The Death Pictures Read Online Free PDF Page A

jabbing a pen around the room.
    ‘I am,’ snapped Adam. He strode from the side of Rachel’s bed to within a foot of the doctor. The man took a step back. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Adam Breen,’ he went on. ‘And you are?’
    The doctor held his stare, then looked away to Rachel, lying on the bed. She held one hand over her heart as though trying to calm it.
    ‘This woman is far too frail to be questioned at the moment,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t hear of it...’
    Adam reached out an insistent arm and guided the doctor out of the small private room. His words faded and he followed meekly.
    ‘Look, doc, it’s this simple,’ whispered Adam into his ear. ‘I need a description of this guy and the details of what happened, then we’ll leave her alone.’
    The doctor had a callow complexion and a darkly lined face. He hadn’t introduced himself, but a well-worn blue badge said Andrew Lovell. His eyes were framed with blood red circles and his black hair stuck up in spraying patches. Hell, I wouldn’t want him treating me, thought Adam.
    ‘I wouldn’t hear of it. She’s only just come in. We need…’
    ‘It’s like this, doc,’ Adam cut in. ‘This woman has been raped. That’s raped. She hasn’t sprained an ankle, or cut her finger. She’s been raped. The man broke into her home – her own home – and attacked her while her kid was upstairs in bed. That’s upstairs… in bed.’
    He checked the doctor’s hand for a ring and saw the silver wedding band. ‘Now I don’t want to scare you,’ Adam continued, ‘but at best that means there’s a guy out there who doesn’t think twice about busting into women’s homes to attack them. I said at best, because I’m hoping he’s gone home, gone to ground somewhere to feel bad about what he’s done. At worst, he’s wandering around the streets now feeling very good indeed and looking for his next victim. And that could be anyone. My wife, my family...’ He paused. ‘Even yours. So we need a description, and we need it now.’
    He let the words linger. Doctor Lovell met his stare, seemed to have turned paler. He picked at a piece of paper on his clipboard.
    ‘Ok then,’ he said. ‘Ten minutes, no longer. She needs sedation and rest.’
    She’ll need a lot more than that in the days to come, thought Adam. He walked back to Rachel’s bedside, making a point of closing the door softly behind him.
    Back in his flat that night, Dan read through the briefing notes on the Death Pictures. He hardly needed them, knew the story well enough, as did most of the country now. He had one of Joseph McCluskey’s prints on his wall, a silkscreen of a cracked rainbow with a silhouetted female angel above it and a faceless man kneeling below. It was number 377 of 450, signed in pencil by the artist. He’d bought it years ago after an unexpected tax rebate, in the days when they were just about affordable.
    An original was out of the question on a journalist’s salary, particularly now McCluskey was close to death and had become so very famous. Eighty-five thousand pounds, the most recent of the Death Pictures had sold for, according to his notes. He patted Rutherford’s back as the Alsatian lay by the side of his great blue sofa, scratching hard at a floppy ear. ‘That’s plenty more than double our pay, mate. No more doggy treats for you if we wanted a picture like that. And stop scratching, or your ear’ll drop off.’
    The briefing went back to McCluskey’s early life, more detail than he needed but it was interesting to read. Born in Plymouth, undistinguished years at school, went on into the sixth form for a year, didn’t like the idea of more education, left and began painting. No formal training, he just decided to have a go. His work was quickly recognised as having what the cuttings of the time called ‘great potential’, and for once that wasn’t the usual journalists’ hype. He started off in portraits – the briefing implied that was a sure