No Trace

by Barry Maitland

  ‘You’re with the police, are you? Are you looking after him?’

  ‘Yes. DS Kathy Kolla.’

  The woman scrutinised Kathy critically, as if wondering whether she was up to the job. ‘I’m Poppy Wilkes, and that’s Fergus Tait, Gabe’s dealer. We saw the in-laws leaving and we thought he might need some moral support.’

  ‘I kept out of their way,’ Gabe said. ‘They spoke to Kathy. I suppose they said it was all my fault.’

  ‘Well, that’s only to be expected.’ Fergus Tait patted his shoulder. For a small man, he had a big presence. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, dazzling white shirt and a large, green satin tie. His red hair was expertly layered, and his big round glasses gave his eyes a hypnotic stare. ‘But we’ve brought you the antidote, old chum.’ He reached into one of the plastic bags and drew out a bottle of vodka.‘Glasses, my love,’ he said to Poppy, who seemed to know where to look. She returned with four tumblers and some plates.

  ‘Ah . . .’ Kathy began to object, but Fergus ignored her, pouring four drinks and picking one up. The other two followed suit. Fergus winked at Kathy. ‘Won’t you have a little drink with us, Sergeant? To the success of your hunt for little Tracey? We shan’t tell on you.’

  ‘I’d like Gabe to keep a clear head,’ Kathy said.

  ‘I can assure you that Gabe’s head gets clearer with every one of these that he puts away, is that not right, boy?’ He tipped the glass and swallowed in one gulp. The other two did the same, then Rudd sank back against the cushions and drew his long legs up to his chest.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ he sighed. Poppy went to sit beside him and put her arms around him.

  ‘They’ll find her, Gabe,’ she said, and from the way she looked at him Kathy guessed that this must be his ‘friend’.

  ‘You’re feeling bad, of course you are.’ Tait poured another drink. ‘How else could you feel?’

  ‘Helpless. I feel helpless.’

  ‘You need something to eat,’ Poppy Wilkes said briskly. ‘We brought you some lunch from Mahmed’s. Oh, Stan sends his love too, of course. He’d have come himself, but you know how he is with the pigs.’ She shot a mischievous grin at Kathy. ‘Come on, Gabe, have some food.’

  ‘No, no, I couldn’t.’

  Poppy ignored his protests, unpacking Turkish bread and dips and cold meats and salads onto the plates. They looked good and Kathy suddenly felt hungry. Then she caught Tait watching her. He winked.‘Tuck in, Sergeant. There’s plenty here.’

  ‘Thanks. Maybe later.’

  ‘What’s going on out there?’ Gabe asked, reaching forward to tear off a chunk of bread.

  ‘They’re searching the building site,’ Poppy said. ‘The builders have had to leave and they’re really annoyed at the delay. So is Mahmed.’

  ‘Why Mahmed?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘He owns the building. And most of the builders are his relatives.’

  ‘Batty Betty barged in here. She claimed she heard a scream in the night.’ Gabe was speaking with his mouth full, and Kathy noticed he was watching Poppy’s reaction. ‘Maybe that’s why they’re looking at the building site next door to her.’

  ‘What time was that?’ Poppy was making a sandwich.

  ‘Five past two. She was very precise.’

  Poppy shrugged.‘She probably saw little green men, too.’

  The drink had brought some colour to Gabe’s face, and when he spoke again he was a little more voluble, his voice fluid. ‘It’s like a horrible dream, Trace disappearing like that, you’ve no idea. I still can’t take it in, you know? I feel sick thinking about her out there somewhere . . .’

  ‘What you need, old son, is something to occupy your mind while this is going on,’ Fergus Tait said decisively. ‘Work, that’s what you need! Get down to some work.’

  Gabe shook his head in protest. ‘No way. I couldn’t. Not while Trace . . .’

  ‘That’s exactly the right time. Do it for her. Better than sitting around chewing your nails.’

  ‘I think he’s right, Gabe,’ Poppy said cautiously, as if she half-expected Gabe to round on her. But he just looked thoughtful.

  ‘You’ve been promising me something for ages now,’ Tait went on.‘So get off your backside and do it, will you? Art is pain, Gabriel, you know that.“Real pain for my real friends, champagne for my sham friends”—you know the old line. So show us your real pain. Remember Night-Mare, eh? Pure pain it was, and you can do it again.’

  This seemed to be a common theme, Kathy thought, watching Gabe’s bowed head as he took this in. Tait’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Kathy noticed Gabe’s right index finger begin to tap the side of his leg.

  ‘I suppose I could try . . . maybe once they’ve found Trace . . .’

  ‘No, no. Right now, boy, this very minute. I’ll tell you what, I’ll make things easy for you, I’ll give you a deadline. I’ll send out the invitations this very day to the opening of Gabriel Rudd’s new one-man show at The Pie Factory on this Friday coming.’

  ‘Friday!’ Gabe looked incredulous ‘Don’t be daft, Ferg, that’s only four days away.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get moving then, hadn’t you?’

  ‘It’s totally impossible, Ferg . . . Maybe in six months, a year . . .’

  ‘No, Friday,’ Tait insisted. ‘I’m serious, deadly serious. The eyes of the world are on you, Gabe. Strike while the iron is steaming hot.’

  Poppy, seeing that he really was in earnest, said, ‘But my exhibition, Fergus. It’s still got two weeks to run. Why don’t we wait till then?’

  ‘Sorry, love, I’ll make it up to you. This has to happen now.’

  Gabe stared at him. ‘You’re crazy.’ But his mind was working and it seemed to Kathy that there was a spark of excitement in his eyes. She wondered if it was Poppy’s objection that had persuaded him.

  ‘What’ll we call the show?’ Fergus asked. ‘How about Scream, in honour of Batty Betty? And Munch of course— we can put an image of his painting on the invitations.’

  ‘Too corny,’ Gabe said immediately. ‘How about, No Trace?’

  ‘Brilliant! That’s it!’ Fergus cried. ‘I’ll get the designer working on the invitations and posters right away.’

  ‘But Poppy’s right,’ Gabe protested, though without much conviction, Kathy thought. ‘Let’s make it a month, three weeks at least. We’ll know then . . .’ he stopped, before adding in a whisper,‘. . . about Trace.’

  ‘That’s exactly the point, Gabe, don’t you see? We have to do this now, while it’s front page news. And it can only help the police, with the publicity and all.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ Kathy said. ‘You’d better hold off any firm plans until I’ve got clearance.’

  ‘You go ahead, Sergeant,’ Fergus waved airily as he got to his feet. ‘I have to go. Have you been to The Pie Factory yet?’

  Kathy said no.

  ‘Well, you must come over and see us. Poppy here has a fabulous show on at the moment, The Loss of Many Little Things—you’ll love it. Are you coming, my dear?’

  Poppy said she’d stay with Gabe for a while.

  ‘Good idea,’ Fergus said, heading for the stairs. ‘Get a few ideas flowing for No Trace.’

  Kathy started to protest, but he was already gone.

  Poppy moved closer to Gabe and began talking to him in a low, insistent monotone. It was to do with his work, Kathy realised, picking up phrases, ‘. . . a narrative of pain . . . absence and loss . . .’ but the tone was private, almost intimate, like a trainer psyching up a fighter for the ring. Gabe listened, stuffing food into his mouth. Kathy left them to it and went over to the window to ring Brock.

  Brock was in the control centre that the borough operational command unit had established in the Shoreditch police station, the focus of a storm of activity. He listened to Kathy’s report of Tait’s plans to exploit, as she saw it, Tracey’s disappearance.

  ‘Publicity can only help at this stage,’ he told her, and said he’
d get the media unit to agree on some guidelines with the art dealer. ‘Get over here for a team briefing at four, will you, Kathy? I’ll send someone to sit with Rudd.’ He sounded preoccupied.

  All over London the mobilisation was in full swing, detectives tracking down previous offenders, uniforms knocking on doors, volunteers searching parks and wasteland, new technology cranked into action. Brock stared at the large plastic-covered street map of east London on the wall, on which coloured marks were constantly being added and erased to track progress on the ground. To one side, as if to encourage the searchers, were pinned the pictures of the three missing girls, Aimee, Lee and Tracey. They depended on him now. The machine was in his hands. He was filled with a sudden overwhelming sense of inadequacy.

  One of the computer operators said something and the supervising inspector replied, then turned to Brock as if expecting his comment.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Oh, just about the new data, sir—so much of it.’

  They were all looking at him now, expectant, waiting for some word of insight or inspiration from the boss, and he felt at a loss, for he had nothing for them, not yet.‘This is how it goes,’ he said, making his voice steady, confident. ‘Until we get a finger on the pulse.We’ll know when that happens.’

  They seemed satisfied, nodding and turning back to their screens. The metaphor was wrong though, he thought, too gentle. He searched for something more visceral; until I have something to get my teeth into. His instinct was that the place to find it wasn’t here, for all the Mission Control paraphernalia of computer screens and headsets and data charts; it was out there, on the street. He fought to suppress his frustration, picking up the latest copy of the log and forcing himself to read.

  Gabriel Rudd was pacing up and down in agitation, muttering to himself. Having worked him up to this state, Poppy had left.

  ‘You okay?’ Kathy asked.

  He stopped in his tracks and blinked at her.‘What? Oh, yeah.’He took a deep breath, trying to calm down.‘This is how it goes,’ he said, flapping his hands in despair. ‘Until something comes. An idea, something to get my teeth into.’

  ‘Maybe this really isn’t the best time, while you’re worrying about Tracey.’

  He frowned, as if he couldn’t for the moment follow what she meant. ‘Oh, Trace, yeah. No, Ferg’s right. This is exactly the time to do it, while the pain’s fresh.’

  ‘Is it? I didn’t really understand what he was saying about pain. Isn’t art about, I don’t know, beauty and making people feel good?’

  He shook his head impatiently, as if he didn’t want to get into some kind of childish debate.‘Science reassures, art is meant to disturb,’ he muttered distractedly.‘A painter said that—Braque. I’m going upstairs to the studio, okay?’

  Kathy went back to the window, wishing she’d been given something else to do. She didn’t believe that there would be a ransom phone call, and she didn’t think anyone else did either. Rudd needed a nursemaid rather than a detective in his house. Discounting their anger, Kathy suspected that the Nolans had pretty much summed Gabriel Rudd up—self-absorbed and neglectful. She checked her watch. The ‘golden hour’, that first chaotic period when the most important information was likely to be gathered, was long past. She felt a deceptive calm enveloping the house and the square, as if nothing had really happened. Maybe there would be news at the briefing.

  4

  The local Head of Operations called the meeting to order. The room was packed, people squeezing into corners against filing cabinets and computer workstations. He gave a brisk history of the Critical Incident Procedures that had been followed since the disappearance of Aimee Prentice on the twenty-second of August, followed by that of Lee Hammond on the nineteenth of September, and now Tracey Rudd on the night of the twelfth of October. Then he introduced DCI Brock as head of the Major Enquiry Team that had assumed overall control.Brock thanked him and called for briefings from the leaders of the various teams.

  The first was a uniformed inspector who had been coordinating the search teams. On a grid map he outlined the areas that had been covered by ground searches and house-to-house enquiries for each of the three abductions. In the case of Tracey Rudd, a number of premises in and around Northcote Square had been searched, including the house of Betty Zielinski, the neighbouring building site, and the grounds of both Pitzhanger Primary School and the complex of old buildings known as The Pie Factory. From there the search had expanded out towards the Regent’s Canal to the north and Liverpool Street rail station to the south. Two detectives had also been out to the home of Tracey’s grandparents in west London.

  There had been some promising finds, but so far these had led nowhere. A plastic bag of children’s clothing had been discovered beneath a hedge just two streets away from Northcote Square, but didn’t match the description of clothes missing from Tracey’s wardrobe. There were several reports of a young girl seen walking hand in hand with a man late on Sunday night, but before the time when Rudd had last checked on Tracey in her bedroom.

  The next report came from the Rainbow Coordinator. When Kathy had first heard this term she’d imagined some benign social services program, but of course it was nothing of the kind. Operation Rainbow was the vast network of public and private security cameras that covered the city and were monitored by the Met. The local Rainbow Coordinator and her team had been searching this source for weeks, looking for vehicles and faces that might have been common to both of the first two crime scenes. Now they had a third area to trawl. So far they had come up with only one lead in the Northcote Square vicinity, a tantalising two-second clip of a pale child’s face pressed against the front passenger window of a car crossing an intersection on Kingsland Road at two twenty-five a.m. The car resembled an early model Volvo saloon, possibly red or brown, its number indecipherable, and the team was searching for it now in the earlier tapes. The Rainbow team had also been working closely with SO5, the Child Protection unit, with their data on known offenders and their vehicles, and one of their officers reported next.

  As Kathy listened to these reports, so professional and impersonal, she thought how remote they seemed from the plight of the three fragile faces pinned to the wall.Yet she knew that this was their best chance, the huge ponderous machine which most likely already had the name of the perpetrator somewhere in its maw, grinding away until it was revealed at last. But how long would that take? The voices were all so calm, Brock’s most of all, whereas the sight of those three faces caused panic to flutter inside Kathy’s chest.

  Seeing the images together like that, their similarities— white, fair-haired, pretty—seemed compelling, and despite the reservations of the crime scene manager the indications remained overwhelming that the three cases formed a single series. They were discussing this now, and Brock called on the forensic psychologist assigned as profiler to the team to comment. Kathy hadn’t seen him before, but she knew he’d had some impressive results recently. He noted the differences of age, location and MO between the new case and its predecessors, but pointed out how much publicity there had been after the second abduction, with information released about the means of entry through bedroom windows which had caused panic-buying of window locks and bars in the area. He speculated on the impact this would have had on the intruder, probably pushing him further afield, then turned to a map on which were marked numbered spots indicating home, school and other destinations for the first two girls, red for Aimee and yellow for Lee. A black circle had been inscribed around these spots.

  ‘This is the magic circle,’ the profiler said, with some deliberate dramatic effect. ‘This is the abductor’s zone of comfort. His base is somewhere inside that circle, I’m certain of it.’ Then he pointed to a single green spot on Northcote Square, about half a mile outside the circle. ‘He’s been pushed out of his comfort zone.’ He made a sweeping gesture with his hand across the map, spiralling out from the circle like the arm of a hurricane.‘We
should look at possible linkages between the circle and the new location—bus and train links, routes to work, family connections . . .’

  Brock nodded as if he’d already reached the same conclusion, and announced that one of his colleagues from SO1 would be taking charge of that line of inquiry. Kathy felt a stir of excitement. That was more like it, a real job at the heart of the case, from which she’d have access to anything she wanted. Then she heard Brock introduce DI Bren Gurney, and the big Cornishman stood forward so that they’d know his face. Stung with disappointment, Kathy heard Brock mention her name too, almost in passing, saying that she would remain close to Gabriel Rudd and make follow-up enquiries in Northcote Square.

  It made sense, Kathy eventually conceded to herself, after she’d buried her disappointment. Bren was senior in rank and had already spent the day working with the other teams on this problem. But when she looked again at the photographs of the girls they seemed to be accusing her: ‘Is this the best you can do for us?’Wherever they and their abductor were, it certainly wasn’t Northcote Square.

  Later, as the briefing drew to an end with questions, she made an effort to take her role seriously. She put up her hand and said, ‘I wonder if we should look again at the circumstances of the death of Tracey’s mother, Jane Rudd, five years ago.’

  There was a moment’s silence, and Kathy could see the puzzlement on faces trying to figure out the possible relevance. Then an older man across the room growled, ‘I was the investigating officer at the time.’

  ‘Fine,’ Brock said quickly. ‘Will you give DS Kolla a briefing after we’ve finished?’

  The man nodded, watching Kathy through narrowed eyes. As the meeting broke up he came over to her and offered his hand.‘Bill Scott. Coffee?’

  They found a quiet corner in the canteen and Scott said, ‘Why are you interested in Jane Rudd’s death?’

  His manner was terse and not, Kathy sensed, sympathetic. She wondered if he’d felt threatened by her question in that gathering of his colleagues. ‘It was only that several people have suggested a parallel between these two tragedies in Gabriel Rudd’s life. I thought I should be aware of what happened.’