Kathy nodded. ‘Anything else?’
‘That’s about it. Only, I am serious about Yasher. He seems a charming sort of bloke, but he can be really mean if you cross him, and he’s got some very ugly friends. They carry guns some of them. That stuff I told you about him selling drugs—I’m not going to put that on the record.’
‘Okay, I’ll do what I can to keep you out of it. Thanks for this, Poppy.’
‘I’m glad I’ve told you now. I went along with Gabe at the time, but afterwards I didn’t like keeping quiet about it. I hope it helps.’
‘So do I.You are really fond of her, aren’t you, Poppy?’
‘Oh hell, yeah.’ She stamped her cigarette out and began to rise to her feet. ‘We were good mates.’
‘And she was your model.’
Poppy smiled. ‘Sure. She has a lovely face, real cute and innocent.’
‘And her body as well? Your cherubs are very explicit —anatomically, I mean. She modelled for the bodies, too, did she?’
Poppy arched an eyebrow, wary. ‘Yeah, she did actually. There wasn’t a problem with that. She was quite happy about it, and Gabe was always around.’
‘Where did this happen, these modelling sessions?’
‘Modelling sessions? Christ, you make it sound like . . . At Gabe’s place.’
‘Mostly, or always?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Did she ever come here, to this building?’
‘Yes, she came here. She liked to see what we were doing.’
‘Did she model for you here? Take her clothes off?’
‘No! Well, maybe once.’ Poppy turned to leave.
‘Do you know where I can find Stan Dodworth, Poppy?’
‘No, I don’t. I haven’t seen him today.’
The interview with Gabriel Rudd was more formal, conducted in a room at the Shoreditch police station. Rudd seemed fascinated by the whole process, peering up at the video camera, stroking the table he was invited to sit at, as if making mental notes for his work.
Brock, indicating Kathy at his side, said, ‘You know DS Kolla, of course.’
Rudd gave a smug little smile and said, ‘Oh yes, we’ve been practically living together the past week. Although I didn’t realise until last night that she was an art critic.You two work closely together, do you?’
Again that supercilious smirk and a quick turn of the eyes to avoid Brock’s sharp stare. Brock could understand Kathy’s hesitation in summing him up. Rudd seemed to have developed the knack of appearing simultaneously aggressive and vulnerable, smart and gauche—though whether it was a case of cunning wrapped in innocence or the other way around, Brock wasn’t too sure.
‘We’re going to record this interview, Mr Rudd, and I’m going to begin by cautioning you.You don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if . . .’
Rudd grinned.‘You really do say that,do you? Like on TV.’
Brock completed the caution and added, ‘It’s necessary because we need to be crystal clear on one or two things. You’ve been following the news, have you?’
‘Oh, yeah, yeah.’ Rudd’s amusement abruptly evaporated. ‘ It really doesn’t bother me.’
The two police stared at him in surprise.
‘Oh, look, she’s a spiteful bitch. Everyone knows she hates me.’
There was a moment of confusion before they realised that the ‘news’ he thought they were talking about was the first review of his exhibition, published in one of the morning papers. With a show of reluctance he pulled a folded page of newsprint out of the pocket of his leather jacket and tossed it across the table as if it soiled his fingers to touch it. Brock picked it up and quickly scanned the piece.
Those remaining admirers of Gabriel Rudd’s work who crowded to the opening of his new show at The Pie Factory last night must have been sadly disappointed. Not so much No Trace as No Hope. Hurriedly cobbled together, weak in concept, unimaginatively presented and short of ideas, it would have looked pretentious in a first-year art school exhibition. As a contender for the next Turner Prize, as some had anticipated, it doesn’t rate a mention.
Brock handed the paper to Kathy and glanced at Rudd. His face was very pale, lips pressed tight, and he looked as if it did bother him a great deal.
‘Actually, I was referring to news reports today of new developments in our investigations, Mr Rudd. That’s why we wanted to speak to you.’
As Brock began to explain, Rudd looked first perplexed and then agitated. ‘You arrested someone, is that what you’re saying?’ he interrupted.
‘There’ll be a press statement later today, but I can tell you that we believe we have found two men responsible for the abductions of Aimee and Lee. One of the men is under arrest, and the other died while trying to escape. We’ve found Lee alive, but it seems probable that Aimee was murdered some weeks ago.’
‘My God!’ Rudd sat stunned, eyes unfocused. ‘Aimee . . . she was the first, wasn’t she? But Lee is alive? So Trace must be too, yes?’
‘I’m afraid we haven’t been able to find any sign of Tracey so far.We’re following up a number of leads, but at present there’s nothing to connect her disappearance to these two men.’
‘What? But that’s impossible, surely? It must be them. Or . . . you mean there may be others? A ring? A network? Oh my God . . .’
‘We’re considering every possibility.’ Brock opened a folder on the table in front of him and took out the two photographs that had just been delivered. ‘Have you ever seen this man?’ He slid the first picture across the table, and added, ‘I’m showing Mr Rudd a photograph of Robert Wylie.’
Rudd showed no sign of recognition, nor with the second picture, of Abbott.
‘Is that them?’ He stared at the pictures with fascination, and when Brock made to put them away again he said, ‘No! Wait, just so I’m sure,’ and went on staring. ‘Which one died?’
Brock pointed to Abbott.
‘How? Did you shoot him?’
‘He fell from a building. Have you ever visited the Newman estate in Bethnal Green?’
‘No, no. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it. Is that where they lived?’
‘We’re still gathering information. What we now have to do is review every aspect of Tracey’s case in the light of this new development. And I need you to help us by going back over what happened the night that Tracey disappeared. I want you to try to remember every detail you can, from the time Mr and Mrs Nolan returned Tracey to you on Sunday afternoon.’
Rudd met Brock’s stare, eyes wide and innocent. ‘Oh, right.Well . . . if you think that’ll help.’
He began to repeat the story he had told them before, almost word for word, while the two detectives listened impassively. When he finished, Brock turned to Kathy and said, ‘How would you rate that story, DS Kolla?’
Kathy gazed at Rudd and said, ‘Well, to be honest, as an art critic, I’d have to say that it seems hurriedly cobbled together, weak in concept, unimaginatively presented and short of ideas.’
Rudd’s pale face flushed pink. His mouth opened, but before he could speak Kathy went on, ‘You didn’t go to bed at ten that night, Gabe.’
Brock leaned forward and said, ‘We know about your evening with Poppy Wilkes and Stan Dodworth; we know about your meeting with Yasher Fikret. Now I’m going to give you one last chance to tell us the truth before I arrest you for obstruction.’
The pink leached from Rudd’s face, leaving it almost as white as his hair. ‘Yasher? You know about Yasher?’
‘From the beginning, Mr Rudd. Let’s have it.’
Haltingly, the bravado gone, Rudd described much the same sequence of events that Poppy had related to Kathy— supplemented, at Brock’s insistence, with an impressive list of everything he’d smoked, drunk and taken during the course of the weekend.
‘Why didn’t you tell us this at the beginning?’ Kathy said.
‘I panicked. I knew I’d be in trouble. I’d left Tr
ace alone for most of the night, and somebody had snatched her. Her grandparents would have murdered me. This was exactly the kind of thing they’d said would happen. They’d have tried for custody again. Christ, I might have gone to gaol, I don’t know.’
‘Hmm.’ Brock, sceptical, scraped his beard with the end of his ballpoint. ‘Bad things do seem to happen to the people around you, don’t they? Whether by neglect or something worse.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your wife, Tracey’s mother—did she die because you weren’t around at the critical time? And was that just another unfortunate coincidence?’
‘Jane had been depressed for months. They gave her the wrong drugs.You should read the coroner’s . . .’
‘Yes, I’ve read his report. No suicide note, no cry for help to her parents. She just walked out one night, leaving her toddler behind, and jumped in the canal. And you were out drinking with your mates that night too, weren’t you? The parallels are striking.’
Rudd sagged, a hank of white hair flopping over his eyes. ‘You think I don’t know that?’he said softly. ‘I’m not proud of it. That’s why I wanted to keep quiet about Sunday night. I didn’t see how it would make any difference to your investigation. They took Trace, whether or not I was there. Okay, I was useless as a father, I neglected her, but in the end it doesn’t matter, does it? These . . .’ he gestured at the photographs, ‘. . . these monsters just do what they want anyway.’
‘There’s another parallel with your wife’s death, Gabe,’ Kathy said. ‘You told us before that Tracey was a happy child, but that isn’t true, is it?’
‘She’s all right. She has her ups and downs, like anyone else.’
‘Other people have described her as withdrawn and depressed, especially in the last few months.’
Rudd seemed genuinely surprised. ‘That sounds like her grandparents talking, because if it is . . .’
‘Other people,’ Kathy repeated. ‘Can you think of a reason why she might be unhappy?’
‘Not at all.’
‘They say she spoke of being afraid of a monster. That was the word you used just now, monsters. What was she talking about, do you know?’
‘She didn’t mention it to me. She had dreams, I suppose. Just dreams.’
‘Dreams, you think. Nightmares. Like her mother.’
Rudd stared at Kathy for a moment, then turned his head away.
‘And one other similarity,’ Brock said. ‘Both of these tragedies have happened at times when your career was in decline, and you’ve exploited both to get publicity and interest in your work.’
‘Oh, come on, now you do sound like the Nolans. You’ll be spouting garbage about Munchausen by proxy next.’
‘You know about that, do you?’
‘How could I avoid it? Len and Bev have been accusing me of it for years. To listen to them, they’re the world’s greatest experts on the subject. And this will only confirm it in their eyes. But I can’t help that.’ He sighed. ‘Look, you can’t honestly believe that I would deliberately do anything to Trace,’ he gestured at the newspaper review, ‘for the sake of this? I don’t know you,’ he said to Brock, ‘but I’ve been watching her,’ he nodded towards Kathy, ‘and I reckon we’re much the same.’
‘How do you figure that out?’ Kathy said.
‘Everything I do, everything that happens to me, goes into my work. My work is everything. I am nothing else. We’re all obsessive about our work, and I reckon that describes you, too, doesn’t it?’
Kathy leaned forward, holding his eye. ‘I don’t think I’m so obsessive,’ she said, her voice quiet and dangerous, ‘that I’d rent out my six-year-old daughter as a nude model.’
Rudd looked stunned for a moment, then began to splutter, ‘Now look, that’s rubbish! Who told you that?’
‘The sculptures of giant cherubs on show at The Pie Factory last week were modelled on your daughter. Do you deny it?’
‘They were based on her,yeah.Poppy needed a live model to work from and Trace was ideal. I didn’t rent her out! It was a favour to a friend. Trace thought it was all a big giggle. She loved seeing what Poppy made of her. There’s nothing wrong with it at all.’
‘Nothing wrong? Your child’s naked body was put on public exhibition at five times its actual size and you don’t think there’s anything wrong with that?’
There was silence for a long moment, then Brock said, ‘Let’s get back to facts, shall we? I’m interested in the time in the early hours of Monday when you returned to your house.You said you were very intoxicated and can’t be sure exactly how you got home.’
‘Yeah, I was plastered.’
‘You say you think Stan Dodworth or Yasher Fikret helped you home, or possibly both, but you can’t remember. Have they both been in your home before?’
‘Sure. They’re friends.’
‘Does either of them have a key?’
‘No, they must have used mine.’
‘Describe them to me, these friends.’
‘Well, Stan is very quiet, very serious—too serious really. We tell him he should lighten up, but he’s totally dedicated to his work.’
Kathy said, ‘The Pie Factory website describes him as being obsessed with death.’
‘In his work, yeah. It’s his theme—in his work.’
‘But you were telling us just now that there’s no distinction between work and life for you people. What about Mr Fikret?’
‘He’s completely different from us, a practical sort of guy, no bullshit—a breath of fresh air, really.’
‘Not that fresh, surely? He’s a drug dealer, isn’t he?’
‘I never said that. Look, he knows people. Sometimes he can get hold of a little bit of something for us. As a favour for friends, that’s all.’
‘So,’ Brock placed his hands flat on the table and stared at Rudd, ‘At some time around three o’clock last Monday morning, you were taken home and dumped on your bed, paralytic, by one or both of a drug dealer and a man who has an obsession with death. And in the next room Tracey was possibly lying asleep. That’s about the sum of it?’
Rudd’s eyes slipped away from Brock’s and an odd little expression, a grimace perhaps, touched his lips. ‘Yasher Fikret is not interested in little girls, you can trust me on that. His tastes run somewhere else entirely.’
‘What about Stan?’
Rudd took a little while to reply. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what gets Stan’s hormones buzzing. But you’ve got to understand, he’s a very gentle guy. I know his interest—his aesthetic interest—might seem a bit morbid, but I’m sure . . .’ he looked from one detective to the other, ‘. . . no, I’m positive he wouldn’t do anything to hurt anyone. Really.’
11
It was dark as they waited in Brock’s car for the team to assemble in the square, and a light rain began to fall. The large scarlet neon sign for The Pie Factory and the discreet little blue one for The Tait Gallery shimmered through the droplets on the windscreen. The radio crackled, a short burst of words, and they got out of the car and hurried towards the shelter of the building’s entrance. Around them they heard the click of car doors and the soft thud of boots.
‘Mr Tait here?’ Brock said to the young woman at the desk. She was on the point of leaving for the evening and had a bored look that disappeared as she took in the uniforms assembling outside the door.
‘I’ll give him a buzz.’
Fergus Tait appeared, sporting a pair of rainbow–coloured braces that matched his bow tie. His smile froze and the eyes behind the big glasses registered shock as he watched uniformed men crowding in behind Brock.
‘Sorry for the intrusion, Mr Tait,’ Brock said affably, as if they were a bunch of friends dropping in unannounced, ‘but I have a warrant to search these premises. We’ll be as quick as we can. I’ll give you a copy of this paperwork and then I’d be glad if you’d act as our guide.We’d like to start with the rooms you let out to tenants.’
; The service yard of The Pie Factory, accessible from the street and jammed with rubbish bins full of scrap materials and kitchen waste, had been thoroughly searched in the initial sweep of Northcote Square on the first day of the hunt for Tracey, but the check of the buildings had been more cursory. Packed into a city block, they looked deceptively compact from the outside, but inside formed a rambling maze. An agglomeration of cottages in the early 1800s that had gradually been extended, rationalised, rebuilt and modified over the years as its businesses grew, the result now was a warren of rooms large and small, corridors and lofts, storerooms and cellars.
‘Maybe if you told me what you’re after,’ Tait protested as he led them towards a staircase at the end of a corridor running behind the main gallery.
‘We understand Tracey Rudd used to visit here. Were you aware of that?’
‘I’ve certainly seen her here with Poppy a number of times. And without her, too, now you come to mention it. I do recall speaking to someone—was it Poppy? I don’t remember—anyway, someone, about how a little girl like that shouldn’t be wandering around the workshops with those machines.’
The stair dog-legged upward towards a skylight, then reached a landing giving onto another corridor.
‘This way,’ he puffed. ‘We’ve had a bit of trouble with the fire authorities over the years, as you can imagine. Hence the emergency lights and fire doors and extinguishers and so on.’
‘And fire-escape stairs?’ Brock asked.
‘Oh my, yes, several new escape stairs.’
‘So there are plenty of ways for people to enter and leave the building unchecked?’
‘Well, there’s a measure of security, of course, but with the kitchen staff and the artists coming and going, and the whole place interconnected, it’s sometimes difficult to be sure just who is here at any one time. At night we lock up, and the residents have their own keys to their separate entrance.’
‘How many residents are there?’
‘There are five bed-sits, with shared kitchen and bathrooms, though only four are occupied at present. Our semipermanent artists in residence are Poppy and Stan, and we also have two young artists who graduated from college this year and have a twelve-month tenancy while we see how they develop. The fifth room I like to keep free for visiting artists. Last month we had a lovely German boy, a vinyl fetishist. He did marvellous work, it made the hair stand up on the back of your neck.’
No Trace Page 10
