‘What was in it? A dress of Tracey’s? He mentioned her dress being muddy.’
‘Yes, a red and yellow dress of hers, and her socks and pants. Also a complete set of his clothes—jeans, shirt, underwear, sweater and jacket.’
‘A jacket?’
‘Like a windcheater, washable.’
Clean seemed to be the operative word, Kathy thought, looking round Tracey’s bedroom. It was as neat and Spartan as a motel room. There were no pictures on the wall, no toys on display, and the fabrics were plain and unpatterned.
‘Anything else?’ Brock asked the crime scene manager.
‘No controlled drugs, but lots of medication—antidepressants, anti-inflammatories, beta-blockers, sleeping pills, vitamins. We haven’t touched his computers at this stage. He has four of them in the house. Are you going to access his emails?’
‘Yes, though I imagine Tracey was a bit young to be talking to predators on the web.’
‘Don’t be too sure. Oh, one little thing. His alarm clock was set for six-fifteen, yet he didn’t ring us till seven-oh-six.’ ‘Could have gone back to sleep.’
‘Yes, or done a bit of cleaning before we arrived.’
‘You’ll take that suit he’s wearing, will you? Check what those stains are on the legs.’
Kathy had one question. ‘Does he dye his hair?’
The woman laughed.‘I asked him that. He said it went white almost overnight when his wife died.’
‘How did she die, do we know?’
‘He told me—suicide.’
‘That’s right,’ Brock said. ‘Those drawings of horses’ heads on the wall, they’re studies for an artwork he did after it happened. The Night-Mare, it was called, inspired by his wife’s suicide. I remember it won a big prize a few years ago and got a lot of press coverage.’
‘What about Dead Puppies?’ Kathy asked.
Brock shook his head. ‘You’d better ask him to explain that one himself.’
The SOCO said, ‘Oh, was that him? Did he do Dead Puppies?’
There was a call from an officer at the back door. ‘Sir? DCI Brock? Someone to see you, sir.’
The visitor was dressed like a young businessman, neat tie, smart suit, but even before he offered identification Brock had caught something in the way he looked around him at the crime-scene activity, familiar but detached, that had him pegged for a cop, and probably not regular CID.
‘Special Branch?’ Brock read his card, wondering what this could be about. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘A quiet word, sir?’
Brock took him upstairs to the living area and led him to the front window, at the far end from Gabriel Rudd, who was now joined by Kathy.
‘I’m on protection duties, sir,’ the Special Branch inspector said quietly to Brock. ‘We—my charge and I— have been coming here to Northcote Square regularly now for eight months.We were following the news reports of your case on the radio on the way over. When we arrived and saw the crowds I thought I should let you know.’
‘Really?’ Brock was mystified. ‘Can I ask who it is you’re minding?’
The inspector leaned close to Brock and lowered his voice further. ‘Sir Jack Beaufort, sir.’
‘The judge? Why does he come here?’
The other man allowed himself a little smile. ‘He’s having his portrait painted. The artist’s name is Gilbey, Reg Gilbey. Have you come across him?’
‘No.’
‘Well, he’s apparently held in very high regard. The only problem is that he’s bloody slow. Some days he works away there for a couple of hours and at the end of it I can’t see any difference at all.’
‘Where’s his studio?’
‘Number fifteen West Terrace.’ The inspector pointed. ‘The one on the corner, with the bay window.’
It was the end house on West Terrace, Brock saw, at the corner of the square opposite the playground of the primary school and next door to the house of Betty Zielinski. The bay window was a distinctive feature, projecting out from the first floor on the corner like an observation post, and crowned by a slate-roofed turret.
‘That’s where he paints, the room with the bay.’
‘Why the protection?’
‘The judge has had death threats.’
Brock could believe it. He knew Beaufort’s reputation for tough sentencing and had seen him in action in the criminal courts, imperious and acerbic. ‘Do you come at the same time each week?’
‘No, we try to vary it. At first it was once a week, but more recently it’s twice or three times, often first thing in the morning to keep his day clear.’
‘Well, thanks for the advice. Of course, we’ll be talking to Mr Gilbey.’
‘The door-knockers have already been. He had nothing to tell them.’
‘All the same . . .’ Brock was thinking of Betty Zielinski’s scream.
The inspector looked thoughtful. ‘Did the little girl go to the school on the corner, by any chance?’
‘Yes, she did.Why?’
‘Only that I know he watches them in the playground from his bay window.’
‘Gilbey? You’ve seen him?’
‘Yes, you get a good all-round view from up there.’
‘What’s he like, this Gilbey?’
‘In his seventies, I’d guess, dresses like a tramp, says very little.’ He shrugged and checked his watch. ‘Never know, he may have seen someone watching the place. Anyway, I should be getting back.’
They shook hands and Brock said,‘You’d better give me a number I can reach you on. My sergeant, DS Kolla, will be staying around here for a while. I’ll give you her number.’
After the man had gone, Brock stood at the window for a moment contemplating the square. He felt as if he were on the stage at a public spectacle, with the mob down below and a judge in the royal box, observing his moves. He turned to speak to Kathy.
‘I’m going over to Shoreditch station,’ he said, and saw that Rudd was dressed now in sweater and jeans. The man blew his nose noisily with a large red handkerchief and Brock noticed moisture glistening around his eyes. ‘Everything all right?’
Kathy nodded. Everyone was different, she thought; it was important to remember that.You barged into someone’s home and bombarded them with questions, and expected certain reactions. If they didn’t come, you began to make suppositions. But everyone was different. It had taken Rudd all this time to show real feeling about his daughter’s disappearance. Kathy’s question about the unlocked window had started the tears, quite suddenly. It was all his fault, he had blurted, not checking to see that the window was secure. And then his shoulders had shuddered and he’d folded his arms over his head and begun to sob. She had caught some words: ‘. . . couldn’t live with it, not again . . .’
She had assumed he was referring to the death of his wife, and for the first time she felt a real surge of pity for him. His stunt at the window, his careless manner and eccentric appearance, which had appeared silly and pretentious, now seemed only vulnerable and sad, and when he had finally pulled himself together and made some weak joke about something in his eye, his early behaviour seemed brave even, a show of defiance against fate.
Brock’s voice, detached and sceptical, interrupted her thoughts. ‘Stay close to him for a while, Kathy. Get him talking,’ he said. ‘Something doesn’t feel right here. He says he’s preparing for an exhibition but there’s no sign of any work. The place is empty. Then there’s the medication. Maybe he’s suffering from depression.’
When Brock had gone Gabe started telling Kathy about Tracey, what a happy and loving little thing she was, so sensible and responsible. Already, at six years old, she was looking after her own clothes, keeping her room so neat, always ready ahead of time—unlike her father, who left everything to the last minute.
‘She gets that from her mother,’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Jane was always organised, until . . .’
‘That must’ve been terrible for you both,when she died.�
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‘Trace was only one. She doesn’t remember. I’m not sure if she knows even now what actually happened. I’ve never told her. She accepts that her mother’s gone to heaven, but she’s never asked how she got there.’
‘How did it happen?’
Gabe lifted his eyes to watch her reaction as he told her.‘She jumped off a bridge into the Regent’s Canal, not half a mile from here.’
Kathy fell silent. She decided it probably wasn’t a good time to ask him about Dead Puppies. ‘I suppose your work would be a comfort.’
He raised his eyebrows as if the idea was bizarre. ‘A comfort? You make it sound like a nice cup of tea. Is your work a comfort?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is for most people, isn’t it? Something outside of your personal life to concentrate on.’ She had a sudden image of her flat, empty and cold since Leon had left.
‘Why, isn’t it going well, your personal life?’
Kathy blinked, as if he’d caught her out. ‘What about yours?’
‘I asked first,’ he said, and narrowed his eyes, looking at her as if at something to draw. ‘Let me guess, you split up with your boyfriend recently?’
He caught the flicker of surprise on Kathy’s face and added, ‘Doesn’t take a genius.’ His eyes travelled over her head and she felt even more annoyed to sense a blush in her cheek and an almost irresistible urge to run her hand through her hair.
‘That’s good,’ he said, his voice soft and almost seductive. ‘It’ll make you sharp. That’s what pain does. Those other cops who were here earlier didn’t look as if they ever feel anything. I think if anyone’ll find Trace, it’ll be you.’
‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ Kathy asked evenly.
‘I do have a friend actually, yes.’ He didn’t sound very enthusiastic.
‘Have you spoken to her this morning?’
‘Yeah. She’ll probably be over later.’
The crowd in the street had dispersed, Kathy saw. Lights were on in all the windows of the office buildings on the east side of the square, and all the parking spaces along the kerbs around the central gardens were occupied. A small green Ford moved slowly along Urma Street and turned down East Terrace, obviously searching for a spot, and when a parked van ahead signalled it was leaving the Ford quickly manoeuvred into its space. A grey-haired couple emerged from the car and began striding purposefully towards Gabriel Rudd’s front door. Kathy took the stairs down to the entrance hall and reached it just as the officer on duty there got up to answer the doorbell.
‘Len and Bev Nolan,’ the man said to the constable. ‘We’re the missing girl’s grandparents. I spoke to someone on the phone . . .’
‘That was me,’ Kathy said, and introduced herself.
‘Have there been any developments?’ They both spoke together.
‘I’m afraid not. Let’s go upstairs where we can talk.’
When they reached the first floor Kathy found that Rudd had vanished, presumably upstairs to his studio.
‘Where’s Gabriel then?’ Bev Nolan said, peering keenly around as if she expected to catch him hiding somewhere behind the furniture. Both she and her husband had lean features and trim figures. Their gestures were quick, and somehow communicated the impression of them being used to exercise and hard work. Recently retired, Kathy thought, perhaps still playing a sport.
‘He must have gone upstairs,’ Kathy said, ‘but I’d like the chance to talk to you both, anyway.’
‘I want to hear this from him,’ Len Nolan said, threateningly.
‘Please sit down,’ Kathy insisted, and reluctantly they did. They sat silently, listening intently, as she told them what was known so far.
When she had finished,Len Nolan asked, ‘But how did they get in without making a noise? That’s what I can’t understand. Tracey’s bed is right next to the window. She’d have heard someone forcing the lock, surely, and cried out.’
‘It appears that,unfortunately,the window wasn’t locked.’
A growl of fury erupted from Len, and from his wife came a disbelieving cry, ‘No!’
‘That useless bastard!’ Len fumed. He leaped to his feet and began pacing, unable to keep still. ‘We warned them, didn’t we, Bev? We said something like this would happen.’
‘That’s right, Len.’
‘But would they listen? Would they?’
‘No, Len.’
‘Warned who?’ Kathy broke in.
‘The Social Services. We told ’em that he’s irresponsible, unfit to be a parent. And that stupid woman told us that so were most fathers, but she couldn’t do anything about it. By God, I’ll have her bloody job for this.’
Len Nolan’s face had become deep red by this stage, and Bev said anxiously, ‘Yes, Len, but let’s hear what Sergeant Kolla has to say. Come and sit down, love, please.’
‘We even took legal advice.’
‘About what?’ Kathy said.
‘About getting custody of Tracey, that’s what!’ Len snapped angrily.‘And she told us we wouldn’t have a leg to stand on without evidence of abuse or neglect. I told her how he forgets to feed her, and lost her in the supermarket that day, and how he and his mates take drugs, and all she could say was . . .’ and he put on a pathetic, whining voice, ‘. . .“Get some evidence, Mr Nolan. Get something a court will listen to.” Yes, well, we’ve got that now, haven’t we, but it’s too bloody late!’
‘Mr Nolan . . . Len,’ Kathy said soothingly, ‘please sit down and take me through this a step at a time. I need to know anything that might be relevant to Tracey’s disappearance.’
‘Yes, Len,’ Bev said, patting the seat of his chair. ‘Sit down, love, and tell the sergeant.’
‘Oh Lord,’ he said, rolling his eyes to heaven.‘Where to begin?’
But he did sit down again, and they told Kathy why they believed Gabriel Rudd to be a degenerate worm, as Len put it. No, they weren’t saying he interfered with his daughter, or was deliberately cruel to her, although sometimes they almost wished he were, because then they could have made people act. What they were saying was that he was irresponsible, negligent and completely absorbed in himself.
‘She has a nice home,’Kathy objected, ‘clothes, food in the fridge. You should see the way some children live . . .’
‘Yes, yes, but he simply doesn’t care about her. It’s mental cruelty, neglect. He doesn’t speak to her for days on end. She’s a poor little soul.’
As they talked, pouring out an endless list of niggling complaints about their son-in-law’s inadequacies, Kathy sensed the big grievance that lurked unspoken in the background, and that had transformed disapproval of their son-in-law into outright hatred. Finally she put it to them.
‘Do you blame him for your daughter’s death?’
That brought them up short. They glanced at each other, uncertain how to answer the direct question. Then Bev Nolan said softly, ‘Yes, I do,’ and her husband, speechless for once, put his hand on hers and squeezed.
‘Jane was never really well after Tracey was born. Postpartum depression, the doctors said. They gave her drugs and told Gabe he had to look after her, but he didn’t. Quite the opposite in fact . . .’
‘Totally,’ Len jerked a nod of agreement.
‘. . . left her to herself, went out with his friends, didn’t help with the baby, in the night, and her so short of sleep . . .’
‘We did what we could, of course, but he didn’t like us coming round, made that plain as day.We had some rows, I can tell you.’
‘He drove her to it,’ Bev said decisively, ‘as surely as if he’d pushed her into the canal himself.’
‘And then he set about exploiting her death any way he could,’ Len added. ‘That was the sickest thing, the unforgivable thing, playing the tragic widower. He turned Jane’s death into a public spectacle.’
‘He sued the doctors—there was some question about the drugs they’d prescribed, and in the end they settled, though Gabriel wouldn’t tell us how much for
. And then he did that dreadful exhibition about her.’
‘The Night-Mare. It won him that big prize. That’s where this all came from . . .’ Len waved a hand to indicate the house, ‘. . . from the court settlement and the art prize. He had nothing before that. Always broke when Jane was alive.’
As they lapsed into silence Kathy said quietly, ‘But he does give you access to Tracey now?’
‘She pesters him,’ Bev said, ‘until he lets her stay with us. Her room at our house has all the things she loves. Len has made her special furniture, and a dolls’ house, and a farmyard.’
‘But I suppose she has friends around here? At school?’
‘No.’ Len Nolan shook his head. ‘She’s not settled at that school. Oh, it’s very convenient.’ He made the word sound like an obscenity. ‘Only a couple of doors away. Doesn’t even have to collect her in the afternoon. But they give her a hard time. They know, you see.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The other kids, they know about her dad. Dead Puppies!’ He turned away in disgust.
Kathy hesitated. ‘What exactly is Dead Puppies?’
Bev said, ‘Don’t ask, Sergeant, please. Len’s very fond of dogs.’
‘Have they gone?’ Gabe peered down the staircase from his studio.
‘Yes,’ Kathy said. ‘You can come on down.’
‘Hell,’ he said, creeping down and slumping into a pink plastic sofa. ‘I could do with a drink.’
As if to order, the doorbell rang. The duty policeman’s head appeared over the rim of the floor. ‘Two people, Sarge. Say they’re friends of Mr Rudd. A Mr Tait and a Ms Wilkes.’
‘Oh, thank Christ,’ Gabe said, sitting upright.
‘All right, let them up,’ Kathy said, and immediately the couple burst into view.
‘Gabe, Gabe,’ the man cried. ‘You poor old feller.’
‘Oh, Jesus, Ferg,’ Gabe sighed, jumping to his feet. ‘You’ve no idea.’
Kathy recognised the newcomer as the man she’d seen on TV with the Irish accent. Though much shorter than Rudd, he caught him in a clinch and rocked him back and forward in his arms as his companion, a stocky dark-haired girl, put the bags she was carrying on the coffee table and turned to Kathy.
No Trace Page 3
