‘Did you tell Gabe that you’d only intended to question Betty about what Tracey had told her, and her death was an accident? At any rate, you convinced him that you’d had to make it look as if Stan had done it in order to cover your tracks, and that meant that Stan had to die, too. I imagine that wasn’t too hard after you told Stan that the police would put him back in the asylum when we caught him. Did Gabe work on him too, or did you do that alone? I think a joint campaign, myself. The great compensation for Gabe was that all this was providing incredible material for his No Trace project in the gallery. That would have eased his conscience no end, especially when you pointed out that there really was no alternative.
‘But there was another problem, both practical and aesthetic. How the hell were you going to bring No Trace to a convincing, satisfying conclusion? You couldn’t have the police finding Tracey, but you also couldn’t have the whole thing dragging on for ever. I think Gabe had been thinking about this from the start. He planned sixteen banners, at the end of which he would expose his in-laws and get Tracey back, to everyone’s relief, denying the Nolan’s claims that he’d been involved in Tracey’s abduction. Better still, with the two killings in the square you and Gabe could now stage a failed murder attempt, against him, with watertight clues pointing to the Nolans.
‘That was all right as far as it went, but from your point of view it didn’t really go far enough. It left Gabe alive to expose you one day if the fancy took him, and it didn’t have the necessary climactic force. The punters want real drama, real tragedy, real pain, isn’t that right? They don’t want Van Gogh pretending to commit suicide, they want the real thing. They don’t want Modigliani recovering from his drugs and TB, they want the tragic corpse, and the distraught pregnant mistress throwing herself out of the window after him.
‘And that’s really what this has all been about, isn’t it? The price of Dead Puppies. Gabe Rudd and Stan Dodworth weren’t making enough money for you any more, so you decided to enhance the market, give the punters what they really want.’
Tait had become very still, his eyes narrowed in thought.
‘You’re not saying much,’ Brock said, draining his glass. ‘Are you thinking of the killings? The moments of death? You enjoyed those, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t find this conversation very amusing any more,’ Tait murmured. ‘If you’ve finished what you had to say, you’d better go.’
‘Right. There is one thing I can’t work out-how you got the photograph from the Nolans’ house, and the things from Len’s workshop. He swears there’s only the one key.’
Tait gave a grim little smile.‘Well, for your peace of mind I could suggest a hypothetical answer. Len Nolan once made the mistake of lending Gabe his car to ferry Tracey somewhere. While he was at it, Gabe had copies made of the other keys on the ring, the ones to the Nolans’ house. He thought they might come in useful if things between him and the Nolans got nasty.’
‘I see.’ Brock got to his feet. ‘I’m not going to let this go, Fergus. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Good luck, Chief Inspector. And can I say that if this little visit was intended to rattle me, it was a waste of time. You see, I know I’m smarter than you are. I won’t be losing one minute of sleep over you. Enjoy your holiday, won’t you.’
Tait stepped into the outer office and then stopped short. Beyond him Brock saw one of Gabe’s computer girls standing by the photocopier behind the door. She was clutching a sheaf of paper to her chest as if for protection. She stared hard at Tait then spun on her heel and ran out. As Brock passed the door to the gallery he saw her with the other two girls, deep in whispered conversation.
‘That took a long time,’ Suzanne said as he got into the car.
‘Yes, I’m sorry, it took longer than I thought. I had to get one or two things off my chest.’
‘That’s all right. I went into the gallery to see the show. I’ve been reading about it, of course, but I suppose seeing it in the flesh brought it home to me how big this thing has been. I think it’s taken more out of you than you’ve been prepared to admit.’
‘You may be right.’ He stared into the darkness of Northcote Square gardens.
‘What is it?’ She was staring hard at him now, trying to make out his expression.
‘I’m sorry, Suzanne,’ he said softly. ‘But I can’t go. I thought I could, but I can’t.’
‘Don’t,’ she replied, surprising herself with her self-control, almost as if she’d known all along that this would happen.‘Don’t do this to me, David.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.
‘Is it me? Aren’t I interesting enough company?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Well what then? You’ve found the little girl. Surely you don’t love the Met that much? The hours? The heartache?’ She couldn’t hold back the bitterness in her voice now. ‘It’s a job, David, like any other. It’s not your life.’
‘It’s my case,’ he said, as if that was all that could be said. ‘I can’t leave now.’
He started the car and drove to Shoreditch station.
When Kathy and Bren saw him in the office their smiles faded.
‘What’s wrong, Chief?’ Bren said.‘You feel all right?’
‘I’ve just been to see Fergus Tait,’ Brock said, and told them what had happened.
‘He admitted it?’ They both looked stunned.
‘No, but he wanted me to know I was right. He’s rather proud of himself.’
‘Hell.’ Bren sank slowly into a chair.‘We’ll get to work on it while you’re away. He must have made mistakes. We’ll find something.’
‘So Deanne was wrong,’ Kathy said. ‘She said art was the highest value, beating everything else, but Tait has proved that in the end, money trumps art.’
‘Sir?’ A woman had put her head round the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I’m monitoring Gabriel Rudd’s website and something’s just come up. I thought you might be interested.’
They followed her to her computer and saw the message in bold letters:
URGENT ALL FRIENDS OF GABE RUDD WHO ARE ABLE ARE ASKED TO COME IMMEDIATELY TO THE GALLERY ENTRANCE IN NORTHCOTE SQUARE. WE HAVE IMPORTANT NEW INFORMATION REGARDING GABE’S DEATH
‘They don’t say what the information is,’the woman said.
Brock read the message again. ‘It’s possible that one of Rudd’s computer operators overheard some of my conversation with Tait.’
‘Blimey. You think they’re organising a protest or something?’
‘Or a lynching. Is the camera operating in the square?’
They went to the monitor and saw that already a small crowd hadgatheredatthegalleryentrance. Itwaslitupbythe headlights of cars circling the square, and knots of people were hurrying in from all directions. It was impossible to gauge the mood.
‘That was quick,’ Bren said. ‘Do you think we should send a patrol car down?’
‘Better inform the duty inspector,’ Brock answered, but then Kathy pointed to a figure standing in the gallery doorway.
‘Is that Tait? Can we get in closer?’
Bren worked the control panel and the camera zoomed in. It was Tait, they saw. He was waving, but not in panic, more as a celebrity might to his fans.
‘He looks full of himself,’ Bren said. ‘Maybe it was he who put the notice on the web, trying to get his spoke in before we do.’
‘Yes, you could be right.’
‘What time’s your flight, Brock?’ Kathy asked. ‘Shouldn’t we be on our way? Don’t worry about this. We can handle it.’
‘I’m not leaving, Kathy. I’m going to stay.’
They looked stunned for a moment, then both began to protest, speaking at once, but he held up his hand and said,‘I’ll drive Suzanne to the airport, then I’ll be back.’He turned and walked quickly away before they could say any more. Kathy wanted to go after him, but Bren persuaded her to leave it.
‘Let them sort it out,’he said.‘We could
have a riot on our hands here.’
He pointed at the camera monitor, where it seemed that half of Northcote Square was now filled with people, a crowd seething like a single organism, amorphous and unsettled.
Brock returned a couple of hours later, looking sombre.
He found Bren at the monitor.
‘What’s happening?’
‘It’s still a bit confused. Kathy’s gone to the square to try to get a better idea.’
‘What does she say?’
‘It seems you were right about Gabe’s computer girls. They’ve summoned the crowd.’
‘What for? What are they telling them?’
‘Well… pretty much what you told us. That the police know Gabe was murdered by Fergus Tait and not the Nolans, but they can’t prove it. Tait came out to try to calm them down and protest his innocence but apparently that didn’t go down too well and now he’s back inside again, holed up in his office. We’re sending a couple of cars down.’
35
Kathy had worked her way down West Terrace towards the gallery entrance, but there the crush was so dense that she was halted about thirty yards away. The people around her were all young, finishing their day’s work when the messages started coming in. They had poured off the commuter trains and buses, out of the nearby tube stations and pubs, and made their way to Northcote Square. At first it had just been a bit of a lark, and everyone was cheerful and intrigued, the atmosphere rather chaotic. But Kathy had sensed a gradual change. As the stories about Fergus Tait began to circulate, the laughter died away and the mood became sombre. Kathy realised that they really had seen Gabe as a star, a tragic hero. The crowd was also becoming organised, although it was difficult to see exactly how this was happening. Messages would filter through about the aims of the gathering and how they should behave, but it wasn’t clear where they were coming from- the group closest to the gallery entrance, Kathy assumed, yet it seemed that people were receiving text-messaged instructions from all over London. An enterprising TV news crew had managed to set up a camera at the top of the scaffolding on Yasher’s construction site, and was now broadcasting live.
‘So what are they after?’ Bren asked over the phone.
‘They’re describing it as a vigil,’Kathy replied.‘It seems peaceful enough at the moment, but I think we should be careful about sending in the storm-troopers. There’s so many people here now that a panic would cause a disaster.’
After four uniformed officers were stopped, politely but firmly, at the edge of the crowd now occupying streets all around Northcote Square, the Borough Commander agreed with his Head of Operations that a softly-softly approach should be adopted. Ambulances, a fire tender and a number of unmarked police vehicles were standing by, and uniformed police were attempting to turn new arrivals away. A call was made to the Public Order Operational Command Unit and an expert was on his way from ‘Riot City’, the Public Order Training Centre at Hounslow Heath.
Despite the alarming growth in numbers, the crowd remained calm, almost motionless, and the police were somewhat reassured by a second notice on Rudd’s website, which announced the formation of the ‘Vigil for Gabe’, a non-violent demonstration of support for the dead artist. Its aims were to honour his memory and seek justice for his murder.
‘There really was no need for you to interrupt your holiday, Brock,’ the Borough Commander said. ‘The best thing we can do is pray for rain.’
Brock got Kathy on the phone.‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asked. He thought he had spotted her on the monitor, one pale head among thousands. It made him think of a sea of wild flowers, swayed by the wind.
‘A bit cold, otherwise fine. I wish I’d brought my big coat and some thick socks. What’s the forecast?’
‘Heavy frost.’
‘There’s a rumour that coffee is on its way. I get the impression that they’re planning on a long wait.’
‘For what?’
‘Nobody’s sure. Brock, what about Suzanne?’
There was silence for a moment, then,‘She’s gone on.’
There was nothing Kathy could find to say.
Dawn seeped like icewater into the sky. Kathy thought she’d never felt so cold or stiff. All around her people were groaning and stretching and rubbing frozen body parts.
Strangers had huddled together in dark clumps to share their warmth, and she had found herself against the garden railings with half a dozen young women from the post office. There had been movement throughout the night, with some leaving and others taking their places, but the overall numbers didn’t seem to have diminished. At one point she’d been tempted to seek shelter with Reg Gilbey, whose lights had been on for most of the night. She saw his windows illuminated now, and then his front door opened and the old man himself appeared, precariously balancing a tray of paper cups from which steam rose into the morning air. The same thing was happening all around the square- from the building site, from Mahmed’s Cafe and The Daughters of Albion-but not from The Pie Factory, which was shrouded in darkness.
Kathy’s mobile rang, Brock’s voice.‘Still with us?’
‘Just about.’ The phone was freezing against her cheek. She stood up and gave a wave towards the parapet where she knew the camera was mounted.
‘Your chums have been busy during the night.’
‘Have they?’
‘They’ve put more information on the web, and we’ve been monitoring thousands of messages of support from all around the world. They’ve announced that they want a complete and voluntary confession from Tait, and apparently you’re all going to stay there until he gives it. They’ve established a liaison committee with the Hackney police and they assure us they intend their actions to be non-violent. They’ve also proclaimed that Vigil for Gabe is an artwork, somewhere between a happening and an installation, and any interference from the authorities will be regarded as cultural vandalism. A number of impressive names and organisations from the art world support their position, and they plan to submit an application to the Arts Council for funding, and to the Tate for the next Turner Prize, in conjunction with No Trace.’
‘Tricky.’
‘Yes. And I’m ordering you to return to the Shoreditch canteen for debriefing over a hot breakfast.’
‘If you insist.’
They’d been busy in other ways, too. While Kathy was in the canteen a call came through for Brock from Fergus Tait, his first contact since the occupation of Northcote Square had begun. ‘They’ve cut off my bloody electricity and phone lines. I’m freezing in here. You’ve got to come and get me out.’
‘I’ll pass on your request, Mr Tait, but you’ve got to appreciate that it’s a very difficult situation. We don’t want to provoke a riot.’
‘I don’t care what you provoke, they’re going to kill me.’
‘We’ve had no indication of that. Have they threatened you?’
‘They won’t let me leave! They’ve even locked off the restaurant and kitchens-I’ve got no food and I’m bloody starving.’
‘Why don’t you just give them what they want?’
‘Don’t be bloody stupid.’
‘Better not waste your phone battery, Mr Tait. Goodbye.’
The Pie Factory Siege, as the press named it, continued through that day and on into its second night. There was another call from Tait as dusk fell. His voice was rambling and confused, and it appeared he had finished the last dregs of the liquor cabinet in his office. He was very hungry, he said, and he was frightened they would come for him in the night. He was burning paper for light and heat, and Brock warned him to be careful of causing a fire. Did he have water? The mains had been turned off, he said, but there was still a trickle coming through the tap in the toilet. He refused to discuss a confession. ‘I didn’t go through all that to have the rewards snatched from me now,’ he barked angrily, and hung up.
Soon afterwards Bren answered a phone call for Brock. ‘Someone saying he’s a concerned citizen. Won’t give a name
, but it sounds to me like a Turkish Cypriot trying to imitate Tony Soprano. He’s offering to solve the impasse by going in and persuading Mr Tait to confess.’ Brock took the phone and thanked the anonymous caller, but declined his kind offer.
A crisis meeting of combined authorities was held later that evening. There were fears about public health and safety issues, traffic disruption and public order, as well as bad publicity. The fire brigade was especially concerned about the risks of a conflagration in the old buildings, with their stores of flammable liquids in the workshops and kitchens. And then there was the problem of Fergus Tait. If he could be extracted, the whole situation would be defused-but how could this be done? The spokespersons for Vigil were adamant that no police or other authorities would be allowed through, and several plainclothes officers had been caught and ejected before they could reach The Pie Factory. Plans were prepared for a helicopter-borne rescue from the air, but the crowd had anticipated them and people now covered the roof, like a human blanket smothering Tait.
Tait called Brock again at dawn on the third day, sounding exhausted and disoriented. He wanted to speak to Brock face to face, he said. Brock agreed to see what he could do. The liaison committee was consulted, and after some debate it was agreed that Brock could go in alone, without food. If he was taken hostage, they said, that was too bad.
A car dropped him at the edge of the crowd, which parted before him as he approached. It was an eerie experience, walking through the muffled streets in the dim grey light, as if a whole quarter of the city had been taken over by an army of silent ghosts. He reached the gallery entrance of The Pie Factory, feeling hundreds of eyes on him as one of the crowd came forward and unlocked the glass door.
‘He’s in the gallery,’ the man said. ‘We can see him through the window.’
‘Thanks.’
Brock stepped into the gloom of the interior, hearing the lock snap behind him. ‘Tait?’ he called, but there was no reply. When he got to the doorway to the gallery he saw the pale figure sprawled beneath Gabe’s final, sixteenth banner, his back propped against the wall, chin down on his chest.
No trace bak-8 Page 35
