The Art of Dying

by Amy Cross

  “Sure,” she replies, bringing her things to the door. “I knew she was weird, but I never...” She pauses for a moment, with tears in her eyes. “I've had a lot of time to think while I've been in here. Do you reckon that, if some of us had tried harder to be her friend, she might not have ended up like this?”

  “I'm not a psychologist,” I reply, “but if you want my opinion... No. She was single-minded and obsessed with making an artistic statement. Nothing she did was motivated by revenge or hatred. She just wanted to create.”

  “I guess it's good to think outside the box,” she points out, “but she went way too far. Still, she was brave.”

  “Brave?”

  “She stood up for what she believed in,” she continues as we make our way along the corridor. “Even if it was fucked up and wrong, she had an artistic vision and she went for it. She knew everyone would hate her and try to stop her, but she kept going. People like that, if they're trying to achieve something positive, sometimes end up improving things for everyone.”

  “Do you have an artistic vision?” I ask.

  “I didn't before,” she replies, holding one of her drawings out for me to see. “Thanks for letting me have some equipment in the cell. I know it's not normally allowed.”

  “This wasn't a normal situation,” I reply, taking the piece of paper and looking at the drawing she's produced. It shows a woman with a striking brown coat, and I can't deny that the picture shows some real talent.

  “Fashion,” Bryony explains as we reach the door. “I've always been into art, but I never really got into art for art's sake, you know? I needed to apply it to something, and I think fashion might be my thing. Would you wear something like that?”

  “It's a bit showy for me.”

  “Showy's good,” she replies with a smile. “You could totally do with brightening up your wardrobe. Maybe a little red. Red would definitely work with your complexion.”

  “I'll think about it,” I reply, handing the drawing back to her before keying the code to open the door. “The press has been made aware of the fact that you were willingly helping us this whole time. You'll probably get some requests for interviews, things like that.”

  “Screw 'em,” she says as she steps outside and turns to me. “I want to get home and start working on a load more designs. I think this whole experience has really changed me.”

  “Me too,” I reply as I watch her walk away.

  ***

  “All told,” I continue as I stand at the front of the room, next to the monitor, “Victoria Middleton murdered seventeen people. That covers the bodies that were used for the stitched-together corpse, the bodies in the models she was building for her Dead City project, and her teacher Mike Wallace.”

  “Not bad for someone who apparently didn't even like killing,” replies Halveston as he flicks through my report.

  “She saw it as a necessary evil,” I reply. “It was something she had to do in order to get the materials she needed for her projects. She was single-minded to the point of not even considering the right and wrong of what she was doing. We could an eternity trying to work out how she ended up like that, but I don't think there's much point.”

  “And your initial hunch was right?” Halveston continues. “She was trying to direct you to the college from the beginning?”

  “I think she was attempting to manipulate the whole situation,” I tell him. “Initially, she intended to be caught on the day of the final show, so she could claim her work. We found a laptop among her possessions, and her search history indicated that she'd researched various ways of causing the power cut in Trafalgar Square. We're not entirely sure which method she used yet, but it's clear she was very smart. With the right equipment and a little luck, it was actually quite possible.”

  “So what was her mistake?” he asks. “Why didn't her plan work?”

  As I'm about to answer, a nearby door opens and Michael Adams enters the room. His presence immediately puts me on edge, but I'm determined not to let him have the satisfaction of seeing my reaction.

  “Her mistake was that she confided in a friend,” I explain.

  “That would be Ophelia?” Adams asks.

  I turn to him.

  “Tell me,” he continues. “If it wasn't for this Ophelia girl, would you have been able to catch Victoria Middleton? I'm struggling to see where you, Detective Foster, actually did anything proactive that resolved the situation.”

  “I should have trusted my initial instincts,” I tell him. “I interviewed Victoria Middleton days ago, but I let her go because I allowed myself to be talked out of the idea that she was the murderer. If I'd stuck to my guns, she would have been apprehended even faster.”

  “Why did you ignore your instincts?” he asks.

  “Perhaps because they've let me down in the past.”

  “Sounds like a risky approach,” he continues. “Let me make one thing clear. I don't understand precisely how this Ophelia girl was involved in the case, but if I find out that she was in any way a part of your investigation, I will come down on you like a ton of bricks. Civilians can't be drafted in to provide ad hoc assistance, especially when you don't even know their name. I'm going to be keeping a close eye on you, Detective Foster. You've still got to convince me that you have what it takes.”

  He turns to leave, before glancing back at me.

  “Oh, and I just spoke to the personnel department. Tim Marshall is taking long-term sick leave. Apparently he's been suffering severe panic attacks ever since he performed the autopsy on the patchwork body. I thought he was made of stronger stuff, but I guess some people just have their limits.”

  As he leaves the room, I turn to Halveston and see the look of concern in his eyes.

  “Do you have limits?” he asks.

  “The approach I took was risky” I tell him, “but it paid off. No additional people died.”

  “I know,” he replies. “I just hope that was down to more than luck.”

  “I've managed to speak to Victoria Middleton's parents this morning,” I continue, returning to the relative safety of the notes I prepared for this presentation. “They're coming down to London today, and I'm going to have them escorted from the train station so that they're not pursued by the media. After talking to them on the phone, I've learned that Victoria was always a troubled child. She ran away from home a few years ago and her parents had heard nothing from her since.” I take a deep breath. “I'll now move onto a brief rundown of the timescale...”

  ***

  “No,” I reply as I sit in my car in the dark parking lot, “not tonight.”

  “Come on,” Nick replies over the phone, with the sound of a busy bar in the background. “For once, Laura, come and celebrate with us!”

  “Laura!” Tricia shouts down the line suddenly. “Come out, bitch!”

  “Another time.”

  “Liar!” she replies. “It's always another time with you, isn't it?”

  “You don't need me there,” I tell her.

  “Hey,” Nick continues, “just...” He pauses. “You did a good job. You took a risk, but you got it done in the end. Just promise me one thing, okay? No, actually, promise me two things. First, that you'll follow your instincts more and stop relying on that Ophelia girl to help you out. She's, like, the weirdest person I've ever met, and she's totally flaky. You should have trusted yourself more in the first place.”

  “Deal,” I reply.

  “And second, just find some way to relax, okay? Even if it's not getting wasted with the rest of us, find a way. Everyone has to be able to blow off steam from time to time.”

  “Sure,” I tell him.

  “And if you want to get a coffee one day -”

  “No.”

  “I just meant -”

  “Thanks, but no.” I pause as I try to work out if he was asking me on a casual date, or if he was just being polite. Probably the latter, but for some reason I can feel myself starting to panic. “I don't do coff
ee meetings,” I add. “Thanks, though.”

  “No worries.”

  I wait for him to say something, but the silence is palpable.

  “Gotta go,” he continues eventually. “It's karaoke time! I'll see you around, yeah?”

  Once the call is over, I throw my phone onto the passenger seat and then I open my purse. Reaching in, I take out the red silk scarf I just stole from a store. It's totally not my style, and although Bryony might have been right when she said that it matched my complexion, I can't see myself wearing it. It's nice to have it, but as I stuff it back into my purse I can't help thinking that maybe I should stop doing this sort of thing. One day I'll get caught, and the consequences won't be pretty. Still, I know this won't be the last time. It's the only thing in the world that actually makes me feel good.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Ophelia

  “You're scared of heights.”

  Looking up from her laptop at the dining room table, Laura stares at me for a moment, almost as if she didn't quite hear what I said.

  “How's the leg?” she asks.

  “Hasn't fallen off yet,” I say with a smile.

  “And the head?”

  “Same.”

  “You're lucky.”

  I stare at her for a moment, and I swear I've never seen her look so tired.

  “I don't mean actual heights,” I continue, leaning against the door frame. I've got the folder in my hand, but I can't give Laura the bad news straight away. “Well, maybe actual heights too, but I'm talking about other heights. You're scared that if you get too high in life, and at work, you'll have the urge to jump and ruin everything.”

  “What makes you say that?” she asks.

  “Just an observation,” I reply, as I walk over to the table. “When I suggested going undercover at the college, I knew you'd agree eventually. And the thing is, you shouldn't have. It was a really dumb move and it totally should have backfired. You think I'm extreme for jumping off a bridge, but letting me help with the case was no better. We're both sabotaging ourselves.”

  “I guess,” she replies. “Maybe.”

  “I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything I knew straight away,” I continue. “I really thought I could help her, or save her, or just do something that would make her life better. If I'd just called you at the start, she'd still be alive now.”

  “She's already getting what she wanted,” Laura replies. “People are already talking about her online, discussing her crimes as if they were art.”

  She turns her laptop so that I can see the screen. There's an image of Victoria, along with the beginning of an article, and it's immediately clear that the culture industry is gearing up in a big way. Soon there'll be books about Victoria, and films, and posters and exhibitions and everything else that surrounds famous artists. The fact that she killed people probably only adds to her appeal for a lot of people.

  “She's already being mythologized,” Laura continues with a sad, resigned smile. “People are talking about how she was a visionary, and about how the world didn't understand her genius. Someone has even launched a campaign to raise money so they can buy all her artwork and set up some kind of permanent exhibition in her honor. The campaign was completely funded within a few hours. It's almost double now.”

  “That's kinda sick,” I point out.

  “Welcome to the twenty-first century,” she replies. “This is only the beginning. I actually think Victoria Middleton is going to get what she wanted. It's almost as if, in a way, she's won. If you fancy fifteen minutes of fame, I'm sure you could get interviewed about the time you knew her.”

  “That sounds like the absolute worst thing ever.”

  “The coroner has recommended a verdict of suicide.”

  “But I -”

  “I know,” she replies. “I'm just telling you what the coroner has decided. The knife was in her hand when it entered her body, and you didn't mean to push it.” She pauses. “You didn't, did you?”

  I shake my head, still staring at the image of Victoria on the screen. After a moment, I reach out and close the lid.

  “She and I were very alike,” I tell Laura, “except for one small thing. Despite what I might like to believe, I still give a damn about whether people live or die. Victoria was missing that part, and it meant that she went over the edge. Still, she...” I pause as I try to decide whether or not to admit that I told Victoria my real name before she died. Eventually I decide against it, although I notice that the scar on my arm is itching a little, as if it's responding to the fact that I even acknowledged my past.

  “We both made mistakes,” Laura says after a moment. “Are you going to Victoria Middleton's funeral?”

  I shake my head.

  “She was your friend.”

  “Maybe,” I continue. “Maybe not. I don't know. We had a lot in common, but we also had some pretty major differences. I don't think I'm actually capable of having a friend.” I pause for a moment. “Or if I am, it wouldn't be someone who's so similar to me. It'd be someone different, someone I rub up against. Someone who doesn't always let me get my own way, and vice versa. I mean, there's no point having a friend if you can't change her a little, and if she can't change you in return.”

  She doesn't say anything, but I swear the faintest smile crosses her lips.

  “Hey,” she says, reaching into her bag and pulling out a red scarf. “You want this? I bought it, but it's really not my color. Maybe it'd suit you better.”

  “You didn't buy it,” I tell her, as I take the scarf. “You nicked it.”

  “Ophelia -”

  “Sabotaging yourself again,” I continue, wrapping the scarf around my neck. “The higher you get in your career, the stronger the urge to jump off the edge. You're a sad case, Laura Foster.”

  “If you don't want it,” she replies a little bitterly, “you don't have to take it.”

  “I'll take it,” I tell her. “I can always trade it with someone when I'm back on the street.”

  “You know you can stay here,” she continues. “The spare room is yours for as long as you want it. You won't be helping me out at work anymore, I think two-for-two is where we should leave things, but you can live here with no expectations. I just thought that maybe it'd be good for you to get on your feet again, and my Mum really seems to like you. It'd be a chance for you to get sorted.”

  “I don't think I'm ready to be domesticated,” I reply, trying to ignore the look of disappointment in her eyes. “I'll stay for a few more days, but then...” I take a seat and set my folder on the table. “I'd be leaving tonight if it wasn't for the fact that there might be a problem we have to deal with.”

  “I've had enough problems lately,” she says with a sigh. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

  “It's serious,” I continue, opening the folder to reveal the photos that Dave took while I was in the hospital last week. “This is gonna sound weird, but I had someone with a camera watching the ward after I jumped off the bridge, and I've only just had a chance to go through all the images properly. At first I didn't recognize anyone, but that was because I was making a mistake. I was looking for someone from my past, or from my life, or something like that. And then...”

  I pause as I find the photo that I need to show her.

  “And then what?” she asks.

  I take a deep breath. What I'm about to show her is almost certainly going to turn her life upside down.

  “And then I found this one,” I continue, holding the photo up for her to see. “Unless there's been a massive coincidence, this is the person who came to visit me both times. This is who brought me the chocolate.”

  “Ophelia...” She pauses, and I can see the slow look of horrified realization in her eyes. “Is this some kind of joke?” she asks eventually.

  “I wish it was,” I tell her, “but it's really not, I swear. I'd never joke about something like this. He was there.”

  “That's impossible,” she replies, clearly strug
gling not to panic. “Why would he give a damn about you?”

  “Because of you,” I continue. “Daniel Gregory, the man who got away with murder last year because of your mistake, came to see me in the hospital while I was unconscious. Twice. And I can only think of one reason why he'd do that?”

  “What's the reason?” she asks as she takes the photo.

  “You're the reason,” I tell her. “I don't want to scare you, Laura, but I think Daniel Gregory might be about to come back into your life in a very big way.”

  Epilogue

  Hundreds of miles away.

  “Come on,” James replies with a laugh, “what are you scared of?”

  Holding out his hand, he helps her over the low stone wall, which is still wet from the deluge of rain that fell during the afternoon. For James and his girlfriend Nina, a hike in the Yorkshire Dales has rapidly become something of a trek, and the weather has turned against them with unlikely ferocity. The map hasn't been much use, but with darkness starting to close in, they've finally managed to find shelter.

  “This place looks creepy,” Nina replies, as her trainers sink into the muddy yard. “Like something out of a fairy tale.”

  “What kind of fairy tales did you read as a kid?” he asks. “Oh wait, I forgot, you grew up in the city. This probably looks like Hansel and Gretel land to you.” He smiles. “It's just a farmhouse, yeah? There's loads of 'em around. Where do you think the eggs come from for your breakfast?”

  “It's still creepy.”

  “Everywhere looks creepy to you,” James replies. “Come on, we'll just ask the guy for some help. He'll probably be totally happy to give us a lift back to town, and he'll be back in the B&B in less than an hour.”

  “If there's someone in,” she points out. “It looks deserted.”

  The farmhouse is nestled at the bottom of a steep valley, with a small river winding its way through the scene just a few meters away. A dull gray sky hangs heavily over the landscape, threatening more rain, and as James and Nina cross the yard they both look upward as a few drops of water start to fall again. In the distance, a rumble of thunder hints at even worse weather to follow.