THE WALLS ARE A BLEACHED white under the brilliant fluorescent light, the ceiling a landscape of textured ivory tiles. Sixteen in total. He counts them. Every day. Familiar smells are all around him: latex gloves, hand sanitiser and sheets that have been boiled clean. If he closes his eyes he can imagine being back in his studio. But he doesn’t. He will save those dreams for another time. A pale curtain surrounds the right side of his bed shielding him from curious eyes that pass in the corridor outside his room. He hears the squeaking sound of small wheels and the soft tread of slippered feet. Through a crack in the curtain he sees a faded hospital gown float past like a ghost wheeling an IV stand.
He is tired and wants to sleep but the mumble of tinny chatter draws his attention to the television on the wall opposite where a news channel is running a discussion panel on him, of all people. He sees pictures of his work: ‘The Forsaken’, ‘The Marshland Martyrs’, ‘Father, Son and Ghost’. The faces of his muses have been pixelated, so as not to distress the daytime viewers. The panel comprises artists and curators from the Tate and Saatchi galleries. He is pleased there are no police, no criminologists, no shrinks. He places his elbows on either side and tries to shift himself to an upright position but an icy pain jabs his stomach and for a brief second, he sees her unforgiving eyes burning like different-coloured opals. His mouth dries and he falls back, clutching the controller. The pain has awakened a sweat over his skin. He trembles, clicks the button to increase the morphine dose from the drip feeding into his body and closes his eyes as the drugs wash away the pain. His eyes cloud over and within moments he is sleeping.
The sweep of plastic rings on a metal rod wakens him from his slumber sometime later. He blinks the sleep from his eyes and he hears the snapping of rubber gloves. A slender figure is looming over him, a lady in white with shoulder-length dark hair.
‘How are you feeling?’ asks Doctor Sarah Jones.
‘Hello, Sarah. Nice to see you again. I’m doing very well, thank you.’
‘Good.’
He is pleased to see her. Doctor Jones isn’t like the others. She isn’t afraid of him. She isn’t jittery like the nurses and support staff and cares only for his well-being.
She places a thermometer in his ear, measures his heartbeat, checks the monitors by his bed and begins to write on a form attached to a clipboard.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something,’ he says.
‘What would that be?’
‘You’re a learned woman.’
‘I have my moments.’
‘You have an appreciation of art.’
Her eyes flicker to his. ‘Is that a question?’
‘Tell me. When you look at a piece of art do you wonder if it’s an imitation of reality or an expression of the artist’s emotions?’
She peers at him over the clipboard. ‘That would depend on the art. I would say that great art is a combination of both.’
‘Mmm. I thought you might say that.’
‘Then why ask?’
‘I wanted to hear your opinion.’
She slips the clipboard under her arm. ‘I hope I have not disappointed you.’
‘Not in the slightest. I was also wondering . . .’ He holds her gaze and smiles. ‘Gunther von Hagens . . .’
‘Who?’
‘German anatomist. Invented plastination, a technique for preserving flayed bodies and body parts. All above board and academic too. There is a returning exhibition of his work at Tate Modern next week. When I get out of here I thought perhaps you’d like to come with me?’
‘That’s very considerate of you, however, I expect as is the norm I will have precious little time off and you might be relaxing at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’
‘Yes, that might impede our plans.’
‘If you need anything, please call the nurse.’
‘Thank you, Sarah.’
She checks her wristwatch and leaves, passing the two uniformed sentinels that guard his room. One of them looks in at him with wide bunny-like eyes. It’s the heavy officer with the awkward gait.
‘Hello again, PC Simpson.’
PC Simpson winces and quickly looks away.
‘Did you pass on my message to her, PC Simpson? I hope you did.’
PC Simpson doesn’t reply. Instead he pulls the door closed.
He wakes sometime later to a dimly lit room and the deafening silence of hospital night-time. He senses a tremor in the air. Something is out of place. He listens and hears the soft measured breathing of another person.
He isn’t alone.
He blinks and turns to his right. Someone watches him from the shadows. The knife wound in his stomach seems to burn and he shudders.
‘I didn’t think you would come,’ he says.
Detective Inspector Grace Archer steps closer to the bed and looks down at him with a cold expression.
‘I hope you won’t get into trouble for paying me this unusual night-time visit?’
‘What do you want?’
He smiles at her. ‘First, I wanted to congratulate you, and second: what did it feel like with Bernard Morrice?’
Archer sighs. ‘I knew this would be a waste of time.’
‘Indulge me, DI Archer, and I will reveal something unexpected to you.’
‘Go on.’
‘Poor little Bernard. Such a promising future. So many died by his hands yet he was murdered by a – please excuse my tabloid quote – a feral twelve-year-old Grace Archer. That must have felt good, Grace.’
He can see her jaw tighten. She turns to leave.
‘Before you go, Grace. I should tell you “The Forsaken” wasn’t my first collection.’
Archer stops at the door but doesn’t look back at him.
‘There are several more individual pieces dotted around London. In the basement of a derelict church, the subject from one of my videos – The Reader – floats in the darkness without her beloved books to keep her occupied.’
‘Hilary Richards?’
‘Very good, Grace.’
‘Where is she?’
Blackwell ignores her question and continues, ‘In the attic of an abandoned North London townhouse, the body of a missing troubled teenage boy floats without a care as his parents continue their unrelenting search for him. In West London, there is small high street left behind with the advancements in online shopping. On that street is an old pound shop, closed with the shutters down. Behind them is a delightful Syrian refugee couple floating forever in a lovers’ embrace. No one has any idea they are missing.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Why would I lie to you?’
‘I want the details of all of them,’ she says, turning to look at him.
‘Sorry, that’s all you get. This is just between you and me. If your colleagues come asking for more information, I shall deny all knowledge.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘There are many more, Grace . . . many more.’
A nurse appears at the doorway. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Inspector. Please leave.’
‘Goodnight, Grace. Sleep tight.’