‘The judge? Yes, it looked pretty well finished to me.’
‘I hope so. I vas the one who recommended Reg to Sir
J. He’ll never forgive me if the old rascal doesn’t finish it in time for the exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery.’
‘You know Sir Jack, then?’
‘Oh yes, he’s been a client for years. A great collector, and not just from me. He’s even invested in some of Fergus Tait’s monstrosities.’ He led Kathy back to the stairs. ‘Did you have a look at our show upstairs? Vonderfully atmospheric, aren’t they? Perhaps I could interest you in one?’
Kathy smiled.‘That would be great, but I’d have to find a bigger place to live first.’
‘Who are you interested in?’ Schropp was being flirtatious.
Kathy wasn’t sure, but the name that popped into her head was the one that Deanne and Reg Gilbey had said Gabe Rudd was obsessed by.‘Henry Fuseli?’
Schropp looked both surprised and impressed. ‘Vell, that’s a minority taste all right. You’ve been to the Royal Academy?’ Seeing the puzzlement on Kathy’s face he said, ‘His Diploma Vork. Every painter elected to the Academy must give them a piece of their vork in exchange for the diploma, and these hundreds of vorks make up their permanent collection. Of course not all are on display, but you should take a look.’
Kathy did as he suggested on her way back to the tube station, passing up the great entrance flight of stairs to the lobby, where she was directed to the permanent collection. There she did finally find Fuseli’s 1790 Diploma painting entitled Thor Battering the Midgard Serpent, depicting a muscular male figure on a boat, cloak flying, arm raised to strike a sea monster rising from the waves. Kathy thought it melodramatic and rather absurd.
Brock, meanwhile, had been called away to another senior management meeting. He was able to gauge the deepening crisis by the increasingly peremptory manner of Commander Sharpe’s secretary, who gave the impression of holding him personally responsible for all the troubles her boss was enduring. On this occasion he seemed to be the first to arrive.
Sharpe waved him to a seat at the conference table. Once there would have been the offer of coffee, but such niceties had gone by the wayside.
‘I asked you to come before the others, Brock. Couple of things we need to cover. First, what’s the progress on Northcote Square?’
Brock gave him a brief summary, which only seemed to deepen his gloom.
‘No progress, then. What about the email from the murderer? Can’t you trace it?’
‘It was sent from a twenty-four-hour internet cafe a few hundred yards away from the square. Nobody there has any recollection of the sender.’
Sharpe groaned.‘This murder couldn’t have come at a worse time for us.’
‘For us?’ Brock queried.
‘Of course. Northcote Square is turning into the biggest public entertainment since “Coronation Street”, and this murder will make it bigger still. What the hell is going on? The place seems to be attracting homicidal maniacs like flies to a cow’s arse. This Dodworth character, where the hell is he? And why the hell can’t we get Wylie to talk?’
‘I’m going to see him again as soon as we’ve finished.’
‘Are you? Good. Look, I’m not blaming you, Brock. I know you’re doing everything you can. But we’re not looking good at precisely the moment when we need to look our best. I’ve just heard that the release of the Beaufort Committee recommendations is being brought forward. It certainly doesn’t help that the man himself is on the spot, watching the whole mess unfold at first hand.’
Brock said nothing. Sharpe sat back, suddenly deflated. ‘Strictly between us, Brock, I think the game’s up. By the year’s end you and I and the rest will have been put out to grass. I won’t be saying so at our meeting, but that’s what it amounts to. I want you to know that I’m going to recommend you for immediate promotion to Super. It would have happened long ago if you hadn’t been so bloody precious about staying on the streets. At least you can step down on an enhanced pension.’
‘Thank you,’ Brock said without warmth. ‘I appreciate the thought.’
The chill of the gaol, psychological rather than physical, gripped Brock as soon as he clipped on the pass and went through the barred internal security gates. He sat on the offered seat and waited while they brought out the prisoner. They had managed to fill in a little more of his background. Robert Wylie had lurked in the down-market end of the sex industry for years, the sometime proprietor of several adult bookshops with a special line in the back room, the publisher of cheap porn magazines using pirated images, the co-owner of a seedy brothel that had been closed down four times by the police in four different locations, and more recently an internet provider of suspect services. Over the years he had been the subject of numerous police inquiries, and a few successful prosecutions. Apparently he had learned from this the virtue of silence, and it seemed he wasn’t about to change now. He sat down in front of Brock and regarded him with face blank while his solicitor drew a chair to his side.
Brock stared back for a while without speaking. The man looked out of place in prison clothes, not at all the hardened criminal, but soft and pasty-faced from too little exposure to the sun. He seemed to have some kind of impediment in his nose, so that he breathed with a slight wheeze through open mouth.
Brock began.‘We’d like to contact your wife. Can you tell me where she is?’
Wylie glanced sideways at his lawyer, who looked preoccupied and worried. Neither spoke.
‘You’re in an interesting position, Wylie,’ Brock went on. ‘I hope you appreciate it. This case is big. Have you been watching the TV coverage today? Do they give you access to the web?’
Brock gazed at Wylie’s pudgy white fingers clasped loosely on the table, and tried not to think of the girls.
‘I can understand how that might appeal, your moment of fame, but it’s a dangerous game.’ Brock caught a flicker in Wylie’s eyes at the word dangerous. He wondered if he’d been getting trouble from the other inmates, and made a mental note to check. ‘A clever lawyer might be able to persuade a court that Abbott led you astray-he certainly must have been strange. But that will count for nothing if you don’t give us any help. That’s the only leverage you’ve got. And with so much public attention on the case, it’s only a matter of time before we discover everything for ourselves. Have you any idea of the number of people working on this? When we find Tracey, that’s one less thing you have to trade; when we find Stan Dodworth, that’s another. The information you’ve got has a very short shelf life, Wylie. Use it while you can.’
Brock sat back, realising it hadn’t worked. The spark ignited by dangerous had faded. He waited in silence while Wylie’s lawyer took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and began to strip off the cellophane. Brock shrugged and made to get up from his seat. Then Wylie spoke for the first time. ‘No smoking please, Russell,’ he admonished the solicitor with a wheeze. Then he leaned forward to Brock and muttered,‘What happened to the mad woman?’
‘Did you know her?’
Wylie looked annoyed at this, but answered,‘I saw her around. Well?’
‘We think Stan Dodworth killed her.’
Wylie pursed his fat lips as if in doubt, and Brock decided to tell him what had not been released to the press.‘Her body was mutilated. Electric shocks.’
Wylie drew back, startled.
Brock went on, ‘You’ll be judged by the people you mixed with, Wylie. And there’s a rumour that you and Abbott had another friend in the square, apart from Dodworth.’
Wylie looked scornful but didn’t reply.
‘Where’s Stan Dodworth?’
‘No idea.’
‘Where’s Tracey Rudd?’
Wylie’s eyes narrowed as if in calculation. Finally he muttered,‘Why don’t you ask the judge?’
Brock was hardly sure he’d heard correctly, but before he could say anything more Wylie was on his feet, turning to th
e door behind him and slapping it with his pudgy fist.
Kathy was shown into Fergus Tait’s office, but no sooner had she sat down in front of his desk than his phone rang.
‘Oh, excuse me, they’re going mad, I’d better take it,’ he said, and launched into an animated conversation with someone about the latest developments.‘Your spies are quite right,’ he said.‘The No Trace project will be entered for the Turner, and believe me, nothing else will come near it. Have you heard about today’s banner? You must see it, a knockout, an absolute stunner. Every day it’s becoming more spectacular…’
While he talked, Kathy examined the artworks on the walls-a large abstract painting, some blurry photographs which might have been stills from a video and, in pride of place on the wall behind Tait’s director’s chair, a small pyramid of cans bearing labels of frolicking puppies, mounted in a glass case.
Tait finally hung up.‘Sorry, Kathy, Channel Four. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘I’m just trying to establish if there’s anything missing from Mrs Zielinski’s house, and in particular her paintings. I understand you may have bought some things from her, and I wondered if you could tell me what they were, for the purposes of elimination.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, that’s easy. There was only the one, a small study by Francis Bacon. I can find the receipt, if you like. As a matter of fact, I sold it not long ago, to someone you know.’
‘Really?’ Kathy thought he must have made a mistake.
‘Yes, Sir Jack Beaufort, old Reg’s sitter.’
‘But… how did you know that I’ve met him?’
Tait chuckled, pleased at her confusion. ‘Because he told me so, just the other night. He’s a regular here at the restaurant. We always have a chat.’
‘Ah, I see. Did he know that the painting came from Betty?’
Tait thought about that. ‘I’m not sure. She certainly knew who I sold it to-I told her.’
The phone began to ring again and Kathy got to her feet. On her way out she looked in to the gallery, where four of Rudd’s team were hanging the eleventh banner. They were watched closely by the hollow-eyed artist in his cube, like a Grand Prix champion watching his pit-stop crew in action. The new addition featured a twice life-size crimson image of Betty’s corpse taken from the email attachment, the stark figure shocking in its contorted death pose, like a Gothic crucifixion. A cluster of press photographers was standing in front of it, mouths open.
Looking at the whole sequence of eleven hangings, Kathy could see elements tying them together that she hadn’t recognised before. There was a thin meandering line, for instance, which began, unnoticed, in the top of the first banner, and then was continued in the next, gradually working its way across all eleven like the random trail of a worm or a spider. And there was also a sense of progression in the colour which she hadn’t noticed. The first one had been entirely colourless, formed in shades of grey and black. Then the next had had a hint of blue, and after that, with each successive day, the colours had become stronger, as if the banners were coming alive.
Looking at the artist, an opposite process seemed to have been taking place, with the colour and substance leaching from him, leaving him each day leaner and more wraithlike. To Kathy it looked as if all his vitality were being transferred into his artwork.
While she was watching him, he suddenly turned his attention from his team to her, meeting her gaze. He gave her a little smile as if they shared some private knowledge, then turned away again.
Through the large restaurant windows she could see the waiters putting a final polish on the cutlery before the first diners arrived. She crossed the street to Mahmed’s Cafe, not sure what kind of reception she might get. Sonia was there, of course, along with a young girl she introduced as her niece. She was formal but not unfriendly, and after she took Kathy’s order for a black coffee she sent the girl to the kitchen and leaned confidentially over the counter.
‘Have you caught the fiend?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I know you can’t talk about it, but you must believe that Yasher had nothing to do with this. He may have some shady friends, I dare say, but he’d never get mixed up in this sort of thing. It’s beyond belief.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I am right. You know we’ve offered to cater for the funeral-no cost.’
‘That’s generous of you.’
‘Ach, it’s nothing. We’re part of the community too, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘At a time like this we must work together. We are all connected.’
Kathy reflected on how true this was as she sat down with her coffee. Everyone in Northcote Square was connected to everyone else. Gabriel Rudd knew the sculptor Stan Dodworth, who knew Patrick Abbott, who had probably abducted Tracey Rudd; Betty Zielinski had been the model of Reg Gilbey, whose client Sir Jack Beaufort knew Fergus Tait, who had sold him a painting belonging to Betty Zielinski… And the police, too, had been drawn into this web, for, according to DI Reeves, Beaufort was involved in some kind of inquiry into their future. She distrusted coincidences but she knew that real life was full of them, the appearance of false patterns when random events fall together. But sometimes the patterns wererealand meant something. Somewhereinthis, she felt, there was a pattern that would make sense of Tracey’s disappearance and Betty’s death. They just hadn’t discovered it yet.
An enormous blood-red sun trembled on the western horizon like a tumour. It cast a baleful light over the City, gilding the flank of the Nat West Tower and turning the dome of St Paul’s a petal-pink. Brock gazed out through the glass balcony doors at the sunset for a moment longer, then turned back to examine the paintings. Each had its place, glowing beneath its own concealed spotlight, and Lady Beaufort had been particular about switching all the lights on before Brock entered the room, as if preparing her children for a visitor.
‘My husband receives so many deputations from Scotland Yard these days,’she had said proudly.‘I wasn’t able to contact him, I’m afraid, but I know he won’t be long. He always lets me know if he’s going to be delayed. I’m so sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Detective Chief Inspector David Brock.’
‘Well then, Detective Chief Inspector, would you mind if I leave you here on your own until Jack returns? I happen to be watching on the television the very last episode of a particularly engaging program, which I’ve been following for some years.’
‘Please go ahead. I’ll be fine.’
She had cocked her head just like her husband did, except that in her case the gesture was whimsical rather than interrogative. She was of the same narrow build as him, the same lined features and grizzled grey hair, but at half the scale, so that they seemed liked brother and sister.
The pictures were very good. If there was any criticism to be made of the collection it was that it lacked consistency. Thinking of the spare harshness of the man, Brock had expected some parallel in the paintings, all abstract expressionist, perhaps, or all of a certain period. But the paintings were of every style and philosophy, from Stanley Spencer to Roberto Matta, Bernard Buffet to Gilbert and George, as if the judge had been so greedy for the delights of twentieth-century art that he just hadn’t been able to resist anything.
The paintings dominated the room, and the furniture seemed cowed by comparison. Brock knew the apartment building had not been long completed, and this was its most expensive unit, the rooftop penthouse, and the sofas and chairs had the air of refugees from some cosier suburban mansion.
‘What are you doing here?’ The voice cut into Brock’s thoughts.
He turned to face the man, standing taut in the doorway, staring at him.
‘I’m sorry, I phoned earlier and your wife suggested this time. She’s watching a TV program.’
‘I’m not sure this is appropriate. If you’ve come to talk to me about the report…’
‘No, no. I’m here in connection wit
h the Tracey Rudd and Betty Zielinski inquiries.’
‘I know nothing whatever about that.’
‘This was hers, wasn’t it?’ Brock pointed to the Bacon painting.‘Betty Zielinski’s?’
Beaufort seemed startled, and a new caution entered his voice.‘I believe that’s true. I bought it from a dealer, Fergus Tait.’ Then Beaufort’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Did Tait tell you this?’
‘Did you ever talk to Mrs Zielinski about the painting?’
‘No. I fail to see…’
‘I’m interested in everything to do with Betty Zielinski, sir-who she knew, what she knew.’ He paused, letting that register, then added, ‘It would seem quite natural, inevitable even, that you would speak to the former owner of your painting when you’ve been visiting the house next door to her several times a week for the last eight months.’
‘I didn’t know the former owner lived next door to Reg Gilbey until today.’
‘Well, she knew you had it.’
‘Really?’ His face set hard as if to an obtuse counsel whose claims didn’t merit his consideration.
‘So there’s nothing you can tell me about Betty Zielinski that might assist my inquiries?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What about Stan Dodworth?’
‘Who?’
‘You don’t know him? Stan Dodworth?’
‘I think I recall the name…’
‘He’s one of Fergus Tait’s artists.’
‘Then I may have seen his work. Remind me.’
‘Body Parts.’
‘Oh yes, I remember. It was of no interest to me.’
Brock turned away, eyes scanning the walls as if searching for some clue. ‘So you wouldn’t have any idea where he is now?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. Why? What’s he done?’
‘He’s disappeared.’ Brock continued his contemplation of the paintings.
No trace bak-8 Page 18
