. He scrabbled under the bed, got his notes and the prints out and worked through them. He swore this time really would be the last.

  What was he looking for now? A tin of talcum powder? Dan breathed out a deep sigh and shook his head. His ideas were getting ever more absurd, through desperation probably. He still thought the answer was in the cascade of numbers, but he couldn’t see anything in the pictures which might lead him to it, talcum powder or not. He slapped the notes down on the coffee table. It was ridiculous.

  His mobile warbled, a text message. He picked it up, glad of the distraction.

  It was Claire. They’d said they might meet up later tonight if she could get away.

  ‘Working late again, can’t make it, very sorry. But look forward to the weekend, need a cuddle! x’

  He didn’t mind not seeing her, felt tired and knew how seriously she took her job. He liked and respected that. She was similar to Adam in many ways. He would have to tell his friend about Claire soon. He knew he wasn’t looking forward to that at all. Perhaps over a beer, it was about time they went out for another drinking session. And beer always softened the impact of unwelcome news.

  Claire’s message lifted his spirits. It was something to look forward to, just what he needed. By the weekend, Kiddey’s trial would probably be over and the answer to the Death Pictures riddle revealed. It’d be off his mind and he’d be free to relax and enjoy himself. About time too.

  Perhaps he’d treat them, take Claire away for a night at an inn in Cornwall somewhere. If they found a dog-friendly place, Rutherford could come too. He always felt guilty about going off and enjoying himself and leaving his faithful dog behind. The three of them could do an energetic cliff-top walk, then rewar
d themselves with a good meal and a few beers afterwards. Perfect.

  Dan started to tap out a reply on his phone, then stopped, sat very still. He felt suddenly frozen by realisation. He sat rigid and stared at the mobile, kept staring until the letters blurred, lost their meaning. Nothing around him registered, apart from the phone. The phone… the phone… the phone… The first picture had a mobile in, didn’t it? Of course it did, he knew them by heart now. And he always thought it was in the numbers, didn’t he?

  A memory flashed into his mind. The first time he’d met McCluskey, that interview in his studio. The artist’s teasing answer to one of his questions.

  “I’d consider the studio by far the best place to solve the riddle. All the information you need is here in front of you. If you were to buy some prints of the pictures elsewhere, it may not be. It may, but then again, it may not.”

  Suddenly the enigmatic words made sense. If this vision, this idea of how the puzzle worked was right, it would explain exactly what McCluskey meant. The one small but now so very obvious difference between the original paintings and the prints hanging on the studio’s walls. The two tiny numbers inscribed on each… Shit, was this it?

  He calmed himself. Steady. Take it easy. You’ve got it wrong enough times before. Steady. Prepare for more disappointment. Let the excitement wane. This is just another hopeless, useless guess. But he was breathless. He couldn’t convince himself he was wrong again. He didn’t think so, did he? His heart was racing. Calm…

  Dan reached for a pen, knocked it clumsily off the coffee table, bent down to retrieve it. He was surprised to see how much his hand was shaking. He grabbed a piece of paper, anything, began writing, using the phone as a guide. He tapped out the numbers.

  Dan swore under his breath. Could it really be a code? And so simple? Could it? Surely not, someone would have got it by now. But his hand was shaking badly, could hardly hold the phone.

  The first letter made sense. Then the second. Then the third. It was working, making sense, the first four, five, six, seven. All ten. Shit! Shit, it all fitted. He’d got it. The answer was there, on the back of this beer-stained Indian take-away menu. It was there, staring at him. He’d got it. He’d bloody got it. Abi was right, it was there in front of him all the time. He’d bloody got it! Shit!