The Death Pictures Read Online Free PDF Page B

about the chances for the relationship in the press, all confounded. Twenty-two years on they were still together and apparently happy and devoted, even as he prepared to die.
    Ten months ago diagnosed with cancer of the oesophagus, a secondary tumour in his liver making it inoperable, given nine months to a year to live. Decides to spend his remaining months finding reconciliation with all his enemies – quite a number according to the notes – and raising money for charity. And here’s how, the idea that captivated the country.
    ‘Ten pictures I will paint,’ a newspaper article quoted him as saying, ‘roughly one for each month I expect to remain on this planet. Each will be auctioned off for a charity of my choosing. Each will have a very limited number of prints made, also to be sold for good causes. I will keep one of each of the sets of prints which will be exhibited on my studio wall. Hidden within the sequence of ten pictures there is a coded message of great importance to me. The answer to the riddle has been left in a safety deposit box in my bank in Plymouth, to which only my wife Abigail has the key. From the moment of my death, you have six months to solve the riddle. The person who does will be given the original of the last of my pictures. If it’s not solved, it’s up to Abigail what happens to the painting.’ There was a photograph of the artist standing by an easel, moodily glaring at the camera.
    They’d become known as the Death Pictures, and the rest of the folder contained images of each of the nine so far revealed, along with notes on what had happened to them. The first original had sold for just under thirty thousand pounds, the money going to a grateful St John’s Hospice in Plymouth. From there, the values had risen fast. The final picture was expected to be worth more than a hundred thousand and there had already been countless attempts to solve the riddle. None had been successful.
    Tomorrow, Joseph McCluskey would unveil the last of the Death Pictures at his studio on Plymouth’s Barbican and Dan, along with scores of other journalists, would be there to interview him. Not just a quick chat though, as Lizzie had made clear.
    ‘I could send anyone for that,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve no idea why, but people seem to open up to you. He must be nearing his time now. I want you to do a proper interview with him, a good long and detailed one that we can use as an obituary when he does die. His wife Abi is a friend of a friend of mine. She asked if we could do something like this. She even asked for you. She said Joseph liked some of the other reports you’ve done, particularly on the Bray case. It’s a huge story, so don’t balls it up. I want it long, I want it good and I want it poignant.’
    One final note in the file, from another reporter who’d interviewed McCluskey after the unveiling of the first Death Picture. ‘Man’s an arsehole. Full of himself. Horribly arrogant. Answers questions with questions. Thinks he’s cleverer than everyone else. If interviewing, be prepared for a rough ride, and don’t bank on getting anything useful.’
    Dan rolled his neck and stared out of the bay window. Interesting. Was that why Lizzie wanted him to go? Because they hadn’t got a good interview from McCluskey in the past? He felt himself starting to look forward to the meeting.
    The doorbell buzzed. Rutherford jumped up sleepily, managed a half-hearted bark and gave Dan a questioning look. ‘Ok fella, no worries, it’s just a friend in need, lie back down,’ he reassured the dog.
    He opened the door to find Adam leaning against the wall outside. The top of his shirt was unbuttoned and his tie drooped forlornly down his neck. Dan handed him a can of Bass and he walked heavily in, taking off his suit jacket, which he flung at the coat stand. It missed.
    ‘Shall I stick a duvet on the spare bed, mate?’ asked Dan, picking the jacket up and dusting off some fluff. He must get round to