No trace bak-8

by Barry Maitland

‘Didn’t say. He seemed concerned about you. He left a number.’

  ‘Thanks. Did Lloyd tell you anything about him?’

  ‘He’s single, that’s the main thing. Lloyd said he seems a nice bloke, but he doesn’t know him well. A bit of a dark horse. You know what Special Branch are like. Someone else rang your phone.’ She checked her note on a piece of paper.‘Adrian Schropp.’

  For a moment Kathy couldn’t place the name, then she remembered the West End art dealer.

  ‘He didn’t leave a message either. Both Brock and DI Gurney phoned me as well, just to check how you were.’

  ‘Did they say whether they’ve found a woman called Poppy Wilkes yet, by any chance?’

  ‘They didn’t say. There was a report about her on the news this morning. Police are appealing blah, blah, blah. We’re nothing if not appealing. How’s the toast?’

  ‘Good. I’m really hungry.’

  ‘I’d make you some more, but that’s all there is. And it seems that was the only solid food you had in your flat.’

  ‘Sorry. I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

  ‘I can see that. I might pop out and buy a few things.’

  ‘There’s money in my bag, wherever that is.’

  While Nicole was out, Kathy washed her face and brushed her teeth. Looking at herself in the bathroom mirror she understood the concern she’d seen in her friend’s face. She looked drained, the way her car battery sounded on cold mornings. Coupled with the empty fridge and generally unkempt state of her flat, it didn’t need a detective to draw conclusions.

  She had a drink of water and began using her phone, starting with Shoreditch, where she was put through to Bren. He was relieved to hear from her and sounded just a bit too sympathetic for her liking, as if she’d been relegated to the ranks of the fragile and infirm. They hadn’t found Poppy yet; her face was in all the papers.

  She got the answering service on DI Reeves’s phone and left a quick message, then tried Adrian Schropp’s number. The strange mixture of German consonants and plummy public-school vowels answered, sounding oddly evasive.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant Kolla, I rang you in error, really. It vas nothing.’

  Kathy looked at Nicole’s note, with his name, number and the time of the call, two hours before, and the comment, Information for you.‘I understand you have some information, Mr Schropp. What’s it concerning?’

  ‘As I say, an error. I saw the picture of that girl in the paper this morning, Poppy Vilkes, and thought I knew her. But I vas wrong. So sorry to bother you.’ He hung up abruptly, leaving Kathy puzzled.

  Nicole came back with four heavy carrier bags, and set about filling Kathy’s shelves and refrigerator. ‘We’ll have a proper breakfast, bacon and eggs, and I’ve bought you some cutlets for your dinner, and salad and fruit…’ Kathy watched, feeling guilty, guessing what was coming.

  As they finished the bacon and eggs, Nicole said casually, ‘You’ve been feeling low, haven’t you, since you split up with Leon?’

  ‘I’m not depressed.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ Nicole looked pointedly around the room, then at Kathy.‘When did you last get your hair done?’

  ‘I had an appointment the day this case started, and I had to cancel. I haven’t had time since.’

  ‘You mean you haven’t made time since. You can’t just live through your work, Kathy. That’s a trap.’

  ‘I think about Leon sometimes, but mostly I think about that little girl we found, with the black leg.’

  ‘What?’

  Kathy explained, Nicole looking horrified. ‘And I imagine Tracey going the same way while we’ve been trying to find her, the gangrene spreading…’ She was suddenly startled to find her eyes filling with tears. Hell, she thought, maybe I am depressed.

  Nicole put a hand on hers.‘You must find it lonely on your own up here, don’t you?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ Kathy used her other hand to wipe her eyes.‘But not as lonely as living with someone whose mind is taken up with someone else. That’s much worse, isn’t it?’

  ‘Look, I think you should go to your GP. There’s lots of things they can give you now, to get you over a hump.’

  ‘Thanks. Maybe I will.’ She glanced at the time. ‘I’m worried about you being away from work. I’m really fine now, if you want to get back.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I should, if you’re sure. I bought you the paper and a couple of magazines. Go back to bed and have a real rest today. I’ll look in on the way home tonight.’

  She was talking as if to an invalid, Kathy thought. She gave a suitably limp smile of thanks and saw Nicole to the door, then went to her bedroom and started getting dressed. Before leaving she spent a bit more time on her make-up than she’d been accustomed to lately, trying to manufacture a glow of health in her cheeks.

  Adrian Schropp was talking to his assistant at the desk in the front room of the Cork Street gallery. On the walls around them the large, misty Norwegian landscapes glowed beneath the lights as if some revelation were about to emerge. Kathy hoped that it might serve as an inspiration to the fog in her own head.

  Schropp looked up and tried to hide his surprise. ‘Vy, Sergeant Kolla, how nice. Have you changed your mind about buying a fjord? Better hurry, they’ve nearly all gone.’

  ‘Yes, I see the red spots. But it was your phone call I wanted to speak to you about, Mr Schropp.’

  ‘But I thought I explained…’ The dealer glanced at his assistant and said, ‘Give me five minutes, darling.’ He crooked a finger at Kathy and led her through to the rear gallery and a couple of seats set beside a coffee table piled with art magazines and catalogues.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, as I said, it vas all a mistake. You’ve vasted your time.’

  ‘Any information about Poppy Wilkes may be vital at this time, Mr Schropp. Please tell me what you had in mind and let me be the judge.’

  Schropp sighed, looking uncomfortable. ‘It really is important, is it?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Vell…’ he began reluctantly,‘I recognised her face in the paper this morning. She came in here several years ago, vith an odd story. She’d been told she vas related to a painter who had done a portrait of Mick Jagger, years ago. She’d recently visited the National Portrait Gallery and had seen such a portrait there. The people there told her that the painting had been acquired through the Adrian Schropp Gallery, and that ve might be able to put her in touch vith the artist. I pointed out that there might be other portraits of the singer, but she vas convinced it vas this one. I saw no harm in it, and told her vhere the artist lived.’ He hesitated.‘It vas Reg Gilbey. Vhen I saw the girl’s picture this morning, I thought, that if Reg is her relative he may know vhere she has gone, to some other relative maybe, so I tried to ring him. Vhen I got no reply I rang you instead. Then I thought maybe that vas a stupid thing to do. Maybe the whole thing vas a mistake, and anyvay, it’s up to Reg to get in touch vith you. I vouldn’t like the old boy to think I vas informing on him.’

  ‘You’re quite right to tell me this, Mr Schropp. Reg may not have seen the papers.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Schropp seemed relieved. ‘He’s been rather vague lately. I think vhat’s been happening in Northcote Square has affected him deeply.’

  ‘Do you know of any relatives of his?’

  He scratched an ear.‘I recall a couple of old dears who came to an opening once-sisters or cousins-but I don’t know vhere they lived. You’d have to speak to Reg.’

  The crowds were as dense in the square as before, and the floral tributes outside Gabriel Rudd’s house had grown to a small meadow, extending out across Urma Street, which had now been closed to traffic because of the risk of accidents. People were moving among the flowers, taking photographs and stooping to read the messages. Although it was midday, the sky was so darkly overcast that the lights in the buildings shone almost as brightly as at night. From the street Kathy saw a light in the bay window of Reg Gilbey’s studio. She pushed her way t
hrough the throng to the iron gate, went up the steps to his front door and rang the bell, hammering the brass lion-head knocker at the same time. There was no response. She returned to the street and went round the corner. Across the way, children in the school playground were pressed against the railings, pointing and waving to the crowds. She turned down the lane behind West Terrace and opened the gate into Gilbey’s backyard. His kitchen door was unlocked, and she went inside. The house was silent, a faint smell of burnt cheese and cigarette smoke hanging in the air.

  ‘Reg!’ She listened for a reply, but there was nothing. She continued along the hall, seeing the mail spilled over the floor beneath the letterbox in the front door. She climbed the stairs and opened the door to the studio. Gilbey was sitting in the middle of the room, staring at his painting of Betty Zielinski as a young woman. Beyond him, the easel that had held the portrait of Sir Jack Beaufort was empty.

  ‘Reg? Are you all right?’

  The old painter stirred, turned his head and squinted at her through his thick-framed glasses.‘Poppy’s not here,’ he said, his voice weak. The flesh on his face seemed pinched and even more wizened than before.

  ‘But she’s been here,’ Kathy said, guessing.

  He gave a little nod. It seemed such an effort for him to speak that Kathy took a chair to his side and leaned close so that she wouldn’t miss anything.‘Tell me about it,’ she said softly.

  ‘She screamed,’ he said after a pause, eyes narrowed as if watching a replay inside his head.‘She just screamed. Never heard such a scream.’ His voice faded away and with it his attention. Close to, his skin looked as thin as tissue paper. Kathy got to her feet and hurried downstairs to the kitchen, finding the cupboard where she remembered him keeping the whisky bottle. She found a glass and returned upstairs. He hadn’t stirred an inch.

  ‘Here, try this, Reg.’

  The smell of the vapour under his nose roused him a little, but when he tried to take the glass his hand was trembling too much, and Kathy held it while he sipped. After a moment a little glow of pink blossomed in his cheek.

  ‘Want a cup of tea?’

  He shook his head.‘Another one of them.’

  She refilled the glass, and his grip was steadier.

  ‘You never told me you two were related,’ Kathy said.

  He shot her a sideways glance.‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I’m the police, Reg. We get to know things.’

  ‘Tell me what she’s supposed to have done then.’

  ‘That I don’t know, but I do need to speak to her. So what happened exactly?’

  He took another sip. ‘Couple of years ago she turned up on my doorstep. Never seen her before. Claimed I was her natural father. I told her that was bollocks. I didn’t know anyone by the name of Wilkes. She said that was the name of her adoptive parents, both now dead. Before she died, her mother’d told her she was adopted, and her real dad was a famous London painter, who’d done a portrait of Mick Jagger. Well, I had done one, but others had too, so I told her it was a case of mistaken identity.’

  Gilbey emptied the second glass and handed it to Kathy, who took it but didn’t refill it. ‘Tell me the story first,’ she said.

  He grunted and fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes, lit one and coughed.‘She wasn’t convinced. She said she was an artist too, and it obviously ran in the blood.

  When I went on denying I had anything to do with her blood she seemed more sad than anything else. Anyway, she finally left. Then I discovered she’d got herself taken on by Tait as one of his tame artists at The Pie Factory. She didn’t raise the matter of her paternity with me again, or mention it to anyone else, as far as I know, but sometimes I’d catch her looking up at my windows, or watching me in the supermarket, with a look in her eyes that said, You know. It got on my nerves. Eventually it occurred to me that Fergus Tait might have her date of birth for her national insurance or whatever. I thought I’d work out when she was conceived, and with luck I’d have been abroad at the time, or in hospital or something, and I’d be able to put the matter to rest.’

  He sucked on his cigarette and took a deep breath.‘Tait did have the date. Trouble was, when I worked it out I found she must have been conceived around the same time as I got Betty pregnant, and that made me think. I thought back to that day I took Betty to get rid of the kid. She came out weeping and upset, but how did I know what had happened in there? Had she told them to keep the money and leave the baby alone? Soon after that, she went away to stay with a sister in Birmingham. She was away for months. Could she have had the baby and given it away? I didn’t want to know, and I didn’t raise it with Betty. The way she was about her lost baby she could have said anything, true or not.’

  He hesitated, turning his attention back to the woman in the painting, her face bright and open, unclouded by dark dreams, sunlight spilling across her skin.

  ‘Go on, Reg,’ Kathy urged softly.

  ‘Poppy came here this morning. She’d seen the pictures of herself in the papers, and she was rattled. She said she just wanted to know the truth-was I her dad? Well, this time I didn’t deny it outright. I told her the story of Betty’s baby and the coincidence of the dates. I said if she wanted we could have a test done. I thought she’d be pleased, but she just seemed shocked. I asked her where the Wilkeses came from, and when she said Birmingham I told her that’s where Betty had gone, and she started screaming. I don’t know why.’

  ‘Reg, did she give you any idea of where she might be staying?’

  ‘I did ask her when she first arrived but she wouldn’t say. When she left I watched her cross the square, through the gardens, and head down East Terrace. Then I lost sight of her.’

  ‘Okay. Is there anything else you can tell me?’

  He looked fearfully at her and said, ‘She knows who killed Betty, doesn’t she? That’s why she screamed. She knows who murdered her mother.’ He closed his eyes as if to wipe away the thought, then turned to stare again at Betty’s painting. ‘When she came here it was almost as if she took the other woman’s place,’ he murmured.

  Kathy hesitated.‘What?’

  ‘The other woman, Gabriel Rudd’s wife, can’t remember her name now.’

  ‘Jane? Tracey’s mother?’

  ‘That’s it. They used to live at number thirteen, next to Betty, in the basement flat.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The Rudds, when his wife was alive, before he bought that big place he’s in now. They were broke then. You’d see them, out in the gardens together, Jane and Gabriel and the sculptor feller.’

  ‘Stan Dodworth?’

  ‘Yes, him. Big pals they were, the three of them. Betty loved them too, especially when Jane got pregnant with the little girl-Betty hovered around her all the time, living next door.’

  ‘The Rudds used to live in the basement flat where Betty’s body was found?’ Kathy felt a prickle in the back of her neck.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How do you mean about Poppy taking Jane’s place?’

  ‘Well, they reminded me, the three of them. You’d see them together, just like it once was with the first wife. I thought Poppy might have ended up marrying the Rudd feller, to tell the truth.’

  As she turned to go, Kathy said,‘What happened to the portrait of the judge?’

  ‘Went to the framer this morning. Beaufort insisted. Last chance to get it into the exhibition.’ Reg sounded defeated.

  Once outside, Kathy phoned Shoreditch and was put through to Sergeant Scott. ‘When you were investigating Jane Rudd’s suicide, Bill, do you remember where they were living?’

  ‘Yeah, in Northcote Square. Not where Rudd lives now. It was a small basement flat on West Terrace.’

  ‘Next door to Betty Zielinski?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The same basement where her body was found?’

  There was a silence.‘I suppose it is. Is that significant?’

  ‘I don’t know.�
�� Kathy hung up, wondering.

  In a different office at Shoreditch, Bren was signing for the package that had just arrived. After the messenger left, he placed it on the desk in front of him and just stared at it. He remembered the feeling he’d had when the envelope with his O-level exam results had arrived in the post, years ago. You knew that no amount of wishing could change what was written inside and yet you hesitated, feeling that nothing was quite settled until you actually read it yourself. He wanted to get a coffee, but knew he shouldn’t waste time. He ripped open the package, read the short covering letter, and slipped the CD into his computer.

  Scrolling through the index of the six hundred and seventy-two messages, he found that the majority had come from Wylie’s account and that most were either junk mail or exchanges with third parties. But there were about twenty messages between Abbott and Wylie. He selected the most recent one, dated a few days before Tracey disappeared.

  From pabbott@kwikmail. co

  To rjwylie@kwikmail. co

  Time

  10 October 7.38.23am

  Subject no subject

  Bob, TOLD YOU! it’s worse this morning, black up to her knee, this ones finished. Pat

  Kathy crossed through the gardens to East Terrace on the other side of the square. As she approached the corner she could see that Mahmed’s Cafe was doing a roaring trade. Schoolkids and tourists were queuing out onto the street alongside the office workers who normally bought their lunches here, and who were now looking quite put out. Through the window she saw that Sonia had brought in extra help-two more girls on the counter and several in the kitchen behind. She squeezed through the queue, getting dirty looks as she worked her way forward to the counter and the cash till where Sonia was stationed.

  ‘Sonia?’

  The woman looked up sharply. Maybe she was still annoyed with the police for harassing her son, or maybe it was something else. Kathy leaned close across the counter. ‘Poppy Wilkes, have you seen her?’

  If she’d been more sure of what was going on and where her duty lay, Sonia might have made a convincing show of ignorance, but Kathy saw her indecision.

  ‘Come on, Sonia.’