‘What do you think?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
Then an odd change came over Poppy. She suddenly seemed to notice the recording machine on the side table, its red light glowing, and then the eye of the camera suspended in the far corner of the room. She became agitated.
‘Why do you say that?’ Kathy asked.
‘What? I don’t know, maybe he did. I don’t know anything.’ She wiped the cold sweat on her face. ‘I don’t feel good. I want to go now. I think I may be sick.’
‘I’ll take you to the loo.’ Kathy got to her feet and took hold of Poppy’s arm, while Brock spoke to the machine again, halting the interview.
The toilets were empty, and Kathy was intrigued to see that Poppy checked this before she went to a washbasin and splashed water over her face.
Kathy moved close to her shoulder and spoke quietly. ‘You had a reason for saying that Stan didn’t do it, Poppy. What was it?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t want to talk to you. I want someone else to see me out.’
‘I want to help you, Poppy.You believe that, don’t you?’
‘But what if you can’t?’ She saw the disbelief on Kathy’s face and blurted out, ‘Betty knew something. Stan told me . . . the people who took Tracey, he told me, they have a friend, in the square. Someone who looks after them.’ Then her body froze as the door to the toilets swung open and a uniformed woman came in. Poppy rushed abruptly past her and out into the corridor, Kathy on her heels. The main stairs lay ahead, and Poppy was down them and out into the front lobby before she caught up with her.
‘Poppy!’
But Poppy didn’t stop until they were out on the street and Kathy had hold of her arm.
‘Let me go!’ she yelled in a real state of panic, and a passer-by stared at the two of them.‘Leave me alone or I’ll fucking scream!’
‘Poppy, for God’s sake, talk to me!’
She glared wild-eyed at Kathy. ‘Don’t you see? It’s a warning to Stan, not by Stan!’ Then she turned and ran off through the rain.
18
Kathy took the tube to Piccadilly Circus and began walking west down Piccadilly. The rain had eased to an irregular spit and umbrellas were being folded away. She passed the arched entrance to the forecourt of the Royal Academy where a large group was waiting to get into a new exhibition, then she turned into Burlington Arcade. The little shops lining the arcade were stuffed with luxury items—jewellery, clothing, travel paraphernalia and curious little accessories that might have been essential to the ladies and gentlemen of another age—and Kathy couldn’t help thinking that, as desirable objects went, they could hardly be more different from the pieces that Stan Dodworth had to offer.
At the north end of the arcade she continued into Cork Street, lined with commercial art galleries. She spotted the sign for Adrian Schropp’s and pushed the door into a brightly lit space displaying large hazy landscapes, painted, so the publicity said, by a well-known Norwegian artist. A young woman at the front desk pointed the way to stairs leading down to a basement, crammed with paintings in tall racks, at the back of which Kathy found the owner’s office.
‘Mr Schropp?’ She tapped on the door, and a large man with plump pink features emerged with outstretched hand.
‘Do come in. Grab a pew.’ They settled themselves. His accent was an odd mixture of upper-class English and German. ‘Vell, you seem to have your hands full over in Northcote Square, by all accounts. After you phoned I listened to the news on the radio. My goodness! Poor Mrs Zielinski!’ Adrian Schropp’s jowls trembled indignantly.
‘Yes. As I said, Mr Gilbey thought you might be able to help me make sure that all of her artworks are accounted for.’
Schropp leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘You think theft vas the motive? My God, the violence they use now!’ He shuddered.
‘Not necessarily, it’s just something we have to check. It seems her paintings were her only valuables.’
He nodded vigorously. ‘Mm, mm, that vas my impression, too. I called in at her house several times during visits to Reg, vhen she vanted to sell something. Some of the furniture may be worth something, but so bulky! I tried to check my records . . .’ He indicated papers pulled from the drawers of a filing cabinet.‘I’m not sure if I’ve found them all, but I can probably remember, anyvay. Do you vant to know vhat vas there or vhat I bought?’
‘Both, if you can. I have a list of what’s left there now, and Reg told me what he could remember.’ She handed over the typed lists and he considered them.
‘Ah, the Ben Nicholson, I’d forgotten that . . . Mm, mm, that looks pretty complete. Vait a minute, there vas a little Bacon, mm, very tasty.’
He smacked his lips appreciatively and Kathy was unsure if he was talking about food. ‘Bacon?’
‘Mm, Francis Bacon, a little study for one of his figures at the base of the crucifixion. I made her an offer for it the last time I vas there, towards the end of last year . . .’ He rummaged through the papers. ‘Here ve go, last December, she sold me a small Eric Ravilious vatercolour, but she never vent ahead vith the Bacon. Maybe she got a better offer.’
‘She was in touch with other dealers then, was she?’
‘I vasn’t avare of any until that last time. I mean I vouldn’t have minded if she had got a second opinion, of course, but I alvays offered her a fair price and Reg told her not to bother.’
‘But last December she said she had spoken to other dealers?’
‘Yes, she said Fergus Tait had been around to have a look at her things, and had been quite interested in several of them.’
‘Fergus Tait? I thought he was strictly contemporary.’
‘Oh yes, but he vouldn’t let an opportunity pass him by.’ Schropp chuckled. ‘Come to think of it, of all the things she had, the Bacon would be most up his street— rather bizarre, and vith a quite contemporary feel to it.’
‘Could you describe it to me?’
‘Mm, not easy. An oil sketch, roughly eighteen inches square, grey figure, orange background. The figure is strange, like a dog vith a long neck and a mouth instead of a head.’
‘Thanks. Any others you can remember?’
‘No, I’m pretty sure that’s the lot.’
Kathy closed her notebook.‘Well, thanks very much for your help, Mr Schropp.’
‘Adrian, please. Delighted to be of service. And how is Reg these days? I must call in again. I dare say these horrible events vill have shaken him up. You know the poor voman vas a model of his, years ago? I just hope it doesn’t put him off that portrait he’s doing. Have you seen it?’
‘The judge? Yes, it looked pretty well finished to me.’
‘I hope so. I vas the one who recommended Reg to Sir J. He’ll never forgive me if the old rascal doesn’t finish it in time for the exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery.’
‘You know Sir Jack, then?’
‘Oh yes, he’s been a client for years. A great collector, and not just from me. He’s even invested in some of Fergus Tait’s monstrosities.’ He led Kathy back to the stairs. ‘Did you have a look at our show upstairs? Vonderfully atmospheric, aren’t they? Perhaps I could interest you in one?’
Kathy smiled.‘That would be great, but I’d have to find a bigger place to live first.’
‘Who are you interested in?’ Schropp was being flirtatious.
Kathy wasn’t sure, but the name that popped into her head was the one that Deanne and Reg Gilbey had said Gabe Rudd was obsessed by. ‘Henry Fuseli?’
Schropp looked both surprised and impressed. ‘Vell, that’s a minority taste all right.You’ve been to the Royal Academy?’ Seeing the puzzlement on Kathy’s face he said, ‘His Diploma Vork. Every painter elected to the Academy must give them a piece of their vork in exchange for the diploma, and these hundreds of vorks make up their permanent collection. Of course not all are on display, but you should take a look.’
Kathy did as he suggested on her way back to the tube st
ation, passing up the great entrance flight of stairs to the lobby, where she was directed to the permanent collection. There she did finally find Fuseli’s 1790 Diploma painting entitled Thor Battering the Midgard Serpent, depicting a muscular male figure on a boat, cloak flying, arm raised to strike a sea monster rising from the waves. Kathy thought it melodramatic and rather absurd.
Brock, meanwhile, had been called away to another senior management meeting. He was able to gauge the deepening crisis by the increasingly peremptory manner of Commander Sharpe’s secretary, who gave the impression of holding him personally responsible for all the troubles her boss was enduring. On this occasion he seemed to be the first to arrive.
Sharpe waved him to a seat at the conference table. Once there would have been the offer of coffee, but such niceties had gone by the wayside.
‘I asked you to come before the others, Brock. Couple of things we need to cover. First, what’s the progress on Northcote Square?’
Brock gave him a brief summary, which only seemed to deepen his gloom.
‘No progress, then. What about the email from the murderer? Can’t you trace it?’
‘It was sent from a twenty-four-hour internet café a few hundred yards away from the square. Nobody there has any recollection of the sender.’
Sharpe groaned. ‘This murder couldn’t have come at a worse time for us.’
‘For us?’ Brock queried.
‘Of course. Northcote Square is turning into the biggest public entertainment since “Coronation Street”, and this murder will make it bigger still. What the hell is going on? The place seems to be attracting homicidal maniacs like flies to a cow’s arse. This Dodworth character, where the hell is he? And why the hell can’t we get Wylie to talk?’
‘I’m going to see him again as soon as we’ve finished.’
‘Are you? Good. Look, I’m not blaming you, Brock. I know you’re doing everything you can. But we’re not looking good at precisely the moment when we need to look our best. I’ve just heard that the release of the Beaufort Committee recommendations is being brought forward. It certainly doesn’t help that the man himself is on the spot, watching the whole mess unfold at first hand.’
Brock said nothing. Sharpe sat back, suddenly deflated. ‘Strictly between us, Brock, I think the game’s up. By the year’s end you and I and the rest will have been put out to grass. I won’t be saying so at our meeting, but that’s what it amounts to. I want you to know that I’m going to recommend you for immediate promotion to Super. It would have happened long ago if you hadn’t been so bloody precious about staying on the streets. At least you can step down on an enhanced pension.’
‘Thank you,’ Brock said without warmth. ‘I appreciate the thought.’
• • •
The chill of the gaol, psychological rather than physical, gripped Brock as soon as he clipped on the pass and went through the barred internal security gates. He sat on the offered seat and waited while they brought out the prisoner. They had managed to fill in a little more of his background. Robert Wylie had lurked in the down-market end of the sex industry for years, the sometime proprietor of several adult bookshops with a special line in the back room, the publisher of cheap porn magazines using pirated images, the co-owner of a seedy brothel that had been closed down four times by the police in four different locations, and more recently an internet provider of suspect services. Over the years he had been the subject of numerous police inquiries, and a few successful prosecutions. Apparently he had learned from this the virtue of silence, and it seemed he wasn’t about to change now. He sat down in front of Brock and regarded him with face blank while his solicitor drew a chair to his side.
Brock stared back for a while without speaking. The man looked out of place in prison clothes, not at all the hardened criminal, but soft and pasty-faced from too little exposure to the sun. He seemed to have some kind of impediment in his nose, so that he breathed with a slight wheeze through open mouth.
Brock began. ‘We’d like to contact your wife. Can you tell me where she is?’
Wylie glanced sideways at his lawyer, who looked preoccupied and worried. Neither spoke.
‘You’re in an interesting position,Wylie,’ Brock went on. ‘I hope you appreciate it. This case is big. Have you been watching the TV coverage today? Do they give you access to the web?’
Brock gazed at Wylie’s pudgy white fingers clasped loosely on the table, and tried not to think of the girls.
‘I can understand how that might appeal, your moment of fame, but it’s a dangerous game.’ Brock caught a flicker in Wylie’s eyes at the word dangerous. He wondered if he’d been getting trouble from the other inmates, and made a mental note to check. ‘A clever lawyer might be able to persuade a court that Abbott led you astray—he certainly must have been strange. But that will count for nothing if you don’t give us any help. That’s the only leverage you’ve got. And with so much public attention on the case, it’s only a matter of time before we discover everything for ourselves. Have you any idea of the number of people working on this? When we find Tracey, that’s one less thing you have to trade; when we find Stan Dodworth, that’s another. The information you’ve got has a very short shelf life,Wylie. Use it while you can.’
Brock sat back, realising it hadn’t worked. The spark ignited by dangerous had faded. He waited in silence while Wylie’s lawyer took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and began to strip off the cellophane. Brock shrugged and made to get up from his seat. Then Wylie spoke for the first time. ‘No smoking please, Russell,’ he admonished the solicitor with a wheeze. Then he leaned forward to Brock and muttered, ‘What happened to the mad woman?’
‘Did you know her?’
Wylie looked annoyed at this, but answered, ‘I saw her around.Well?’
‘We think Stan Dodworth killed her.’
Wylie pursed his fat lips as if in doubt, and Brock decided to tell him what had not been released to the press. ‘Her body was mutilated. Electric shocks.’
Wylie drew back, startled.
Brock went on, ‘You’ll be judged by the people you mixed with,Wylie.And there’s a rumour that you and Abbott had another friend in the square, apart from Dodworth.’
Wylie looked scornful but didn’t reply.
‘Where’s Stan Dodworth?’
‘No idea.’
‘Where’s Tracey Rudd?’
Wylie’s eyes narrowed as if in calculation. Finally he muttered, ‘Why don’t you ask the judge?’
Brock was hardly sure he’d heard correctly, but before he could say anything more Wylie was on his feet, turning to the door behind him and slapping it with his pudgy fist.
Kathy was shown into Fergus Tait’s office, but no sooner had she sat down in front of his desk than his phone rang.
‘Oh, excuse me, they’re going mad, I’d better take it,’ he said, and launched into an animated conversation with someone about the latest developments.‘Your spies are quite right,’ he said. ‘The No Trace project will be entered for the Turner, and believe me, nothing else will come near it. Have you heard about today’s banner? You must see it, a knockout, an absolute stunner. Every day it’s becoming more spectacular . . .’
While he talked, Kathy examined the artworks on the walls—a large abstract painting, some blurry photographs which might have been stills from a video and, in pride of place on the wall behind Tait’s director’s chair, a small pyramid of cans bearing labels of frolicking puppies, mounted in a glass case.
Tait finally hung up. ‘Sorry, Kathy, Channel Four. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘I’m just trying to establish if there’s anything missing from Mrs Zielinski’s house, and in particular her paintings. I understand you may have bought some things from her, and I wondered if you could tell me what they were, for the purposes of elimination.’
‘Ah, yes.Well, that’s easy. There was only the one, a small study by Francis Bacon. I can find the receipt, if you like. As a matter of
fact, I sold it not long ago, to someone you know.’
‘Really?’ Kathy thought he must have made a mistake.
‘Yes, Sir Jack Beaufort, old Reg’s sitter.’
‘But . . . how did you know that I’ve met him?’
Tait chuckled, pleased at her confusion. ‘Because he told me so, just the other night. He’s a regular here at the restaurant.We always have a chat.’
‘Ah, I see. Did he know that the painting came from Betty?’
Tait thought about that. ‘I’m not sure. She certainly knew who I sold it to—I told her.’
The phone began to ring again and Kathy got to her feet. On her way out she looked in to the gallery, where four of Rudd’s team were hanging the eleventh banner. They were watched closely by the hollow-eyed artist in his cube, like a Grand Prix champion watching his pit-stop crew in action. The new addition featured a twice life-size crimson image of Betty’s corpse taken from the email attachment, the stark figure shocking in its contorted death pose, like a Gothic crucifixion. A cluster of press photographers was standing in front of it, mouths open.
Looking at the whole sequence of eleven hangings, Kathy could see elements tying them together that she hadn’t recognised before. There was a thin meandering line, for instance, which began, unnoticed, in the top of the first banner, and then was continued in the next, gradually working its way across all eleven like the random trail of a worm or a spider. And there was also a sense of progression in the colour which she hadn’t noticed. The first one had been entirely colourless, formed in shades of grey and black. Then the next had had a hint of blue, and after that, with each successive day, the colours had become stronger, as if the banners were coming alive.
Looking at the artist, an opposite process seemed to have been taking place, with the colour and substance leaching from him, leaving him each day leaner and more wraithlike. To Kathy it looked as if all his vitality were being transferred into his artwork.
While she was watching him, he suddenly turned his attention from his team to her, meeting her gaze. He gave her a little smile as if they shared some private knowledge, then turned away again.
No Trace Page 18
