Short Story Sunday: Ice in Winter [Part Three]

“Come on, Nev, show us what’s in the box.”

          “Go away.” Once Lauffett had spread the word about his purchase, the entire office was at him to display the porcelain tribute to the Sermon on the Mount. He caught Phillips trying to pry the box open with a ruler. “The next person to ask me about that box will have to buy it.” It did the trick. The men scampered back to their workstations.

          “Neville. A word.” Crispin was standing in the doorway of his office. Once they made eye contact, he went inside and waited.

          He braced himself. No doubt the Sarge would want to know what his visit had achieved. He closed the door behind him.

          “There’s quite a hubbub around your purchase. I take it things didn’t go well with Audrey.”

          “I may have underestimated her.”

          “What makes you say that?”

          “The damage I did to my credit card, for one.”

          “What’s the other thing?”

          “She’s so rude that it’s actually disarming. And her laugh is like something from a Scooby-Doo baddie. I didn’t expect that.”

          Crispin began to shake.

          “Sarge? Everything all right?”

          Get a grip, man. “Yes. Just déjà vu. She sounds exactly like Serial Susie. Her tracks were so well covered that I didn’t even suspect her at first.” It was by fluke that he’d caught her in the act. Except he was the only one who knew that.

          “Well, I did notice something.”

          “Oh?”

          “She bragged about winning the Vincent. I remembered seeing a headline about a dead Vincent judge in her dossier.”

          “Good work, Neville. What’s the next step?”

          “Get rid of that bloody porcelain nightmare.”

          “Don’t worry. Put it in as an expense. Label it as school fees.”

          “School fees?”

          “Yes, from the School of Life.”

          “Ah. Gotcha.”

          “How do we catch Audrey, Neville?”

          “I’m going to get the blueprints of her shop. There was an upper level and I don’t know what it’s used for. Perhaps it could give us a clue.”

          “I hope you’re right.”

          “The curious thing about her is that she has no friends or family.”

          “It’s not that curious when you’re a psychopath.”

          “I suppose. Her victims have only been men so far.”

          “What’s the connection, do you think?”

          “That she feels hard done by in some way. The Vincent judge might have deprived her of the accolade, for example.”

          “And the others?”

          “I’ve got Lauffett working on it, but I’m not sure he’ll get far. The man spends half his time eating milk products and the other half in the men’s room.”

          “I don’t want to know. Keep digging and report back later today.”

The door opened and Simon Malachi began to shake. He could see very little out of his left eye as the swelling had not yet gone down. The sheet over his head did not protect him from the cold or heat, and no matter how much he wriggled, he could not shake it off. His body was encased in a Perspex tube and his hands were behind him, shoved through stocks that clamped him in position. It was agony not being able feed himself or move, except when she allowed it. Her noise of her boots ricocheted through the room. The sheet was raised.

          “Good morning, Mr Malachi. Did you sleep well?”

          His response was kept from her by the gag in his mouth.

          “I thought I’d have a little chat with you before breakfast. And I’ve made you a new tube. I think you’ll like it. There are holes along the sides for better air flow.”

          Simon’s eyes widened and he shook his head.

          “No? You want breakfast first? All right.” Audrey pulled on his left arm until the veins were exposed. She jabbed Simon with the needle and affixed the tape to secure it. Next she fetched the IV stand and connected him.

          “Bon appétit. Now, while you’re enjoying that, let’s quickly run through the months of August through to November 2000 when I was in my third year. I always loved Spring on campus. There was so much inspiration to draw from for the second semester practical tasks.” She stood near his good eye. “Except you didn’t see that, did you?” Audrey pointed to the wall behind her. “Look at that, Mr Malachi. Do you see how much talent that single sculpture showed? And you gave me the lowest mark in the class.” The slide changed. “What about this one? My take on The Last Judgement. You called it mediocre. Do you remember that, Mr Malachi? Oh, don’t cry now. You said tears were a waste of water when I came crying to you.”

          Simon tried to tell her he was sorry. He tried to explain that he had liked her work but that his head of department was pushing for more relevant interpretations. His words dammed against the gag and she showed him slide after slide of work he’d snubbed in his attempt to score brownie points with his boss. If only he had listened to his instinct when it told him not to go on a date with a former student. But she’d sounded so star struck and his ego needed a balm after his latest work got rejected by the Arts Board. They were calling him a has-been and all he wanted was someone’s approval. The cost of getting it from Audrey was more than he could bear. He closed his eyes to her presentation and tried to picture himself somewhere else, somewhere safe.

          “Look at me, Mr Malachi. I have won the Vincent. And you? You’re nothing. You still ply your trade as a lowly lecturer while people pay thousands to have something that I made. They love me – the media listen to my expertise. Which is what you should have done instead of trying to trample my talent. You sad, pathetic man.”

          Audrey removed the IV and his blood dripped on to the floor. “That’s enough breakfast, I think.” She pulled a tranquiliser gun from her waistband and shot him in the neck. His body grew slack as she released the stops on the wheels of his Perspex prison and pushed him towards the door.

The blueprints of Audrey’s shop didn’t show anything out of the ordinary. There was a large studio on the first floor. It seemed as though they had hit a dead end. Neville checked the clock on his computer. Almost midnight. He decided to shut down and go home to sleep.

          “Nev, good, you’re still here.”

          “Anton? I thought you’d gone home.”

          “Nope. Took my tablet to the... Well, I found something while I was sitting there.”

          “Can it wait until tomorrow?”

          “Nope again. Audrey Valentine’s victims, well, suspected victims, share a common trait.”

          “I’m not a mind-reader, Anton.”

          “They are people who were unsupportive of her career. The first was her fiancé Ben Garland who, according to his Facebook feed, wanted her to stop playing with clay and get a real job.” He held up the tablet to Neville. “See? He keeps posting stuff and tagging her with messages like this one: ‘Audrey, maybe when you’re done playing you could be a hot hostess at the Hamilton’s.’”

          “What else have you got? And keep that tablet at least half a metre away from me.”

          “The other guy was her art teacher from high school, Frank Coney. All the newspaper articles I found speak about how he helped other artists launch their careers. A kind word from him could take a fledgling into the stratosphere. Like he did with this guy, Damien Wong.”

          “Let me guess. The judge of the Vincent...”

          “Alfred Frankel.”

          “Yes, him. So he didn’t support her nomination?”

          “Not even slightly. He supported the same woman as the bookies: Amelia Preston.”

          “Do you think her next victim is...”

          “Simon Malachi. Apparently he didn’t like her work when she was at university and made an example of her the year after she left, telling students it was a classic case of bad art. I found the video on YouTube.”

          “How do you know it’s her work that he’s referencing?”

          “I spent a long time reading the comments.”

          “You need to stop eating dairy.”

          “I can’t help it.”

          “Where is Malachi now?”

          “Missing. Last seen three days ago and according to his calendar – don’t ask me how I know this – he had a dinner date with Audrey Valentine.”

          “Get the car.”