She noticed the trail of her discarded clothes on the floor. She still felt exhausted. The phone rang; she picked it up and heard Brock’s voice.
‘Didn’t wake you, did I?’
‘Mmm . . .’ her mouth felt numb, not yet ready for speech. ‘Not quite.’
‘Sorry. Just wondered if you fancied brunch.’
Still slightly disoriented, Kathy wondered what kind of invitation this was.
‘I’m meeting Bren in an hour,’ he went on, ‘at The Bride.’
‘This is work?’
‘Afraid so. Can you make it?’
‘Of course.’
She rang off and got out of bed, opened the blinds, stretched and yawned at the window. It was a beautiful sunny day, white clouds scudding across a pale blue sky, a complete contrast with the drab grey days of the working week behind them.What did Brock want? Surely it was all but over now. Was it the questioning of Wylie? Or—her heart sank—breaking the news to relatives. Yes, that would be it. She should have realised he’d be needing help with that. She wondered how much sleep he’d had. It had been after three when he’d sent her home, but he’d still been working with the others through the material in the flat.
The Bride of Denmark was a myth, one of those unlikely accumulations that sometimes occur in the basements of old buildings in old cities. It didn’t exist in the inventories of the assets of the Metropolitan Police because the occupants of the Queen Anne’s Gate annex did their best to hide its existence, and because those few civil servants who had come across it considered it too difficult to deal with and had designated it ‘miscellaneous’. In the years after the Second World War the former occupants of the building, architectural publishers, had gone about the ruined city like magpies, collecting fragments of old bombed-out pubs and reconstructing them in their basement as the eccentric Bride. The small rooms were crammed with salvaged fittings—the polished bar, the back-to-back pew seats, the mahogany shelving—and encrusted with rows of ancient cobwebby bottles, pewter mugs, porcelain spirit kegs, mirrors and animal trophies. A salmon gawped at an antelope’s head, and the antlers of a moose met the unblinking gaze of a stuffed lion, or at least the front half of a lion, crouching among savannah grass in his glass case. The Bride was a refuge hidden beneath the annex, without phones, computers or office machines, a place where Brock retired to think.
Bren was already there when Kathy arrived, perched on a cane seat at the bar peeling plastic film from a plate of sandwiches. Brock, on the other side, was pouring coffee from a tall pot, and offered her a cup.
‘Thanks,’ she said, and sank onto a worn leather seat beneath the lion. ‘Just what I need.’
‘So as soon as I turn my back you two go and wrap the thing up,’ Bren grunted, sounding peeved.
‘I thought of something and went back . . .’ Kathy began to explain, feeling awkward, but Bren waved a big hand. ‘Brock explained. Well done, anyway.’ He picked up a sandwich and took a bite, handed her the plate.
Brock came through the flap of the bar with a mug of coffee in his hand and sat beside Kathy. He smelled fresh from a shower and was wearing jeans and a thick knit pullover. ‘Yes and no,’ he said.
They both looked at him.
‘The pictures they took tell it all as far as Aimee and Lee are concerned.’ His voice was weary, as if the terrible images were a crushing burden. ‘It’s all there, even a photo of the place they buried Aimee when they’d finished with her. But there’s nothing, not a thing, about Tracey. It doesn’t look as if she was ever there.’
‘What does Wylie have to say?’ Bren asked.
‘Not a word. Not a single word. He’s been charged and he called a lawyer this morning, but he refuses to open his mouth to us.’
Kathy said, ‘Do we know him?’
‘Three convictions for possession and publication of indecent photographs, one involving children. Two fines and a two-month prison term. We’re digging for more background.’
‘The flat was rented in his wife’s name,’ Kathy said.
‘Yes.We don’t know where she is. Neighbours say they haven’t seen her in months.’
He paused to let this sink in, then continued,‘The point is that we have Lee in intensive care and we know that Aimee is dead, but we have no more idea where Tracey is than we did last Monday morning. On the face of it, we have nothing to connect either Abbott or Wylie to her disappearance. And if that’s the case, we’re going to have to start all over again as far as she’s concerned. Right from the beginning.’ He took a deep breath, sat back against the padded seat and closed his eyes.‘So what are the alternatives?’
‘But I saw Abbott in Northcote Square,’ Kathy objected.
‘You think you saw him. All you can really be sure of is that you remember a limping man.’
‘You’re suggesting it’s no more than a coincidence?’ Bren protested. ‘That last night was a fluke?’
‘I’m saying we should look at all the options.’
‘A copycat?’ Kathy said. There was silence for a moment, then she went on,‘The Tracey kidnapping is different from the other two in that her father is a celebrity. Maybe it’s aimed at him.’
‘Perhaps, but there’s been no ransom, no threat. And why make it look like the other two cases?’
‘To distract us from the obvious suspect,’ Bren said.
‘Who is?’
‘Tracey’s father,’ Bren said immediately. ‘Gabriel Rudd.’
Brock gave him a quizzical look. ‘You’ve met him?’
‘Last night. Kathy and Deanne and I went to the opening of his exhibition. He and I nearly came to blows.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, one of his so-called artworks had a picture of Kathy and a caption that said she was dead.’
‘What?’
‘We persuaded him to remove it.’
Brock’s eyebrows rose further. ‘Rudd removed one of the artworks from his exhibition because you didn’t like it?’
‘Not exactly. He scraped Kathy’s picture out.’
Brock stared at them both in astonishment. ‘Has Rudd been giving you trouble, Kathy?’
‘No. He apologised. He probably thought I’d be flattered. Perhaps I should have been.’
‘Anyway,’ Bren went on, ‘what really got to me was that he was exploiting Tracey’s disappearance for his own purposes. The whole thing has been turned into a circus for his benefit. It’s been like that all week, his picture in every paper, every news report.’
‘You’re suggesting Rudd arranged his daughter’s abduction to further his own career?’
Bren hesitated. ‘It’s not impossible, Brock. There are precedents.’
Brock shook his head. ‘Some form of Munchausen by proxy, you mean? You know what a can of worms that is.’
‘At least we should find out if he’s ever done anything like this before.’
‘We know he has,’ Kathy said quietly, and Brock nodded and said, ‘The Night-Mare.’
Bren looked puzzled and Kathy explained, ‘After his wife Jane committed suicide, five years ago, he held an exhibition called The Night-Mare, inspired by her death. The main work won a big prize and he made a lot of money. Jane’s parents, the Nolans, were incensed by it. When I talked to the case officer who looked into the suicide, DS Bill Scott, it sounded like a prequel to what’s happening now, with the same cast of characters—Rudd, Tracey, the Nolans, Betty Zielinski.’
‘There you are then,’ Bren said.
‘I’ve been wondering about it all week. Right from the start his reaction to Tracey’s disappearance seemed ambiguous, and he has gone out of his way to make a public spectacle of it. I’ve also got the impression that his reputation has been fading recently, and he needed a boost like this. But on the other hand, I’ve found him weeping over a pair of Tracey’s shoes when there was no one around to impress.
‘There’s also the fact that the publicity has really been generated by his dealer, Fergus Tait, and it was Tait who
pushed Rudd into doing this exhibition. If you were to look at who’s benefiting from all this, you’d logically have to consider Tait, too.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Well, there’s the grandparents, Len and Bev Nolan. They say they’ve been worried for some time about Tracey’s life with her father, and they explored trying to get custody, without success. They might have decided to take matters into their own hands.’
‘We’ve been to their house in West Drayton, Kathy,’ Brock said, ‘and checked their story with the social services. They seem genuine.’
Bren shook his head doubtfully. ‘And they told you about the custody business, did they? They didn’t try to hide it?’
‘That’s true. I’m not saying you’re wrong to have suspicions about Rudd, but maybe there’s more to it. If Tracey’s kidnapper wasn’t the same as Aimee’s and Lee’s, then making it look as if it was would distract our attention away from Northcote Square, and I wonder if there are other secrets hidden there. For instance, both the grandparents and the headmistress of her school said that Tracey had become withdrawn and depressed in the past year. There may have been something going on in her life that we don’t know about, that was leading up to her abduction.’
‘An abuser?’ Brock asked. ‘Are there any other candidates in the square?’
‘Too many. There’s the painter Gilbey up in his turret, spying on the kids in the playground below; there are the builders who drink in the pub across the way and tease the kids; there’s the mad woman, Betty, who’s obsessed with stolen children; and there’s the artist in Tait’s stable who has a record of mental instability and violent behaviour and makes sculptures of body parts, and another who makes giant cherubs with Tracey’s face and stains them with the blood of murderers.’
‘Hell’s teeth,’ Bren groaned.
Brock sat up and stretched. ‘We’ll run more checks on them all,’ he said, ‘and meanwhile we’ll get to work on Gabriel Rudd. So, where do we begin?’ He took a bite of a sandwich and opened his notebook.
‘Find out what he really did the night Tracey disappeared,’ Kathy suggested. ‘Watching TV alone all evening and going to bed at ten after tucking his daughter up never really struck me as likely. I’ll bet someone knows.’
‘The grandparents say he takes drugs. Have you noticed anything?’
‘Apart from the booze? Yes.When he gets really down, which happens several times a day, he gives Poppy a ring. She comes over and in no time he’s buzzing with energy and optimism. I don’t think it’s because of her sunny personality. Maybe I should talk to her again.’
‘Good,’ Brock said. ‘These aren’t too bad.’ He reached for a pile of sandwiches as if suddenly realising that he hadn’t eaten for days, which was pretty much the case.
Kathy’s mobile rang. She recognised Len Nolan’s urgent voice and grimaced at the other two. ‘We’ve just heard on the news,’ he said. ‘What’s happening? Have you found her?’
Kathy took a deep breath and began to explain.
10
Poppy Wilkes was wearing goggles and a mask as she worked, spraying paint in a fine mist over the bulging pink forms. As the paint landed, something miraculous happened to the surface, becoming a glistening sheen, glossy as a mirror. She made a last pass with the gun, then released the trigger and stepped back, pulling off her face protection.
‘That’s fantastic,’ Kathy said from the edge of the room, hardly daring to move or speak for fear of stirring up a mote of dust to ruin the perfect surfaces.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it—an American marine paint, expensive but beautiful.’ Poppy knelt to switch off the motor and stood for a moment, a critical frown on her face, admiring the gigantic female bottom.
‘Does it have a title?’ Kathy asked.
‘Mmm, I’m thinking of My Mum’s Weary Bum Has Seen It All.What do you think?’
‘I think I’m the wrong person to ask.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Is this a social call?’
‘No, it’s official. Something’s happened that I need to talk to you about.’
‘Ah.’ Poppy was abruptly still, her hand frozen in the action of shaking her hair out of a plastic cap. ‘Let’s go outside.’
She led Kathy through the jumble of benches and equipment that cluttered the workshop to a steel-framed glass door and out into a small courtyard, lit by the glow of the autumnal afternoon sun on brick walls. Weeds poked between stone flagstones on the ground and old stone benches ringed the perimeter. It made Kathy think of a prison exercise yard. She sat down beside the artist.
‘The women from the pie factory used to come out here for their breaks,’ Poppy said. ‘The benches are worn away by thousands of weary bums. Why do you want to speak to me?’
‘I need your help. Last night we found one of the missing girls and arrested a man.’
‘Oh, that’s great! Was it Tracey?’
‘I’m afraid not. The thing is, to find her we have to be very sure of our facts.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Especially about people’s movements on the night Tracey disappeared.’
Poppy tugged a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of a pocket of her overalls and took her time lighting up. She blew a narrow column of smoke into the cool air and said, ‘I didn’t see Tracey at all that weekend, or the night she was taken. I can’t help you, I’m sorry.’ She rubbed her nose with a thumb.
There was a theory that lying makes the nose tingle. The Pinocchio syndrome, it was called. Kathy wasn’t sure she believed it, but Poppy certainly did seem to have an itchy nose.
‘What about Gabe?’
‘Yes, he bought me lunch on Sunday at the pub.’
‘And did you see him later?’
‘Don’t think so. Can’t remember, really. Ask him.’
‘This is very, very important, Poppy. Tracey’s life may depend on it. We need the truth now. Or was that just bullshit, that stuff you were telling me about truthfulness?’
Poppy took a long drag, sighing out the smoke. ‘I did see Gabe that Sunday night. I didn’t lie to anyone, ’cos nobody asked me that before. When he talked to you he was embarrassed, that’s all. He was stoned that night, and I guess he didn’t check on Tracey. He may have massaged his story a bit, to make himself look better. But it doesn’t make any difference.’
‘Tell me about Sunday night.’
‘Gabe came over here about ten. He’d been drinking and he was bored. He had a bottle and he knocked on the door of my room.’
‘He was on his own?’
‘Yeah. He didn’t say anything about Tracey. I didn’t think to ask.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, we talked, had a few drinks, then Stan looked in. He’d been drinking at the pub. About one or one-thirty, I’m not sure, they left together, and I went to bed.’ Another puff, another scratch of the nose.
Kathy stared at her, waiting.
‘That’s all.’
‘No it’s not.’
Poppy frowned, then said, as if she’d forgotten,‘Oh, I did walk a little way with them, to get a bit of air before I went to bed. Down the lane behind West Terrace, then I turned back. We were a bit pissed, larking around. I squealed or something. I think that was what Betty heard, what she thought was a scream.’
‘And Stan went on with Gabe, to his house?’
‘What? Oh, no. He came back with me, to his own flat upstairs, near mine.’
This didn’t sound right, Kathy thought. ‘Come on, Poppy. And the rest.’
Poppy glared at her, suddenly angry. ‘Christ, you’re a pain, you know that?’
‘Just tell me. You know you have to. You care about Tracey, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘But I don’t want to end up with my face cut, that’s what.’
‘Who would do that?’
Poppy took a deep breath, her hand dropped to her lap and finally she said, ‘Yasher.’
‘From the sandwich shop?’
‘Yes. He’s our dealer.’
‘I thought Fergus Tait was.’
Poppy grinned briefly.‘Not art dealer—the other kind. He gets stuff for us—Gabe, mainly. About one o’clock Gabe decided he wanted some coke, so he gave Yasher a call. He wouldn’t come here, to The Pie Factory, but he said he’d meet us in the buildings they’re doing up on West Terrace. There’s a room in the basement of one of the houses where the builders keep their tools. The three of us went down there, and Yasher sold Gabe some stuff, coke and something else—speed, I think. Gabe insisted we all try some of his coke, and for half an hour or so we had a bit of a party, the three of us and Yasher. Then I began to get tired and said I was going. Like I said, we fooled about a bit in the lane,Yasher pinned me to the wall, I screamed. It was just a bit of fun. Then I came back.’
‘With Stan?’
‘No. He wanted to stay a bit longer with the other two. I fell asleep as soon as I got into bed and I never heard him come back.’
Kathy sensed they’d passed the block that had held Poppy back before. Now she wanted to tell it all. ‘I woke up on Monday morning with the phone ringing. It was Gabe. He’d passed out on his bed when he got home, he said, and he’d just woken up and gone to get Tracey, and she wasn’t there. He sounded confused, as if I might know where she was.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Quarter past six.’
The time Rudd’s alarm had been set for, Kathy remembered.
‘I said I’d go over and help.We searched the house, but there was no sign of her. I thought he must have got mixed up and that she was with her grandparents, but he insisted they’d brought her back the previous afternoon, only he had no idea where she was now. Tracey’s window was open and the back gate unlocked, and in the end we decided he’d have to call the police. He gave me his drugs to keep for him over here, and we agreed not to mention anything about him being out the previous night, or me being there that morning. He seemed to be most worried about what Tracey’s grandparents would make of it—he kept saying they’d crucify him.You know they wanted to get custody of Trace?’
No Trace Page 9
