barking out orders. He kept his eyes on Hunt’s face. The nostrils were closed now, the piggy nose a featureless lump, and as he watched, Hunt’s bad eye distorted further, the skin around it turning slowly red.
Slowly but not steadily, not all at once. Stroke by stroke.
He’d seen something like this.
Rickaby was at his side again, with a piece of clay tubing, saying something. Stephen ignored him. His whole attention was focused on trying to track back the elusive tweak of memory…
The drawing. That was it. The street scribbler, tracing Crane’s features, creating his fine-boned beauty on paper, stroke by stroke.
And the first victim’s blobs had smelled sharp, like turpentine, and the stuff in them had set hard and glossy as it dried, almost like varnish…
“Has someone painted him?” he demanded aloud.
“Eh?”
“A painter!” Stephen shouted. “Has he had his portrait painted? Find out!”
Rickaby vanished again. Stephen removed his fingers from the tormented mouth and put the tube in. The chances of this working were, he knew, slim, but he had to try.
If he was right, if someone was repainting Hunt’s face into a monstrosity… Well, that was much the same thing as a moppet, surely. He knew moppets. You made a little dolly of someone, and then you tortured it with pins or cut pieces off it or dunked it in a pond, and watched the same things happen on the body of your victim.
A badly made moppet connected dolly to body through the ether, and could be dealt with like an equivalency, which Stephen found almost childishly easy. A well-made one took the essence of the body into itself, and the only solution was to find whoever had the dolly and remove it from them.
Unfortunately, he had no idea who was doing this, and they could be at the other end of the country for all he knew, painting or sculpting away in a studio in John o’Groats or Land’s End.
Hunt’s abused eyeball bulged and rolled in the raw flesh that surrounded it. He made an appalling whistling noise through the tube, and Stephen realised the skin was closing over his mouth.
He grabbed Hunt’s hand, felt its violent, desperate grip as the man held on.
“I will get them,” he said, voice shaking at his own uselessness. He had no idea if Hunt could understand him, but he said it anyway, because he had to. “I swear to you, Sergeant. Alan. I will find them and punish them. I promise they’ll pay.”
Stephen kept his grip as the man’s mouth closed over completely, and the tube, neatly severed, fell away from the smooth flesh that let in no air. Noseless and mouthless, Alan Hunt began to thrash dreadfully, and Stephen, who had seen men choke to death and knew how long it took, reached out with his other hand, still looking into Hunt’s agonised eyes, touched the base of his neck, and killed him with a thought.
He was holding the dead man’s hand when he became aware that Rickaby stood at his shoulder.
“He hasn’t had a portrait done. The Met don’t pay us that kind of money. But there was some artist hanging round the Cannon Street nick a few months back. Man called Newhouse. He was illustrating a book, and he did a fair few drawings, of a lot of coppers, including Hunt. Could that be it?”
“Perhaps.” Stephen contemplated Rickaby’s words, trying to repress a rising sense of panic. “Um, this artist. How many other coppers did he draw while he was there?”
Rickaby stared at him open-mouthed for a few seconds, then his jaw set. “What the devil is this business? Who is this man? How did you know?”
“I don’t know. I’m guessing. But it’s possible this was done via a picture or painting, and it’s possible that’s how he killed Raphael too, and Beamish.” Stephen felt unutterably weary and miserable. He wanted, as much as he had ever wanted anything, to see Crane walk in. If only he were here. Stephen would bury his face in that solid, muscled, tattooed chest, and feel those long-fingered hands in his
Slowly but not steadily, not all at once. Stroke by stroke.
He’d seen something like this.
Rickaby was at his side again, with a piece of clay tubing, saying something. Stephen ignored him. His whole attention was focused on trying to track back the elusive tweak of memory…
The drawing. That was it. The street scribbler, tracing Crane’s features, creating his fine-boned beauty on paper, stroke by stroke.
And the first victim’s blobs had smelled sharp, like turpentine, and the stuff in them had set hard and glossy as it dried, almost like varnish…
“Has someone painted him?” he demanded aloud.
“Eh?”
“A painter!” Stephen shouted. “Has he had his portrait painted? Find out!”
Rickaby vanished again. Stephen removed his fingers from the tormented mouth and put the tube in. The chances of this working were, he knew, slim, but he had to try.
If he was right, if someone was repainting Hunt’s face into a monstrosity… Well, that was much the same thing as a moppet, surely. He knew moppets. You made a little dolly of someone, and then you tortured it with pins or cut pieces off it or dunked it in a pond, and watched the same things happen on the body of your victim.
A badly made moppet connected dolly to body through the ether, and could be dealt with like an equivalency, which Stephen found almost childishly easy. A well-made one took the essence of the body into itself, and the only solution was to find whoever had the dolly and remove it from them.
Unfortunately, he had no idea who was doing this, and they could be at the other end of the country for all he knew, painting or sculpting away in a studio in John o’Groats or Land’s End.
Hunt’s abused eyeball bulged and rolled in the raw flesh that surrounded it. He made an appalling whistling noise through the tube, and Stephen realised the skin was closing over his mouth.
He grabbed Hunt’s hand, felt its violent, desperate grip as the man held on.
“I will get them,” he said, voice shaking at his own uselessness. He had no idea if Hunt could understand him, but he said it anyway, because he had to. “I swear to you, Sergeant. Alan. I will find them and punish them. I promise they’ll pay.”
Stephen kept his grip as the man’s mouth closed over completely, and the tube, neatly severed, fell away from the smooth flesh that let in no air. Noseless and mouthless, Alan Hunt began to thrash dreadfully, and Stephen, who had seen men choke to death and knew how long it took, reached out with his other hand, still looking into Hunt’s agonised eyes, touched the base of his neck, and killed him with a thought.
He was holding the dead man’s hand when he became aware that Rickaby stood at his shoulder.
“He hasn’t had a portrait done. The Met don’t pay us that kind of money. But there was some artist hanging round the Cannon Street nick a few months back. Man called Newhouse. He was illustrating a book, and he did a fair few drawings, of a lot of coppers, including Hunt. Could that be it?”
“Perhaps.” Stephen contemplated Rickaby’s words, trying to repress a rising sense of panic. “Um, this artist. How many other coppers did he draw while he was there?”
Rickaby stared at him open-mouthed for a few seconds, then his jaw set. “What the devil is this business? Who is this man? How did you know?”
“I don’t know. I’m guessing. But it’s possible this was done via a picture or painting, and it’s possible that’s how he killed Raphael too, and Beamish.” Stephen felt unutterably weary and miserable. He wanted, as much as he had ever wanted anything, to see Crane walk in. If only he were here. Stephen would bury his face in that solid, muscled, tattooed chest, and feel those long-fingered hands in his
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