The Art of Dying Read online

  Copyright 2018 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  First published in September 2014

  under the title The Dead City

  This edition: May 2018

  Called in to investigate a very gruesome, very public murder, Detective Laura Foster soon realizes that the case is somehow connected to a local art school. Has one of the students decided to use murder as a medium and, if so, what could possibly top the patchwork victim found in the heart of London?

  Just as she begins to make progress in the case, Laura is shocked by the return of Ophelia. Convinced that somebody is tracking her, Ophelia will go to any extreme in order to identify her pursuer. Before long, however, Ophelia has also become involved in Laura's investigation. But as they begin to work together, can Laura and Ophelia identify the murderer before more victims are added to the final artwork?

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Epilogue

  The Art of Dying

  (Detective Laura Foster book 2)

  Prologue

  She sits on the bench, watching the children as they play and telling herself over and over again:

  You can do this.

  Although she's trying very hard to fit in, to seem normal, she actually looks completely out of place. For one thing, she's sitting hunched over, as if her body has been tightly wound into a coil; for another, her hands are clutched together into a kind of prayerful fist. The children have been keeping away from her, but if any of them dared to come close, they'd realize that she's muttering to herself. She doesn't care, though. She long ago accepted that there's no-one out there would could ever understand her.

  “...can do this... You can do this... You can do this, just...”

  Light rain is falling, but she barely even notices. It's a warm, overcast day and she's feeling uncomfortably sweaty. She fears that if she looks up at the apartment block at the other side of the park, she'll see someone staring at her. She always feels as if she's being watched, even when she's alone, and that's one of the many reasons why she hates being out in public. Still, she has no choice. She's spent so long hidden away in her makeshift studio, planning this great project, but the whole scheme rests on one particularly difficult action. Well, one more. Well... one more for now.

  Slowly, she raises her head a little and looks over at the swings.

  Suddenly the children are running back toward the apartment block. All except one. There's a little boy still on the roundabout, going round in slow revolutions. He looks so lost and alone, so vulnerable, and she knows instantly that he has to be the one.

  “You can do this... You can do this... You can do this... You...”

  With her eyes fixed on the little boy, she stands up. She makes her way across the park, expecting the boy to run, but as she gets closer the pair of them make eye contact and she sees the the child has some kind of disability. Learning problems, perhaps. Whatever, the boy smiles as if he has no idea that a stranger could pose any kind of threat. His docility, she figures, should make this much easier.

  “Hello,” he says, sounding friendly.

  “Hey,” the woman replies, stunned by how easy this seems so far. She pauses for a moment, glancing around to make sure that there's no-one nearby, and then finally she turns back to the child and realizes that it's now or never. “Your Mum asked me to come and fetch you,” she continues, trying and failing to sound confident. “She, uh, wants me to take you somewhere. She'll be mad if you don't come.”

  The little boy stares at her for a moment, before getting off the roundabout and reaching out to take her hand.

  “Okay,” he says with a smile.

  You can do this.

  “Cool,” the woman replies, leading the boy away from the play equipment and over to the other side of the park, where the green lawn gives way to a wooded area that leads around the estate and over toward the school. “What's your name?”

  “Robert.”

  “Well, Robert,” she continues, “your Mum told me that its very important that you listen to what I say. She wants you to be a very good boy. She told me I wouldn't have any trouble with you, though. She said that you're always so well-behaved and that she's so proud of you, and she made me promise to give you some sweets as a reward. Does that sound good?”

  “Are you taking me to see her?” he asks.

  “I am.” As she leads him between the trees, she glances over her shoulder, making sure that there's no-one following. Her heart is racing and she can barely believe that she's actually going through with this part of the plan, but at the same time she feels more alive than ever. All that planning, all the theories and ideas she went through as part of her research and preparation, feels like nothing compared to the sheer exhilaration of this phase of the project. Theory is finally becoming reality, with just a week to go until the big deadline.

  “I didn't think Mummy would ever send for me,” the boy says after a moment.

  “And why's that?” she asks, spotting the hut up ahead.

  “Because she died last year.”

  Stopping, she turns and looks down at the boy, who stares back up at her with an expression of mild confusion.

  “She did?” she asks.

  He nods.

  “Well, I'm...” She pauses, suddenly feeling as if maybe she can't go through with this. Reaching into her pocket, she runs her fingers against the blade of the knife, imagining it slicing through the boy's neck. “Well, I'm sorry to hear that,” she continues. “Maybe... Maybe there's been a mistake...”

  “No,” the boy replies. “I always knew she'd come back to see me, though. She loved me a lot. Daddy says I have to be realistic, but I think he's just mad because Mummy didn't like him very much by the time she died.”

  “Is that right?” The woman takes a deep breath. She knows she could just let the boy go, that she could find another target, but at the same time she figures that she's never going to find a child who's easy to kill. Forcing herself to stay strong, she kneels in front
of the boy. “Do you want to be with your Mummy right now?” she asks.

  He nods.

  “I mean...” She pauses, with tears in her eyes.

  You can do this.

  “Do you really, really want to be with her?”

  He nods again.

  “Then turn around.”

  “Why?”

  “Just turn around. Trust me.”

  “Why are you crying?”

  “I'm not. Turn around.”

  Slowly, the boy turns. For the first time, there's a hint of doubt in his eyes, but he seems to trust the woman and he doesn't even glance back at her, not even after a couple of minutes of total silence.

  Behind him, she holds the knife in her shaking hand, willing herself to get the job done.

  “Is she here yet?” the boy asks eventually.

  “Who?”

  “Mummy.”

  “Almost,” the woman replies, with tears running down her cheeks. “I think you're gonna see her very soon. What did you say your name was, again?”

  “Robert.”

  “Robert,” she repeats softly.

  She looks down at the knife and tries to clear her mind. Time passes, and then, a few minutes later once it's all over, she gets to her feet. There's blood on her still-trembling hands now, and more blood dripping from the blade. The boy's body is on the ground in front of her, face-down in the leaves that cover the forest floor. On his back, blood is still soaking through the thick woolen jumper he was wearing. It's all over now, and as she stares at him, she tells herself that for all she knows, he really might be with his mother now. Not that she believes in that kind of thing.

  She doesn't quite remember the exact moment she killed him. Her mind seems to be protecting her from that trauma.

  Reaching down and grabbing the boy by the feet, she drags him between the trees until finally she reaches the small hut where the rest of her project is waiting. It takes a moment for her to get the door open and then to haul the body inside, but finally she's able to pull the door shut and slide the bolt across. Safe again in the calm, dark interior of the hut, she takes a deep breath, daring herself to turn and look at all the work that's waiting for her. Not just the boy, but all the others who are going to be a part of this particular task. Finally she turns, and the sight is too much for her.

  Sinking to the floor, she starts sobbing as she looks at the blood on her trembling hands.

  “You can do this,” she sobs. “You can, you really can. You have to.”

  Chapter One

  Ophelia

  “Excuse me!”

  Ignoring the voice, I make my way along the aisle, still looking for that goddamn book.

  “Excuse me!”

  God, that woman's voice is shrill and irritating.

  I scan the shelf and finally I spot it. As I slide the book out and start turning to the index, I can hear someone coming closer and closer. All I want is some peace and quiet so I can complete my research, but I'm going to be interrupted in three, two, one...

  “Excuse me,” the librarian says, tapping me on the shoulder. “I'm afraid we don't allow... You know...”

  I turn to her. She's a late-middle-aged woman, her clothes covered in cat hair, and she smells a little fusty, as if she uses moth balls in her closet. Obviously lives alone, just her and her pets. She has a necklace but no wedding ring, and there's a small yellow stain on her sleeve, probably from some runny egg, while her face has the slightly reddish tone of someone who might not be an alcoholic per se, but who certainly drinks too much, probably alone, probably late at night, probably while talking to people online. Her job offers her a chance to lord it over people to whom she feels superior, hence:

  “I'm going to have to ask you to leave,” she says curtly.

  “Why?”

  “Because... You know.”

  I raise a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Do I smell bad?” I ask.

  “No, but -”

  “I'm just looking for a book,” I tell her, with a disarming smile.

  “Are you a member of this library?”

  “Does that matter?”

  “Only members are allowed to use the library's facilities,” she continues in a distinctly haughty tone.

  “Huh. Is that right?”

  “That's right. Are you a member?”

  I open my mouth to ask another question.

  “You're not a member,” she says firmly, making a point of looking down at my clothes for a moment. She's obviously horrified by me. “You're homeless, aren't you? I'm afraid we have a policy of not allowing transients to use the library's facilities for shelter during the day. It disturbs the other patrons. I'm going to have to ask you to vacate the premises immediately.”

  “I just want to look something up,” I explain, showing her the medical textbook that I've spent the past ten minutes trying to find. “I'd be done by now if this had been put on the right shelf, but you guys don't seem to follow the Dewey Decimal System too closely. It'd been filed under -”

  “Are you going to leave?” she asks, interrupting me.

  “Can't I just look at this one book for a minute? I'm researching something. I'll be out of here in, like, sixty seconds. Well, ninety including the walk to the door, although I suppose I could run and maybe -”

  “Are you a member of this library?”

  I sigh.

  “Leave,” she says again, reaching out and grabbing my arm. “Right now!”

  “Don't touch me!” I shout, pulling away. For a moment, I feel as if I want to just throw the book at her smug, self-satisfied face and run out of here, but that would mean going to another library and starting the search all over again, and I'm far too busy to waste so much time. “I don't like being touched,” I continue, trying not to seem too rattled. “Look, I get that you don't want homeless people filling space in your precious library, but all I'm doing is looking up one specific medical fact about concussion, okay? I'd be out of here already if you haven't interrupted me.”

  “Leave or I'm calling the police,” she replies, as if she hasn't heard a word that I've said.

  “Seriously?”

  “If you're not a member and you've been asked to leave, you're trespassing by still being here.”

  “Is that right?” I ask, setting the book down for a moment before pulling a bundle of papers from my pocket. Crumbs and other pieces of detritus fall free as I rifle through the documents, but finally I find what I'm looking for and I hold it out for her to see: a library card bearing my smiling photo.

  “What's this?” she asks.

  “My membership card.”

  “Oh, what rot,” she replies, snatching it from me and staring at it for a moment. “Esmerelda Bugglesnatch?” she reads. “That is not a real name.”

  “It is so totally a real name,” I tell her. “Can't blame me, I didn't choose it. Anyway, you can't exactly criticize, Edith.”

  “How did you -”

  “I saw the sign on your desk when I came in. I paid attention 'cause I'd already pegged you as an interferer, and I was right.”

  “Did you obtain this card fraudulently?” she asks, waving it in my face.

  “I obtained my membership at this library the same way as anyone else,” I reply calmly. “I applied, I provided the necessary documents and photo, and here I am trying to use the facilities without being harassed.”

  “I'm going to check this,” she says, with a tone of voice that makes it clear that she thinks it's a fake, “and if there's anything wrong with it, I'm going to call the police and have you charged with false representation. Do you understand?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  As she marches back to her desk, I finally get a chance to open the textbook and check the index. It only takes a moment for me to find the section I'm after, and I quickly read the couple of paragraphs relating to concussion and mild head trauma. The information pretty much confirms what I remembered from before, which means that my plan is still
very much on course. I take a moment to read the paragraphs again, just to make certain, and finally I close the book and take it to the correct shelf, slotting it into its proper place. Spotting another out-of-place book, I move it to where it should be, and then I do the same with another, then another, and another, until finally I take a step back. I could spend all day here fixing the mistakes that the supposedly professional staff have made, and I might well come back another time and do just that, but right now I just need to get the hell out of here.

  Heading to the desk, I find that Edith is typing something into the computer.

  “Any luck?” I ask.

  “If you're homeless,” she replies archly, “then what address did you -”

  “A friend's.”

  “A friend's?”

  “Homeless people are allowed to have friends,” I tell her, “and the rules of the library clearly state that persons with no fixed abode are fully entitled to nominate a contact address provided they can provide documents to prove that they have a connection to that address and are willing to provide a £10 deposit for the duration of their membership.” I take a deep breath. “Hell, that was a mouthful. Specifically, that section is contained in paragraph nine, section one of the updated code governing membership. I'm surprised you don't know it off by heart.”

  I wait for her to admit that I'm right, but she seems determined to trip me up.

  “If you don't believe me,” I continue, “you can go into your filing room and check the document copies yourself, and then you can call Detective Laura Foster at the address and telephone number I provided when I signed up and she'll verify that I'm allowed to use that address for mail.”

  I wait for her to respond.

  “Go on,” I continue. “Check. Call her. I want you to see that I'm right.”

  She pauses for a moment, before sniffily sliding the library card back to me.

  “Do you want to check my pockets before I leave?” I ask, as I slip the card away. “I can't really remember what's in all of them, so I can't guarantee it won't be icky, but you're welcome to root around. You might want to get some rubber gloves, though. Just in case.”