The Art of Dying Page 4

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Really?”

  I nod again, as Tim continues to vomit.

  “How the hell can you possibly be okay?” she asks.

  I shrug.

  “When Halveston hears,” she continues, “I think he might want to take you off the -”

  “No,” I say firmly.

  “If he thinks you're emotionally affected by the -”

  “I'm not emotionally affected,” I tell her, panicking slightly at the thought that I could be removed from the case. “Do I look emotionally affected? I'm not the one throwing up in the bathroom, am I? I'm fine.”

  “Then at least speak to a counselor. Someone who's trained to help people deal with traumatic experiences.”

  “When I'm done.”

  “Laura -”

  “When I'm done!”

  She stares at me for a moment, as if she expects me to suddenly break down in tears.

  “How do you do it?” she asks suddenly. “You always seem so calm. I mean, everyone has some kind of coping mechanism. For most of us, it's getting pissed every night. I'm not saying that's the healthiest thing in the world, but getting legless after work helps us stay on our feet during the day. But you never come out with us, so what's your secret?”

  “I don't have a secret,” I reply, feeling a little irritated by her attempt to act as some kind of amateur psychologist. “I guess I'm just lucky.”

  “I'm going to keep a tight lid on all of this,” she replies. “The case is already huge without the media finding out about the latest development. I don't know when you want us to go public with the gory details, but I figure I can hold it back for at least two days. After that, something's bound to leak, so you've got about forty-eight hours to decide exactly how you want to play the situation.”

  “We'll have someone in custody by then.”

  “That'd be nice,” she continues, “but I think a back-up plan might be in order.”

  “We'll have someone,” I say firmly.

  “Rushing again?” she asks. “At this rate, you're gonna make the same mistake you made with Daniel Gregory. I know you want to solve the case as quickly as possible, but there's a certain limit to how fast you can go.”

  “I want to find out what the hell's going on,” I tell her, as I feel my mobile phone start to vibrate. Reaching into my pocket, I pull it out, figuring that Halveston or someone else from the main office is probably about to summon me to a meeting. “There's no way any -”

  I freeze as soon as I see the name on the screen. It's been a year since I last heard from Ophelia; I've tried calling the mobile phone I gave her, but it was always off. And now, out of the blue, she's trying to get in touch.

  “Hang on,” I say to Tricia as I get to my feet and hurry along the corridor. I hit the button to accept the call, and then I raise the phone to my ear. “Ophelia? Is that -”

  “Long time, huh?” she replies.

  “Are you -” I pause as I realize that there's something different about her voice. She sounds scared. “Ophelia, where are you?”

  “Bronckton Industrial Estate,” she continues. “On the bridge near the disused chemical factory. Do you know it?”

  “Um... Maybe. Yeah, I think so.”

  “It's high, isn't it?”

  “Ophelia,” I reply, starting to get worried, “what's wrong?”

  “I need you to come down here right now.”

  “I'm kind of busy at the moment -”

  “I need you to come down here right now!” she hisses.

  “Why?” I ask. “Ophelia, I'm in the middle of a case. Is something wrong?”

  “I'm on the bridge,” she says again, “and I'm going to jump.”

  Chapter Seven

  Ophelia

  “Ophelia!” she shouts, running along the path that leads past the old factory. “Ophelia, get down from there! What the hell are you doing?”

  “Don't come any closer!” I shout.

  “Ophelia -”

  “I'll jump!” I yell at the top of my voice. “I swear to God!”

  I can't help but smile. I mean, I'm going to jump either way, but she doesn't have to know that yet.

  As she reaches the other end of the bridge, she stops and stares at me. Hell, I think she might actually be speechless. It's good to see that not much about her has changed: she's wearing the same goddamn coat I remember from last year, and she has that old, familiar look on her face, as if she's not entirely certain how to respond to what she's seeing. Most people just react naturally, but Laura always seems to take a moment to think about it first, to decide on an intellectual level what to say and how to feel. Then again, given the context, I guess I don't blame her.

  “What are you doing?” she asks eventually.

  “What does it look like I'm doing?”

  She leans over the railing and looks down at the water.

  “It looks like you're going to jump,” she says after a moment.

  “Bingo.”

  “Ophelia, what the hell... I don't have time for -”

  “It's not a big enough fall to kill me,” I reply, interrupting her. “I mean, if that's what you're worried about, then don't. I've run the numbers and it's fine. But if I fall directly down, headfirst, I should sustain a significant impact to the head, enough to cause some swelling. Now, the thing about swollen brains is that the increased pressure can cause serious long-term damage if it continues. The doctors will have no choice but to put me into an induced coma for between twenty-four and seventy-two hours, depending on the severity of the swelling, and then it'll start to go down of its own accord and I should be absolutely fine again. Believe me, I've done my research. This isn't the kind of thing I want to get wrong.”

  “Ophelia -”

  “It's not a big deal,” I add, even though I'm starting to wonder if I can really go through with this. It's going to hurt, a lot, even if I'll almost certainly lose consciousness immediately.

  She stares at me for a moment, as if she can't believe what she's seeing.

  “I'm in the middle of a case,” she says eventually. “If you had any idea what I've been doing this afternoon -”

  “You can tell me later,” I reply, “when you come to visit me at the hospital.”

  “No,” she continues, “that's not what's going to happen. What's going to happen is that you're going to get off this bridge and come with me right now, Ophelia. Whatever dumb stunt you think you're going to pull, I don't have time for it.”

  “Someone came to visit me last time,” I point out.

  “What?”

  “Last year, after all the stuff with Lofty and Nat Longhouse, when I was in hospital, someone came to see me before I woke up. Someone apart from you.”

  “So?”

  “So I checked, and it wasn't Tim Marshall, and if it had been a journalist then something more would have come of it by now. Someone came, took a look at me, and then left.”

  “So?” she asks again, clearly not grasping the point.

  “So there's no way anyone should have come,” I continue. “They left a packet of Smarties too, which is completely random and pointless unless they wanted me to know they'd been there, like a kind of subtle message or maybe a warning. I asked around on the ward, and they were definitely left by a visitor, but all the staff could tell me for sure was that it was a man. No-one pays attention to anything these days! So then I asked to see the ward's surveillance tapes, but they refused. I tried to break in to the monitoring room late one night, and there was a rather awkward encounter with one of the guards and a security dog, but that's a whole other story. The point is, someone came to the hospital, someone who wasn't you, and there's no-one who should have done that.”

  “That doesn't mean it has to be sinister,” she replies. “Maybe someone from your old life found you?”

  I shake my head.

  “A good Samaritan?”

  “No. I checked. There aren't any
anymore.”

  “A nurse who felt sorry for you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Jesus,” she continues, “Ophelia, I don't know who brought you a box of goddamn Smarties, but don't you think you're taking this a bit too far?”

  “I need to go back into hospital,” I explain. “Just for a few days, just long enough to flush the visitor out again. I'm prepared this time, so I can catch the bastard. I considered faking an injury, but I eventually decided that I should just take the direct approach. So I'm going to get myself into a coma for a few days. I'm pretty sure I'll be back out by the weekend.”

  “This is insane,” she replies. “Ophelia, get the hell down from there. I don't have time to be messing about with some crazy scheme right now. You have no idea the pressure I'm under -”

  “I needed you here because I needed someone to call an ambulance once I fall,” I tell her. “You'll have to act fast, because the longer you take, the more likely I am to suffer permanent brain damage from the swelling. I'd really hate for that to happen. Then again, I suppose it might be an improvement.”

  “Ophelia -”

  “It's the only way to find out who came to visit me!” I shout, frustrated that she doesn't seem to understand. “It's not like I want to do this, but trust me, I know for a fact that there's no-one in the world who should have come to my hospital room the last time and left chocolate, so something's definitely wrong! I've spent the past year trying to get to the truth through other methods, but at the end of the day, recreating the circumstances seems to be the best approach.”

  I wait for her to reply, but she seems too shocked to say anything.

  “So here I am,” I continue, “and yes, I'm kinda nervous, thanks for asking, but there's no other way. Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do.”

  “Ophelia...” She pauses, as if for some reason she still doesn't get it. “Do you know the details of the case I'm working on right now?” she asks eventually, sounding tired and drained. “I literally ran to my car after your phone call. I broke the speed limit to get here. I left a live case. And for what? To watch you make an exhibition of yourself? This case -”

  “You can tell me after I -”

  “A dead child was found stuffed into a larger patchwork corpse made up of eight different bodies.”

  I stare at her. To be honest, I definitely wasn't expecting her to say anything like that.

  “A dead child,” she continues. “Found, by the way, up on the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square, right in the middle of London. I know how unlikely and bizarre that sounds, but I'm sure you can understand that right now I'm under just the smallest amount of pressure. And now I've wasted an hour coming down here just so you've got an audience for whatever stunt you're trying to pull. Ophelia, I don't have time for this crap, so get over here!”

  “Sounds like an interesting case,” I tell her. “You need any help?”

  “Help?” She seems shocked by the suggestion. “From you? No, I don't need -”

  “I can definitely help,” I continue. “Unless you've got it all sewn up already.”

  She sighs.

  “Bad choice of words?” I ask with a faint smile. “Look, you know I can help, so why not let me? Frankly, I'm offended that you're even thinking about turning me down.”

  “I don't think it's the kind of case that would benefit from your particular skill set,” she replies.

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  She sighs again.

  “I'll try to help,” I continue. “Maybe it won't work out, but I'd still like to have a go. For old times' sake, if nothing else.”

  “Ophelia -”

  “But first,” I add, “I really need to do this. So call an ambulance, yeah?”

  “Ophelia, this isn't the right moment to -”

  “About now would be a good time.”

  “Ophelia -”

  Too late. Figuring that I've already wasted enough of her time, I lean forward and begin to fall. I hear Laura scream my name as I plummet toward the surface of the water, and although it's not easy, I manage to turn my body just in time to land headfirst. The impact sends a powerful jolt through my body, far harder than anything I was expecting, and as I lose consciousness, the last thing I feel is my body sinking deep into the icy darkness, with the water taking a moment to get through my clothes and chill my skin, and the last thought that passes through my mind is terrifying and unfamiliar:

  What if this was actually a really bad idea?

  Chapter Eight

  Laura

  “We've got positive matches on three of the nine victims,” I continue, hitting the button to bring up the next slide. Three faces appear on the screen. “A forty-five-year-old male named Tony Casey, a thirty-year-old female named Teresa Banks, and...”

  I pause for a moment. Somehow this one seems harder.

  “An eight-year-old boy named Robert McKay, known to his friends and family as Bobby.”

  I turn and look up at the image of the little boy's face.

  “Bobby McKay was the most recent victim,” I explain. “He was the one found sewn into the remains of the others. His father had reported him missing a few days ago, and there was particular concern because Bobby had a learning disability. Apparently Bobby went to play in a park near the family home, but somehow he got separated from the other children and that was the last anyone saw of him until...”

  My voice trails off. Staring up at the picture of Bobby McKay, I can't help thinking about Natasha Simonsen. I failed to bring her killer to justice, and I can't bear the thought that I might fail again.

  On the other side of the room, Halveston clears his throat. There's an uneasy and tense atmosphere right now, and although I've led scores of these update panels over the years, this one is so much harder than the rest.

  “Surveillance tapes from the area around the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square,” I continue, “are inconclusive and -”

  “What do you mean by inconclusive?” Halveston asks.

  “I mean that we recovered the recordings for the two days prior to the point when the body was discovered,” I reply, my throat feeling dry as sandpaper as I turn to him, “and so far we haven't been able to pinpoint the moment when the perpetrator was at the scene.” I pause for a moment, very much aware that I must sound like a failure right now, constantly coming up with excuses. “There was a localized power cut on the Tuesday evening. It only lasted two minutes, but when the lights and the cameras came back on, the body was up there. The following morning, it was noticed by an office worker and reported to us.”

  “No-one spotted it until the next day?” asks Adams, one of the department heads.

  “The plinth is tall,” I point out, “and most people only see it from the ground level. It might also be of interest to note that the body had been treated with a commercial gel that's marketed for its pigeon repelling properties. In other words, the perpetrator didn't want vermin disturbing the scene or, potentially, starting to eat the body.”

  “Maybe he didn't want it to attract attention,” Adams chips in. “He wanted it to stay up there unnoticed for as long as possible.”

  “That's one idea that we're exploring,” I reply, as my phone vibrates on the table. Grabbing it, I open the text message from Tricia:

  She's awake.

  I swallow hard. For a moment, my mind feels completely blank, but after a few seconds I force myself to focus on the task at hand. Ophelia and her theatrical antics can wait.

  “Forensic evidence has been of limited value,” I continue, “because, uh...” Another pause, making me look bad as I try to regather my thoughts. “The killer seems to have been very good at cleaning up after himself. Or herself. There's evidence of various bleaching compounds having been used. We've recovered no prints or DNA so far, but I'm having the body parts -”

  “So do you have any good news here?” Adams asks pointedly, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. He mutters something else u
nder his breath, but I don't quite catch the words. This isn't the first time he's expressed his displeasure during one of my reports.

  “We're not investigating one murder,” I reply, trying to stay calm even though I'm starting to sweat. “It's nine in total. As you can imagine, that's a lot of work, but it also means that there are many more opportunities for the killer to have slipped up. At the moment, we're working on tracing the last movements of all the known victims and -”

  My phone vibrates again.

  “I'm sorry,” Adams says with a snide grin, “are we keeping you from something more important, Detective Foster? Dinner plans, perhaps? A date? A manicure session?”

  “No, sir,” I reply, resisting the urge to check the message. “I was about to explain that we're working on tracing the last movements of all the known victims. There have to be some commonalities in there somewhere, something that can help us to gather circumstantial evidence regarding the movements of the killer and -”

  “Circumstantial evidence won't hold up in court,” Adams points out.

  “But it can set us on the right track,” I reply, “so that we can find -”

  “It's been five days,” he adds, interrupting me. “The media's already got this story simmering nicely and they're waiting to step it up a gear. Please, Detective Foster, tell me this isn't going to be another fuck-up like the Daniel Gregory case.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out.

  “Detective Foster has my full confidence,” Halveston says after a moment. “The Daniel Gregory case was a blip in an otherwise exemplary career, and in the past year alone she's proven herself half a dozen times. She's by far the best person for this job.”

  Adams stares at me, and it's clear that he doesn't agree with Halveston. At the same time, he's not going to directly contradict him. I guess he'll just sit back and wait for me to screw the case up, so I have to make sure that I get the killer in a cell fast, not only to save my own reputation but also, more importantly, because there's clearly a strong chance that he'll kill again. I've been waiting so long for a chance to properly redeem myself, but now that it's here I'm starting to wonder if I'm up to the task.