Chapter Twenty
TWENTY
I choose a ready meal from the selection in the fridge, stick it in the oven and then set a timer on my phone because I can’t be bothered figuring out the one on the oven.
Then I grab my notebook and a glue stick I snagged from the art studio.
I’m fully intending to take Izzy up on her offer to help me.
I’m hoping that by laying out everything I have so far, I’ll start to see some progress.
“Dinner will be half an hour—green Thai curry with rice.”
“Oh, yummy, thank you,” Izzy says from the bed. I drag the cardboard into the middle of my room and unfold it. “You’re not doing that now, are you?”
“You promised, remember? It’s the only way I’m letting you have people round.”
“Fine.” Izzy sighs and joins me on the bedroom floor. “What do you want me to do?”
“Sort these out.” I hand her the printouts I’ve been collecting and pop the lid off the glue stick. “Give me the first portrait from The Four?”
“Here.” She hands me the picture and I stick it at the top of the first column. It takes up quite a lot of space, but it will do for now. “Next one?”
“Yes, please.” She hands it over, and we repeat the process until all four portraits are glued on. Then I shuffle the whole board over to the wall and prop it up against the paintwork. I look at the women, lost in thought.
“Is it helping?”
“Not really.”
“Can we stop, then?”
“Not yet.” I turn to look at her. “Do you think the paintings should be on display? If they were painted by BBK, I mean?”
“I haven’t really thought about it.” She shifts herself closer to me and looks at them.
“They are beautiful, in their own horrid way. And they’re certainly unique.
It would be sad if no one ever saw them.
If these models were killed, then letting the world see them would almost be a tribute, don’t you think? ”
“I don’t think I agree. I want to find out what happened, but I don’t want to glorify their deaths or make the killer famous.”
“It’s a bit like when your favorite singer turns out to be a horrible person, but the song is still a banger.” Izzy leans forward, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Should you still dance to it?”
“I’d say probably not, but it would be hard. I get what you’re saying, though. It’s hard to separate the art and the artist when you know so much about them.” I play with a strand of loose hair. “Let me put it this way. Would you display a painting by John Wayne Gacy?”
“Who?”
“He was a serial killer in America. When he was in prison he painted and sold his ‘art.’ ” I make air quotes around the word.
“Had he been convicted?” Izzy asks. I nod. “Then no, that’s different.”
“But how?” I look at the paintings and wave the crime scene sketches in the air. “If I prove these women are The Four, should they be taken down? Locked away?”
“I don’t know,” Izzy says softly. “I suppose it wouldn’t be up to you, though. The Heywood Gallery would still own them, so it would be their choice. Plus, loads more people would want to see them. It would be really good for the gallery.”
“Yeah, it would. It seems morally corrupt, though.”
“Okay, time out.” Izzy laughs and leans back in a stretch. “I know it’s getting serious when the big words come out. You need a break.”
“You’re right, sorry. Way too deep for a Wednesday evening.
” I check the timer on my phone. “Dinner is ready soon. Give me a hand with the sketches and I’ll stop.
” I pass Izzy the sketches in turn. It’s hard to know whether they’re in the correct order, as they all look so similar, but it will do for now.
I consult my notebook and grab a Sharpie, copying down the details I discovered under each pair of pictures, including the dates the bodies were found.
I leave space for their names and jot a few potential research ideas along the top in red.
I’m just drawing a circle around “New York death certificates???” when the alarm on my phone blares in the quiet room.
My stomach rumbles on cue. “Okay, I’m done. ”
“Can I add something?” Izzy asks, plucking the pen from my hand. I raise my eyebrows at her. “I know, I just think you missed something.”
“Go for it.”
Izzy leans in front of the board so I can’t see what she’s writing. After a few seconds she stands up and her careful handwriting jumps out at me: “Ritual elements? Blood and hair. Why?”
“Explore every avenue, right?” she says, looking pleased with herself. “Now, did you see any prawn crackers when you were unpacking the shopping?”
“Hey, Fliss. Izzy said you wanted to talk to me?”
I look up to find that Noah has appeared at my desk almost soundlessly.
It’s Thursday morning and we’re about to start a printing lesson, so all the other desks have been set up with tiny red-handled rollers.
He’s wearing a khaki green T-shirt today, a change from his usual black.
It suits him in a way that gives me a not-uncomfortable feeling in my stomach.
He glances at my notebook as I remind myself not to stare, and I close it gently.
“How’s your project going? You seem pretty into it.”
“Not bad,” I say, pushing my hair out of my face. I let it air-dry this morning because it’s so hot out, and it’s getting wilder with every passing second.
“So, Izzy said you wanted me for something?” he repeats, tilting his head. Typical Izzy.
“Oh, no, I just, erm…” I stop talking, waiting for Noah to take over, but he doesn’t say a word. “Party?” I utter the word in a state of near panic.
Oh, Fliss.
“Yeah, Ford mentioned that.” Noah cracks a smile, and I release my shoulders from their current place around my ears. “It’s tomorrow night, at your dad’s new place?”
“Mmmmhm” is all I can manage, because his T-shirt is just a stitch too tight across his shoulders. He’s more muscular than I thought. “It’s warm in here today, right?”
“Not really. The AC is working pretty hard.” He looks at me in concern. “Are you feeling okay?” No, no, I’m not, because now I can’t stop staring at Noah’s hands as his fingers fold one of the discarded magazine pages over and over. He follows my gaze. “Sorry, did you need this?”
“No, people just keep leaving them there.” I shake my head and pull my eyes away from his hands. What the hell is wrong with me? “Izzy is making me have a gathering at Dad’s tomorrow,” I admit. “I thought maybe you’d like to come?”
“That sounds cool, thanks. So, your dad’s not back yet?”
“No, the storm has cleared a bit, but transport is still down. He’s due back in less than a week anyway.
They were only going for ten days.” It helps that last night the police officially announced they had charged the unhoused man for Helen’s murder, which saves my mom from coming back, too.
Something about the arrest doesn’t sit right with me, though.
In my opinion, it wasn’t a crime of opportunity, which is how the police have played it to the media, but I didn’t say anything to my parents since they were agreeing for once.
“I think Izzy wants to start around eight.”
“Oh, I forgot.” Noah looks up from the piece of paper. “I’m supposed to meet some friends tomorrow. Sorry, Fliss. I could pop by later, maybe?”
“Bring them if you want?” I say, the words coming out of my mouth as I question why I’m willingly inviting more people to a gathering I don’t want to have. Do I want Noah to be there that much? I look up to see the edges of his eyes crinkle and decide I do.
“Okay, cool, that could work,” he says, finishing what he was doing and handing me the folded-up piece of paper. “I have to go and develop some more prints, but I’ll see you at lunch?”
“See you later.” I watch Noah walk back to the darkroom before glancing down at the object in my hand.
It’s a small but perfect origami flower that he made while he was standing here. A small but perfect origami flower that he made for me.