Whispers Under Ground

question.’
    ‘I thought I had,’ I said.
    ‘Are you on a job?’
    ‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ I said. ‘I’m just here to expand my horizons.’
    ‘Well,’ said Fleet. ‘Check out the pieces at the far end – that should keep you suitably expanded.’
    There were only two pieces at the far end of the space, hard up against the bare brick of the exterior wall and the crowd was noticeably thinner. They struck me as soon as I approached, struck me the way the sight of a beautiful woman does, or Lesley’s ruined face, or a sunset or a nasty traffic accident. I could see it was having the same effect on the others that came to view it – none of us got closer than a metre and most retreated slowly away from piece.
    I got a sudden rushing, screaming sensation of terror as if I’d been tied onto the front of a tube train and sent hurtling down the Northern Line. No wonder people were stepping back. It was about as powerful a vestigium as I’d ever encountered. Something seriously magical had gone into the making the piece.
    I took a deep breath and a slug of wine and stepped up for a closer look. The mannequin was the same make as those in the other gallery but posed, in this case, arms outflung, palms turned upwards as if in prayer or supplication. It wore on its torso what anyone with a passing interest in Chinese history or Dungeons and Dragons would recognise as being like the scale armour worn by the terracotta army – a tunic constructed by fastening together rectangular plates the size of playing cards. Only in this case each plate had a face sculpted onto it. Each of the faces, while simplified to a shape with a mouth, slits or dots for eyes and the barest hint of a nose, was clearly individual and carved into a distinct expression of sadness and despair.
    I felt that despair, and a strange sense of awe.
    A slender man in his early thirties with a long face, short brown hair and round glasses joined me in front of the sculpture. I recognised him from the flyer in James Gallagher’s locker – it was Ryan Carroll, the artist. He wore a heavy coat and fingerless gloves. Obviously not a man to put style before comfort. I approved.
    ‘Do you like it?’ he asked. He had a soft Irish accent that if you’d put a gun to my head I’d have identified as middle-class Dublin but not with any real confidence.
    ‘It’s terrible,’ I said.
    ‘Yes it is,’ he said. ‘And I like to think horrific as well.’
    ‘That too,’ I said which seemed to please him.
    I introduced myself and we shook hands. He had stained fingers and a strong grip.
    ‘Police?’ he asked. ‘Are you here on business?’
    ‘I’m afraid so,’ I said. ‘The murder of a young art student called James Gallagher.’ Carroll didn’t react.
    ‘Do I know him?’ he asked.
    ‘He was an admirer of yours,’ I said. ‘Was he ever in contact?’
    ‘What was his name again?’ asked Ryan.
    ‘James Gallagher,’ I said. Again not a flicker. I pulled up a headshot on my phone and showed him that.
    ‘Sorry,’ he said.
    This is where, as police, you have to make a decision – do you ask for an alibi or not? Fifty years of detective dramas mean that even the densest member of the public knows what it means when you ask them where they were at a certain time or date. Nobody believes ‘just routine’, even when it’s true. With television broadcast levels of vestigia radiating from his art work I figured Ryan Carroll had to be involved in something but I had no evidence that he’d ever come in contact with James Gallagher. I decided that I would write him up tonight and let Seawoll or Stephanopoulos decide whether they wanted him interviewed. If he was statemented by someone else from the Murder Team then I could pursue the magic angle while he was distracted by that.
    I love it when a plan comes together, especially when it means someone else will do the heavy lifting. I waved my glass at the mannequin in his coat of despair.
    ‘Did you make them yourself?’ I asked.
    ‘With my own little hands,’ he said.
    ‘You’re going to make a million,’ I said.
    ‘That’s the plan,’ he said smugly.
    A blonde woman in a blue dress waved at Ryan to get his attention. When she had it, she pointed at her watch.
    ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Constable,’ said Ryan. ‘Duty calls.’ He walked over to the blonde woman who took his arm and pulled him gently back towards the waiting crowd. As they went she fussed at Ryan’s collar