“Sort these out.” I hand her the printouts I’ve been collecting and pop the lid off the glue stick. “Give me the first portrait from The Four?”
“Here.” She hands me the picture and I stick it at the top ofthe first column. It takes up quite a lot of space, but it will do for now. “Next one?”
“Yes, please.” She hands it over, and we repeat the process until all four portraits are glued on. Then I shuffle the whole board over to the wall and prop it up against the paintwork. I look at the women, lost in thought.
“Is it helping?”
“Not really.”
“Can we stop, then?”
“Not yet.” I turn to look at her. “Do you think the paintings should be on display? If theywerepainted by BBK, I mean?”
“I haven’t really thought about it.” She shifts herself closer to me and looks at them. “They are beautiful, in their own horrid way. And they’re certainly unique. It would be sad if no one ever saw them. If these models were killed, then letting the world see them would almost be a tribute, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think I agree. I want to find out what happened, but I don’t want to glorify their deaths or make the killer famous.”
“It’s a bit like when your favorite singer turns out to be a horrible person, but the song is still a banger.” Izzy leans forward, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Should you still dancetoit?”
“I’d say probably not, but it would be hard. I get what you’re saying, though. It’s hard to separate the art and the artist when you know so much about them.” I play with a strand of loose hair. “Let me put it this way. Would you display a painting by John Wayne Gacy?”
“Who?”
“He was a serial killer in America. When he was in prison he painted and sold his ‘art.’ ” I make air quotes around the word.
“Had he been convicted?” Izzy asks. I nod. “Then no, that’s different.”
“But how?” I look at the paintings and wave the crime scene sketches in the air. “If I provethesewomen are The Four, should they be taken down? Locked away?”
“I don’t know,” Izzy says softly. “I suppose it wouldn’t be up to you, though. The Heywood Gallery would still own them, so it would be their choice. Plus, loads more people would want to see them. It would be really good for the gallery.”
“Yeah, it would. It seems morally corrupt, though.”
“Okay, time out.” Izzy laughs and leans back in a stretch. “I know it’s getting serious when the big words come out. You need a break.”
“You’re right, sorry. Way too deep for a Wednesday evening.” I check the timer on my phone. “Dinner is ready soon. Give me a hand with the sketches and I’ll stop.” I pass Izzy the sketches in turn. It’s hard to know whether they’re in the correct order, as they all look so similar, but it will do for now. I consult my notebook and grab a Sharpie, copying down the details I discovered under each pair of pictures, including the dates the bodies were found. I leave space for their names and jot a few potential research ideas along the top in red. I’m just drawing a circle around “New York death certificates???” when the alarm on my phone blares in the quiet room. My stomach rumbles on cue. “Okay, I’m done.”
“Can I add something?” Izzy asks, plucking the pen from my hand. I raise my eyebrows at her. “I know, I just think you missed something.”
“Go for it.”
Izzy leans in front of the board so I can’t see what she’s writing. After a few seconds she stands up and her careful handwriting jumps out at me: “Ritual elements? Blood and hair. Why?”
“Explore every avenue, right?” she says, looking pleased with herself. “Now, did you see any prawn crackers when you were unpacking the shopping?”
“Hey, Fliss. Izzy said you wanted to talk to me?”
I look up to find that Noah has appeared at my desk almost soundlessly. It’s Thursday morning and we’re about to start a printing lesson, so all the other desks have been set up with tiny red-handled rollers. He’s wearing a khaki green T-shirt today, a change from his usual black. It suits him in a way that gives me a not-uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. He glances at my notebook as I remind myself not to stare, and I close it gently.
“How’s your project going? You seem pretty into it.”
“Not bad,” I say, pushing my hair out of my face. I let it air-dry this morning because it’s so hot out, and it’s getting wilder with every passing second.
“So, Izzy said you wanted me for something?” he repeats, tilting his head. Typical Izzy.
“Oh, no, I just, erm…” I stop talking, waiting for Noah totake over, but he doesn’t say a word. “Party?” I utter the word in a state of near panic.
Oh, Fliss.