The Art of Murder Page 2

  “Why don’t you ask him on a date?”

  “Lloyd?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know.” Jordan shrugged. “Work and pleasure shouldn’t mix, should it?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Ashley said.

  “You’ve mixed work and pleasure?”

  “How do you think I met Ben?”

  The killer was in the house; the camera followed the leading actress, in the killer’s point of view. Jordan watched with interest, knowing she would be safe.

  “We should go away like that more often,” Ashley said when the scene changed. “It was good to just get away for a bit, wasn’t it?”

  Jordan instantly imagined the dark-eyed man, his cropped hair, and his top ear piercing. “Yeah, it was really relaxing.”

  “It’s good to be back here. I think I forgot just how much I miss everything.”

  “You’ll say that now because you’re here,” Jordan said. “When you go back home, you’ll not miss this place.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Honestly, Cardiff isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “No? It’s revitalised.”

  “Sure, but there’s a lot of shit that happens around here.”

  “Such as?”

  “Murder.”

  “Murder happens everywhere,” Ashley said. “There’s murder in Australia.”

  Jordan drank some of his wine before speaking again. “When do you think you’ll go back?”

  Ashley shrugged. “Few weeks.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ashley said no more. Ashley’s phone jittered across the coffee table and Ashley grabbed it, then quickly typed a reply back to somebody. He hoped it was to Ben, that some sort of reconciliation was being executed. It wasn’t impossible that his boyfriend could be awake early in Australia, though he supposed it would be extremely early.

  Since Ashley had been staying with Jordan, he hadn’t contributed to anything. Jordan still paid for the food, the rent, and bought the essentials. Ashley was more than happy to lounge in the house and suggest going out when he felt like it, with the expectation that Jordan would foot the bill. This attitude seemed new. Ashley had never been one to shy away from money. It made Jordan wonder if money problems were part of his trouble.

  In Amsterdam, Ashley had paid for entry to the Van Gogh museum, but only because he had desperately wanted to go. Jordan paid everywhere else. It left Jordan wondering when he would get another job. He had enough money now, but he always got anxious when work wasn’t visible on the horizon.

  Jordan’s phone buzzed just as the killer broke into the main character’s home. Jordan tore his focus away from the smashed window on the screen and to his phone. It was a text from Mark.

  Safe from that man?

  Jordan read Mark’s name, wondering why the PC was making an effort to text him on a friendly basis. He wondered if it was because of guilt that Vanessa would no longer hire freelance staff. Strictly, what she had done in the past shouldn’t have been allowed, but she had been able to get away with it. That was until a new PC had questioned her decisions, raising it with higher board staff. It had been a blow to Jordan when he found out, but he didn’t take it personally.

  Jordan also knew that Mark had been nervous around him. It was partly the reason why they had hit off their friendship on uneven ground. Mark was possibly trying to keep Jordan close, in case anything ever came up again in the future.

  Jordan opened the message and added the photograph he had snapped of the man. It showed his haggard face clearly, the striking ear piercing clear to see. He sent it to Mark. This is what he looked like. No sign of him yet.

  Mark replied almost instantly. I’ll forward it to Vanessa.

  Jordan locked his phone and turned his attention back to the film, but not before noticing that Ashley was on his own phone, texting away.

  Three

  The next day, it was time to go back to work. At least, try to find work. Cardiff city was bustling. Now that April was upon them, to Jordan, it was as if people had finally shrugged off the bad winter, the New Year festivities, and were getting back into the swing of things. The sun was beginning to shine, illuminating Cardiff’s skyline so it glinted and shimmered in sluggishly rising temperatures. As Jordan walked to his office, he noticed people were daring to dare to wear jackets instead of coats.

  He walked over chewing-gum pavements, past a council worker that was emptying rubbish from a public bin. He was walking back out of the city, towards residential buildings, towards where his small office sat in a building of cheaply rented rooms. Still too afraid to wear a jacket, Jordan was wearing his black parka with the fluff of the hood tickling his stubble-lined jaw. The April breeze ruffled his hair, destroying any attempt at trying to shape it into anything fashionable.

  Jordan turned off the pavement and away from the cars that lined the single yellow-striped roads, and walked into a small courtyard. There was never anywhere to park here, but Jordan worked odd hours and was usually lucky. Today, however, he had decided to work a traditional nine-to-five. He had got too compliant with working from home, when he had an office that could go to use. He felt as though he had a lot to catch up on after his week away. He climbed the steps to a frosted-glass door, using the fob on his key ring to let himself in to the brightly lit and modified reception room. It was a shame the rest of the building didn’t look quite so modern.

  The receptionist was stood up, looking around his desk, and barely had time to say hello to Jordan. Jordan went through double doors and up a set of stairs in a cold hallway. Up on the first floor, flickering lights and thinning carpets him, and he stepped into a hallway of wooden doors that led into small rented workspaces.

  Jordan unlocked the door to his office, glancing through the pane of glass, and walked into a small room with one desk. On top of that desk was a PC, an internet router, a small filing tray, a telephone, and a pile of letters. At one corner of the room was a filing cabinet and in another was an armchair. Jordan walked to the window, which overlooked nothing but concrete, and opened the blinds. He was glad that the building had at least turned on the heating. He shed his parka and hung it up on the back of the door.

  Jordan sat at his desk and played his answering machine. He usually got calls straight to his mobile, but those that went to his out-dated website directory always called here.

  He had the usual time-wasting calls, some from kids and some from those that were mentally unwell. In the past, Jordan had helped those people get the help they needed. Now, he didn’t want to interfere. He skipped to the next message, hearing a voice he recognised and one he used to love.

  Arthur, his ex-boyfriend, was a journalist. He always contacted Jordan this way, as Jordan had blocked his number on his phone.

  “Jordan, hey, it’s Arthur. I hope you’re alright. I just thought we could go and get some food, have a catch up, talk about a few things. We’re looking to do a feature here at the magazine, and of course I want you…”

  Jordan skipped the message. Arthur wrote for a magazine that catered to Cardiff, regularly being stocked in all sorts of places, including the reception downstairs. But Jordan knew he wanted to be in broadcast. He had to give it to the man: he didn’t give up.

  The messages finished, and with no feasible lead to go off, Jordan booted up the PC and waited to log in to his emails. A lot of his work came from this, and he hoped today would be the same. As Jordan waited for the PC to load, he opened the letters on his desk. He filed away those that were important and discarded those that were not.

  Being a private investigator had been a tough choice for Jordan. After graduating university, Jordan had worked briefly with the police force, developing his relationship with Vanessa. He had then decided to pursue the PI route, one that had been risky, and one he had been warned away from. But work had come in, mainly old-fashioned cheating cases, but as times went on, Jordan solved high-profile cases, and with that came press attention. He now earned a steady income, lived comfortably enough, and liked what he did.

  With his emails finally loaded, Jordan was about to go through the list when there was a knock at his door. Jordan turned to find a vaguely familiar face looking back at him. Jordan signalled for the young man to come in.

  The man drew Jordan’s attention straight away. The way he walked into the room was captivating. He didn’t saunter, yet he didn’t prance. He seemed to just sway. His movements were fluid, helped by the loose, thin cardigan that swanned around him as he shut the door behind him. His dark hair was a perfect quiff, and his features were strong. His green gaze held Jordan’s as he sat on the available armchair. He crossed thin legs and clutched pale hands together.

  “Jordan Jenner?”

  He was Welsh, his voice soft and smooth. Hearing his name from the man’s lips made him shiver.

  “That’s me.”

  “Good,” the man said. “Can I lock that door, if you don’t mind?”

  Jordan had been used to people visiting him and wanting complete privacy. It was why he had installed the blind above the glass pane. Jordan nodded for the man to go ahead. “Draw the blind, too, if you like.”

  With a fluid motion, the man finished the tasks. Now, the room felt private. It was still and quiet. The only sound came from the fan in Jordan’s computer.

  “My name is Xander Draper,” the young man said. “And I was wondering if you could help me.”

  Jordan cocked his head. The face now became clearer, reminding Jordan where he had seen him before. Ashley had been holding a magazine in the airport, one that had this man’s face on the cover.

  “Should I know who you are, Xander?”

  Xander blushed. His jagged cheeks went a shade of red, as if he had purposefully contoured them. Jordan had to look away, such was the exhilaration he felt. “I…I’m known of, yes.”

  “Care to tell me how?”

  “I’m an artist,” Xander replied. “You can have a look on Google, if you like. I paint and make sculptures. It’s my profession.”

  Jordan opened Google but didn’t type. He instead turned back to Xander, taking in his young features. “How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-four,” Xander said.

  Jordan managed a wishful smile. “And how long have you been an artist, Xander?”

  “Ever since I can remember,” Xander replied. “But, professionally, for about three years.”

  “I see.”

  The silence spread out between them, like paint on a canvas. Xander clutched his hands together again, long white fingers wrapped around one another. Whilst Xander wasn’t shaking, he was tapping his foot, rubbing one finger over another. “So, can you help me?”

  Jordan took out a notepad from his filing tray and found a pen next to the phone. “Let me know, and I’ll see what I can do. If I can’t, somebody can.”

  “It has to be you,” Xander said. “I don’t know if you remember, but you helped solve the murder of a friend of mine a few years back. She was the Instagram model…”

  Jordan remembered the case. A social media influencer, whatever that was, had been murdered by her boyfriend. It hadn’t been a particularly tough case. Jordan had just needed the partner to confess, which had taken the most time. It was the first case that had garnered Jordan press attention. “I remember.”

  “And then, of course, you put that writer to prison.”

  Jordan’s recent case, involving a murdered writer and a famous author, had once again propelled him into the limelight. It was Jordan’s turn to blush. “Just work.”

  “Good work,” Xander said. “So it has to be you. You have to help me.”

  “Let me know what the problem is.”

  He thought of Ashley, of the problem that still hadn’t been spoken about.

  “I’m being followed,” Xander said, and Jordan felt prickling up his arms. “By a man. A woman. A group, I suppose. They’re a European group, and they’ve been terrorising a few of us over the past year or so. They blackmail, they protest, and they threaten to steal our work. In some cases, they’ve already done that, though it’s never been proven.”

  “You’ve had work stolen?”

  “I haven’t, but others have.”

  “By this group?”

  “We know it’s this group, but it’s hard to prove.”

  Here we go, Jordan thought, another paranoid man.

  “Who are ‘we’?” Jordan asked.

  “Me and a group of artists,” Xander replied. “Friends and colleagues of mine. People that have been affected by this group.”

  “What are they called?”

  “They call themselves the Dirty Dollys.” Xander’s green eyes actually rolled. “It is spelt D-O-L-L-Y-S. Hardly a name that strikes fear by itself, but they’ve made it scary by the things they do. They’ve blackmailed people for money, threatened to ruin careers, and ruined art shows.”

  “Have they committed any other crimes?”

  “Thievery, blackmail…” Xander repeated. “Their threatening behaviour needs dealing with. I have reported some crimes to the police, but they don’t seem interested.”

  “Who are these people?”

  Xander sighed. “I don’t know their names. They hide themselves as regular punters at the show. But you know they’re there. You know they’ve been. They’re watching, ready to strike with sharp claws.”

  “Like a cat.”

  “Like a cat,” Xander agreed. “But there are names online, if you search them. Names that are only associated with this group but keep cropping up.”

  “So it is more than likely that it is them.”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay,” Jordan said. “So, what do you need me to do?”

  “Well, I’m being followed,” Xander said again. “They’re watching me, keeping tabs on me. I don’t know who they are, but their presence is always there. You see, I’ve had art bought at these shows, signed off for by my management, and then the money never shows. So maybe I have had art stolen from me, I don’t know. But they’ve produced receipts that prove purchase, but they must be counterfeit, mustn’t they?”

  “Have you reported this to the police?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want them getting involved. It has to be you.”

  “Xander, the police need to know as well.”

  “No.” Xander’s defiance was like a slap to the face. “I don’t want them involved anymore than they already are. Not yet.”

  Jordan audibly exhaled, attracting a narrow-eyed stare from Xander. “I see.”

  “I want you to find out who these people are, and where they come from. I want you to put an end to this group.”

  “How do you expect me to do that?”

  “You’re the detective,” Xander replied. “Play them at their own game, why don’t you?”

  “You want me to follow the ones who are following you?”

  “Yes.” Xander leaned forwards, a smile on his lips. “Find out where they go, and who they report to. If you can, find out what happened to the paintings that have been bought and not actually paid for. I know they’re behind it. It’s something they would do. They steal and they earn from it, whilst I don’t.”

  “What’s their motivation?”

  Xander seemed reluctant to answer, a bite of his lip and a fidget of his fingers. He swallowed. “I think they get a hit from trying to ruin the careers of artists that have made it.”

  “Have you made it?”

  Xander blushed again. “Google me.”

  Jordan didn’t. He could judge Xander’s words. The man was famous. He was rich. “Have you got any leads I can go off?”

  “Like I say, take a look online, search the Dirty Dollys, make notes of those names that have been linked to them. Do your thing.” Xander took out an envelope from his pocket. “I’d also like to invite you to my next art show this weekend. It’s in the Motorpoint. They’ll be there.”

  “The Dollys?”

  “Yes,” Xander said. “They will definitely be there. They’ll be buying art they’re not paying for. I’m sure of it. Only this time, I’ve set them up. This time, I’ll get them.”

  Jordan shook his head. “Let me, Xander.”

  “I can pay,” Xander said. “Name your price, and I will pay right now.”

  Jordan took the envelope still held in Xander’s extended hand. There were three tickets inside. Xander then took out a chequebook.

  Jordan named his price. Xander doubled it.

  “I can’t accept this.”

  “You can.” Xander slid the cheque across to him. “You will. I know you’re the man that can stop these people from terrorising me and my friends. I just know it.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Jordan nodded, his fingers on the slip of cheque.

  “You have to. Things are coming to a head. Soon, it will be too late.”

  Xander stood up, his business done. Jordan stayed where he sat, but he didn’t want the young man to go.

  “So, you are definitely accepting my offer, handsome?” Xander asked.

  Jordan looked at the cheque again. Then he turned to the artist, his mind on the man that had followed him. Curiosity would always get the better of Jordan Jenner. “Yes, I’ll help you. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Great.” Xander took out a business card and handed it to Jordan. “My number is on there. We can keep in touch. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll see you at my show.”

  “Xander, have they threatened you?”

  Xander, his hand on the door lock, looked at the floor. “Yes.” But then he regained his composure. He smiled widely, a handsome smile, a spell that Jordan had to try his hardest to break. “But I’m Xander Draper, don’t you know? I can handle it. With your help, they won’t be around much longer.”

  Four

  “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  Oscar meowed, his paw raised, swaying on the tabletop. Ashley was sat at the sofa, his attention glued to his mobile phone. “What?”

  “Not you, Oscar,” Jordan said, as Oscar meowed again. “Ashley, you listening?”