The Art of Dying

by Amy Cross

  “Well,” Ophelia replies, “maybe I'll help her with this case and then she'll have a little more free time.”

  “You can try,” my mother continues, “but it won't be any use. Even if she did go out, I doubt she'd impress anyone. Laura's not what you'd call a sparkling personality.”

  “And that's my cue to go and make dinner,” I reply, turning and heading through to the kitchen. Stopping by the fridge, I take a deep breath and try to get my anger under control. Lately, my mother has been getting a lot nastier with some of her comments, and even though I know that the Alzheimer's is causing it all, sometimes I feel as if she really means the things she's saying. Unfortunately, she's usually right too. I mean, it's not as if I'm dazzling company.

  Grabbing a pack of beef from the fridge, I figure that the best approach is to just put everything out of my mind for a few minutes. As I start making dinner, I can hear Ophelia and my mother talking and laughing in the next room. And then the craziest thing happens: just for a fraction of a second, I see the face of a dead woman in my mind's eye, with dried blood around her mouth. It's a face I've seen so many times in police reports and in my dreams, but this is the first time she's ever intruded into my waking thoughts:

  Natasha Simonsen, one of the girls who was murdered by Daniel Gregory. It was thanks to my mistakes that Gregory walked, and I can't bear the thought of something similar happening again.

  As Ophelia and my mother continue to talk, I try to empty my mind and focus solely on the task of making dinner. It's only been a few hours since I took that bottle of whiskey from the shop, but already the rush has worn off. I need something more permanent.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ophelia

  “This is the most disgusting thing I've ever seen in my life,” I say as I stare at the first photo, which shows some kind of horrific, stitched-together meta-corpse on a slab at the morgue. “Are you sure this isn't a still from some sick horror movie?”

  “It's real,” Laura replies, taking a sip from her glass of wine. “It looks like some kind of sick doll.”

  “Or one of those bears you make yourself at a store and then fill with stuffing.”

  “Or that,” she says quietly. “And to make matters worse, it was found up on the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square. It was laid out like it was supposed to be the latest art installation.”

  “That's audacious,” I continue, unable to stop staring at the photo. “I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm slightly in awe of anyone who could pull this off. The sheer balls you'd need to come up with it, and then to actually go through with something so insane... It's impressive.”

  “That's not quite the word I'd use,” she replies.

  “Unreal,” I mutter, looking through several more images. “Didn't you say that the little boy was staring out from between the ribs, like he was in some kind of prison?”

  She nods.

  “Can I see a photo of that?”

  “Uh...” She pauses. “I don't have one.”

  “Liar.”

  “I don't!”

  “Your tell is showing again.”

  “I don't have a tell!” she hisses, but she clearly knows that the gig is up. “There's a photo, but trust me, you don't want to see it.”

  “Show me.”

  Sighing, she reaches into a nearby envelope and takes out an A4 photo, although she conspicuously keeps it turned away from me. I always had Laura pegged as someone with a pretty strong constitution, but this time she seems to be genuinely bothered by the case.

  “This is the stuff of nightmares,” she continues. “Seriously, it's horrific and I really think you -”

  “I live on the streets of London,” I point out. “I can handle a nasty photo.” Before she can reply, I reach out and snatch it from her, although when I take a look at the image, I almost wish I'd taken her advice. The picture shows a set of ribs, and a dead little boy's eyes are just about visible peering through from the other side. For the first time, I actually feel truly speechless.

  “See?” Laura says eventually. “Tim Marshall is on leave because he can't handle it. I know people in movies usually just brush this kind of stuff off, but in real life... It's just the kind of thing that really burrows under your skin, you know?”

  “Have you been having actual nightmares about it?” I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  “So what are your nightmares about?” I add.

  “Nothing. I don't have any.”

  She's lying, but there's no point calling her out on it right now.

  “It actually looks a bit like a prop for a movie,” I reply, looking back at the image. “The whole thing is so theatrical, like it's been specifically designed to cause shock.”

  “That's what I figured,” she continues. “The killer was clearly thinking about the impact that this would have on anyone who saw it. I mean, he would've known how the autopsy procedure works, so he must have realized that someone was going to open the chest cavity and find the little boy.”

  “So maybe that's the whole point,” I reply.

  “In what sense?”

  “In the sense that this wasn't done by someone who hated, or even knew, the victims, and it wasn't done by someone who was driven by a compulsion to kill. It's almost as if the sole aim of this crime was to create something monstrous, something that no-one would ever be able to forget. And it's worked, too.” I pause for a moment, staring at the photo and trying to understand the mindset of the killer. “It's like a work of art. Normally the evidence in a case like this is something the killer was unable to hide, but in this case the whole point of the killing seems to have been to generate this particularly nasty piece of evidence as a kind of... exhibit.”

  “There's an art college near the site where we recovered the leftover body parts,” she replies.

  “Brazen,” I mutter. “Shitting in his own back yard.”

  “It can't be that simple,” she continues. “I'm certain the killer wants us to go and investigate the college, but there's no way anyone would just leave a bunch of very obvious clues like that.”

  “Maybe not,” I reply, finally turning the photo over and putting it face-down on the table, “or maybe. I mean, we're clearly dealing with someone who's seriously messed up, so why can't their thought processes be twisted in other ways? Maybe they get a thrill out of leading us closer.”

  “Us?”

  “You,” I reply, correcting myself with a faint smile. “Whatever. People get weird kicks sometimes. Like you, nicking that bottle of whiskey when you don't even drink the stuff.”

  “Jesus!” she hisses, looking over at her mother to check that the old woman is still sleeping in her armchair, with Coronation Street on at a low volume in the far corner of the room.

  “Don't act surprised,” I continue. “I noticed it in your shopping bag, and when I looked at the receipt it wasn't on there. I guess you've moved up in the world from chocolate bars and started half-inching booze instead, huh? Or was today just a particularly stressful day? You had chocolate in your coat pockets too, I checked.”

  “It's none of your business,” she replies, clearly embarrassed and unable for a moment to even make eye contact.

  “Normally,” I add, “when someone develops a drinking problem, it's because of the alcohol going into their body. With you, it just gets shoved away and forgotten about once you've picked up your five-finger discount.”

  “Ophelia -”

  “You need to stop,” I tell her. “Seriously, I don't know how smart you think you are, but eventually you are gonna get caught, and the fact that you're a cop isn't gonna help. In fact, it might even make things worse. You could lose your job, lose your home... Hell, you might even end up on the streets like me! I mean, hell, do you really wanna sink down to my level? Trust me, it's not good.”

  “Can we focus on the case?” she replies, her face having turned a deep shade of red. “This person is clearly going to kill again, and if it's anything l
ike the first time, one incident could result in half a dozen or more deaths.”

  “Why do you do it?” I ask. “Is it -”

  “Can we focus?” she snaps, clearly on the verge of losing her temper. She takes another swig of red wine, and it's pretty obvious that I've pushed her a tad too far. For now, anyway. I remember last year how I had to be careful not to cross a certain line with Laura, because eventually she'd clam up. I guess I need to remember how to deal with her.

  “The pressure's really on, huh?” I ask. “Your reputation's on the line.”

  “There are lives at stake,” she replies. “It's not about my reputation, it's about the fact that there's a maniac out there, someone who apparently has no qualms about killing a child just so he can use it as part of some sick tableau. I mean, this is one sick...”

  We sit in silence for a moment, as if neither of us can quite comprehend what we're dealing with.

  “All in the name of art,” I say with a faint smile, before realizing that I might actually be right. Looking down at one of the photos again, I realize that the stitched-together body is basically a work of art, albeit one from a sick mind. “That's what this is,” I add as realization dawns. “It's a kind of project. The whole aim of this killer is to provoke a reaction, and he's done precisely that. The fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square is usually filled with some kind of specially commissioned artwork, right? I mean, hell, the aim here isn't even subtle. It's obvious!”

  “You seriously think it's supposed to be art?” she replies skeptically.

  “I think it is art,” I tell her. “However you want to define art itself, this act qualifies. Stick it in a gallery and you're sure as hell gonna draw a crowd.”

  “Crime can't be art,” she replies, before pausing. “Can it?”

  “Absolutely it can,” I continue, holding one of the photos up for her to see. “You can express yourself through murder. You can make a point, a statement. You can elicit an emotional or intellectual response. You can display your work for others to see. In the seventeenth century, the word art literally meant a skill or mastery, and it was seen as being basically on the same level as a craft or a science. We can't limit our definition of art so that it only covers things that society considers palatable. Art can be dark as all hell so yeah, totally, murder can be a form of art.”

  “There was this,” she replies, sorting through the photos before showing me another. The image shows a small piece of white card, with the text 'Modern Life' printed in black letters. “It was glued to the plinth. We weren't sure whether or not it was put there by the killer, or left over from a previous installation.”

  “It's the title,” I tell her. “The killer titled his work.”

  “Then we have to catch this artist before he or she tries to create another masterpiece,” she replies.

  “It's linked to that college,” I continue, feeling as if I'm getting into the flow of things. “You're right, the killer wants us to find him, but I guarantee you that he'll lead us on a torturous path first. We need to take a shortcut.” As I stare at one of the photos, I finally realize what we're going to have to do, and slowly a smile spreads across my face. It's one of my crazier ideas and I know she'll hate it, but at the same time it'd definitely work.

  “What?” Laura asks cautiously.

  “I know how to catch him,” I reply.

  “How?”

  My smile gets bigger.

  “Ophelia? How?”

  “You're really not gonna like it.”

  “You're starting to scare me...”

  “Just hear me out,” I continue. “This will totally work, and we'll net the killer within a few days, tops. Definitely before the college's third year show. But... well, it's kinda unconventional.”

  “What exactly are you thinking?” she asks.

  “It's pretty simple, really,” I tell her. “You just have to agree to let me go undercover as an art student. What could possibly go wrong?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Laura

  “If you think about it,” she says, following me through to the kitchen, “it makes total sense!”

  “No.”

  “I'd fit right in,” she continues as I pour myself another, larger glass of wine. “I can look the part and I can totally act like I belong there. Trust me, I can do pretension, and I can talk about art and all that stuff, and I can totally act like I've got a chip on my shoulder. Hell, I wouldn't even need to change my clothes, I kinda look like an art student already!”

  “No.”

  “Okay, sure, I'm turning the whole thing into a bit of a stereotype, but you have to see that this is the best option, right? Send me undercover into the art school -”

  “No.”

  “And I'll be able to poke about without the killer suspecting me.”

  I take a sip of wine.

  “Laura?”

  “No.”

  “And I'll have the whole thing sorted before he even knows what's hit him. I mean, look at me. No-one's ever going to suspect that I'm working with the cops.”

  I turn to her, and as I take yet another sip of wine I realize that she's actually serious. She truly believes that I might, for even a fraction of a second, consider letting her do this. I swear to God, it's slightly terrifying to realize that she's so completely dislocated from reality. No, worse: she's completely insane.

  “I know it sounds like the plot of a bad movie,” she continues, “and you probably think I'm joking, but just take a moment to think about it. I could totally blend in at that art college, and then I could nose around and suss out what's what, without drawing any attention to myself at all. I could get under the skin of the people there -”

  “No doubt about that part,” I mutter, gulping down some more wine.

  “And I could work out who the killer is, or at least narrow it down to a few key suspects. I'm not saying I'd be an actual cop or anything like that. I'd just relay information to you, helping you to work out where to focus your investigation. We'd never tell anyone else, so there'd be no risk of you looking bad at work. I'd get in, do the job, and get out. A couple of days, max. Believe me, I have no desire to spend a minute longer than necessary in a place like that. The last thing I want is to go to art school again.”

  “There's no -” I pause for a moment. “Wait... Again?”

  “I enrolled at art school once,” she replies. “A different one, obviously, and it was a long time ago, back when I... Well, a long time ago.”

  “You went to art school?”

  She nods.

  “Seriously?”

  “I didn't finish. I dropped out pretty fast.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Twenty-seven minutes.”

  I stare at her for a moment, trying to work out if she's joking or not.

  “You went to art school for twenty-seven minutes?”

  She nods again.

  I take a gulp of wine.

  “I kinda did a Dave Lister,” she continues. “I don't want to get into the messy details. Let's just say that signing up was a dumb idea, and for some reason me and the teacher just really didn't get along, so I quit before I'd even touched my first canvas. Maybe I lacked the necessary discipline back then, I dunno, I was in a weird place mentally so it wasn't totally the teacher's fault.”

  “You went to art school?” I ask again, still not convinced that she's telling the truth.

  She nods.

  “Well,” I continue, “you really are full of surprises, aren't you?”

  “You know,” she adds, with a faint smile, “sometimes I wonder what might have happened if I'd actually been able to hack it. I mean, if I'd just buckled down and got on with doing art and stuff, things might have worked out very differently. I only really signed up 'cause it was the easiest place to get into back then, but maybe I would've blossomed unexpectedly. I guess there was never a chance, though. I just hated all the other students, and all the staff, even the subject... Everything, re
ally. You might be surprised to learn that I haven't always been as calm and on-top-of-things as I am today.”

  I stare at her for a moment, aware that this is the first time she's ever told me a story from her 'old' life. If I didn't know better, I'd start to think that maybe I'm making progress here.

  “So here's the deal,” she adds. “I'll enroll at this college and go in as a student. I'll figure out the people there and I'll use my dazzling intuition to work out a few likely suspects. You know that's something I'd be good at. And then I'll give you some tips so that when you go in officially, you've got a heads-up in terms of knowing where to focus your time. By that point I'll have away slipped into the night, leaving no traces behind except a few technically poor paintings and maybe a sculpture or two. Maybe even something you can hang on your fridge as a reminder. I'm not saying I'll go in and solve the case in, like, a Tom Hanson scenario, but I can definitely help out.”

  I take another sip of wine.

  “This will work,” she continues. “You just have to think outside the box.”

  “I think we're already way beyond the box,” I mutter. “The box is just a distant memory. Ophelia, don't take this the wrong way, but... you've got worse.”

  She frowns.

  “It's been a year since the last time I saw you,” I continue, “and you seem more... manic, like you're trying harder to prove yourself, almost like you're turning yourself into some kind of cartoon character. You always had a desire to shock people, but it seems to have twisted and become something else. That stunt with the bridge, and nearly killing yourself... The old Ophelia would never have gone quite that far.”

  “So I've grown as a person,” she replies, but her uneasy smile hints at a little doubt in her soul.