No Trace

by Barry Maitland

  One thing that the hunt for Tracey had revealed was that Robert Wylie had a wide network of acquaintances, many of whom proved extremely reluctant to provide information about his business affairs to the police. He had an office in a run-down building on an industrial estate, and in it they had found a notebook of telephone numbers, some with a private four-letter code identifying their owners. It didn’t take long to work out that this comprised the first four letters of their names written in reverse. Thus MMOS turned out to be disgraced vice squad detective Richard Sommersby, and OXID was an Inland Revenue tax inspector by the name of Jeffery Dixon, both of whom denied any knowledge of Wylie. Several phone numbers were believed to belong to serious criminals, members of crime syndicates, while many other names and numbers hadn’t yet been deciphered.

  As Brock and his detectives went over the recent events, it was clear that Brock saw this circle of Wylie’s contacts as being related to his refusal to talk to the police. ‘It’s as if he knows he can expect help,’ he said.

  ‘He’d need divine intervention to get him out of the hole he’s in,’ someone suggested, but Bren had seen where Brock was going.

  ‘You think they’re getting rid of witnesses?’

  ‘It’s possible. Suppose Betty saw something. And suppose Stan Dodworth, through his association with Abbott, knew something.’

  There was a sudden hush as they thought about that.

  ‘If that was the way of it, it’s just possible that Betty or Stan might have told someone else what they knew. Who would they be likely to tell, Kathy?’

  Kathy thought. ‘Betty knew Reg Gilbey well, and Stan was dependent on Fergus Tait, but I don’t know if they were the sort of people they would confide a secret to. They were both pretty friendly with Poppy Wilkes.’

  ‘Right. We’ll speak to them all again. Of course, the same thing will have occurred to the killers. Maybe they persuaded Betty or Stan to tell them who else knew whatever they did.’

  The team meeting was almost over, Brock giving a dutiful warning to make every effort to avoid antagonising Sir Jack Beaufort should he be encountered, when Kathy was asked to take an urgent phone call. It came from Poppy Wilkes.

  ‘Can I see you?’ the artist asked, her voice anxious.

  ‘Yes. I’m at Shoreditch police station. Do you want to come here?’

  ‘I’m with Gabe, at his house, and I don’t want to leave him alone. Could you come to us?’

  ‘He’s left the gallery then, has he?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s not safe for him there now. Please, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

  ‘That’s all right, I’ll come over straight away.’

  ‘Thanks, thanks . . .’ There was a muffled thump, as if she’d dropped the phone.

  It was only a ten-minute walk, but a patrol car was leaving as she stepped outside so she asked them to drop her off at Northcote Square. Traffic was heavy and as they crawled along the two officers chatted to her about the case.

  ‘That Wylie bloke’s a slippery customer,’ the driver said. ‘I pulled him over once, years ago, for going through a red light. I could tell something wasn’t right about him, the way he was sweating. I got him to open his boot and it was full of dirty magazines, kiddie porn, you wouldn’t believe. But he managed to wriggle out of it. Claimed he didn’t know it was there. There was something else in the boot, too—a pair of handcuffs.’

  ‘Straight up!’ the other cop said.‘My missus has a friend whose cousin lives in that block in the Newman estate. She says everyone knew Abbott was weird. Is it right he worked in a mortuary?’

  Kathy said yes.

  ‘Only she said there was a rumour that he kept his mum’s body in his flat after she died.’

  ‘Don’t quote me,’ Kathy said, ‘but yes, he did. We found it up there.’

  ‘She says nobody knows much about Wylie though. Hardly ever saw him.’

  They arrived at last at Northcote Square, to find it jammed with media and police vehicles.

  ‘It didn’t take them long to find out, did it?’ Kathy said.

  ‘It was on the eight o’clock news this morning,’ the driver said. ‘They quoted a spokesman for the gallery.’

  Fergus Tait, Kathy thought, he never misses a trick.

  She thanked them and ran across to 53 Urma Street and rang the bell. It was some time before the intercom beside the door crackled and a cautious female voice asked, ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me, Poppy, Kathy Kolla from the police.’

  ‘I’ll come down and let you in,’ the voice whispered. ‘Wait a minute.’

  She opened the door with a furtive look around the square, then led Kathy to the big living area upstairs where Gabe was sprawled out on one of the sofas, white curls against white leather. He lifted a hand in a lazy greeting and rearranged his long limbs to let Poppy sit by his side.

  ‘It was my idea to come here,’ Poppy said. ‘Gabe thinks I’m overreacting, but I’m not. He’s in danger, Kathy, I’m sure of it now, after what happened to Stan.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Kathy took a seat facing them. The room had a musty, unaired smell, and there was a pile of unwashed dishes on the kitchen bench top.

  ‘Stan was killed more or less in front of Gabe. It’s a warning that he’s next.’

  ‘Come on, Poppy,’ Gabe said. ‘That doesn’t follow.’

  ‘Whoever’s doing this is insane,’ Poppy insisted, becoming more agitated. ‘They hate you—they took Tracey, didn’t they? I think they hate all of us here in the square. I think it’s a deliberate campaign against us, and you’re the most famous, the most obvious target.’

  ‘You mean it’s an art critic?’ Gabe laughed, but there was no humour in his voice.

  ‘In a way, yes!’ Poppy grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, sounding shrill. ‘You can laugh, but you know there are thousands of people who hate what we do and the publicity we get for it. They say we just rip the public off, playing with pretentious ideas about life and death that we’ve got no right to. Well I think one of them’s decided to make us face life and death for real, just like those messages on the walls say.’

  Gabe looked at her with concern. ‘But what about Betty?’ he said soothingly. ‘She wasn’t one of us.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Poppy hesitated, pulling away from his attempt to stroke her hair. ‘But there is somebody who hates us and Betty.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Think about it, Gabe.’

  He did, but clearly had no idea what she was talking about. She shot a quick glance at Kathy who also looked blank, then she said fiercely, ‘Reg Gilbey.’

  ‘Old Reg!’ Gabe burst out laughing.

  ‘You know Reg detests what we do! He says we’re self-indulgent children who make a mockery of everything he loves and has devoted his life to—he used those very words to me once. He said we’re poisoning the well that artists have been drinking from for thousands of years.’

  ‘Did he really say that? That’s rather good.’ Gabe smiled to himself, turning the phrase over in his mind.

  ‘He meant it, too. And he also got seriously mad with Betty. I don’t know why she couldn’t stand him, but she did everything she could to get up his nose. She used to call him “the monster next door”.’

  ‘Yes, granted . . .’ Gabe frowned, more serious now as he considered it.‘But still, old Reg? Anyway, how could he have tracked Stan down when nobody else could find him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he was hiding him all this time.’ She turned to Kathy. ‘Did you lot search Reg’s house after Stan disappeared?’

  ‘No, we had no reason to. But were they friends?’

  ‘Not friends, no, but they did drink together sometimes in The Daughters of Albion. After he’d had a few Reg’d tease Stan, call him “my friend, Auguste” after Rodin, or “my old mate, Benvenuto”—as in Cellini, you know—or one of the other great sculptors. Stan would just take the joke and say “all right, Pablo” and let Reg buy him
another drink. I used to wonder about it.’

  ‘Look,’ Kathy said, ‘this really is just guesswork, isn’t it? You don’t have anything solid against Reg Gilbey, do you?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Poppy conceded, ‘but I still say Gabe’s in danger.’

  ‘Okay, I don’t rule that out, or that you could be too, Poppy, come to that. Look at it another way. If Betty’s and Stan’s deaths are related to Tracey’s abduction, could it be because they knew something that the abductor is trying to hide?’

  ‘But you’ve caught him, haven’t you?’

  ‘We don’t have any direct proof that the man we arrested, Robert Wylie, took Tracey.’

  ‘And maybe there are others you haven’t caught yet,’ Gabe said, voice flat and forlorn. Poppy instinctively put out a hand to clutch his arm.

  ‘That’s right,’ Kathy said. ‘You told me, Poppy, that Stan had hinted to you that the people who took Tracey had a friend in the square, do you remember?’

  Poppy nodded.

  ‘Is there anything else that Stan or Betty said to either of you that could help us? I want you to think back over your conversations with them, especially in the last couple of months. Do it carefully, remembering each time, and writing down as much as you can remember.Will you do that? It could be important.’

  Poppy nodded but Gabe looked doubtful.

  ‘Yes, we will,’ Poppy said. ‘Won’t we, Gabe?’ She got a half-hearted nod. ‘And in return, will you give us protection? I’ve tried to persuade Gabe to leave London, but he says he has to stay for the work.’

  ‘You know I do, babe,’ he murmured. ‘This is the most important thing I’ve ever done.’

  ‘I’ll talk to my boss and see what can be arranged,’ Kathy said. ‘There is one other thing. It may not mean anything . . . Do you have a book about Henry Fuseli’s work here, Gabe?’

  He looked startled. ‘ What do you know about him?’

  ‘Only that you used one of his paintings as inspiration for The Night-Mare.’

  ‘You have been doing your homework, haven’t you, Sergeant Kolla?’

  There was something about the playful way he said this, almost flirtatious, that registered in Poppy’s eyes. ‘I’ll get it,’ she said sharply, and got to her feet. She pulled a thick volume from the bookshelves and brought it to Kathy, letting it drop on her lap. It wasn’t the same book that Kathy had been looking at the previous night but if anything it seemed more comprehensive. She turned the pages of the early chapters until she found the picture, and was aware of Gabe’s eyes on her all the time.

  ‘There . . .’ She handed the open book across to him. ‘You see the two figures in the background, Justice and Liberty? Both have their hands tied behind their backs, and one is blindfolded. Like Betty and Stan.’

  Gabe took a long look, then gave a low whistle. ‘I’d forgotten this one. How did you find it?’ He stared at Kathy.

  ‘Just looking for clues.’

  ‘Well, I’m amazed, Kathy, really,’ Gabe said. ‘That’s inspired, it really is. But I always knew you were the bright one, didn’t I? Do you remember, that first time we met? I told you the others were hopeless.’ The respect and interest in Gabe’s voice, together with what now looked like jealousy on Poppy’s face, caught Kathy unawares, and she felt an embarrassing blush grow in her cheek.

  ‘But how could this have anything to do with what happened?’ Poppy’s voice cut in. ‘I mean, it’s odd I suppose, but so what?’

  ‘Don’t be dumb, love.’ Now it was Poppy’s pale face that flushed at Gabe’s words. ‘You think someone might have arranged things as a message to me, Kathy?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’

  ‘Assuming that I’d be bright enough to remember my own sources, which it so happens I wasn’t. Well, that is intriguing, isn’t it? In fact it’s bloody scary when you think about it, because frankly, I’m the only one around who’s quoting from Fuseli. I should have spotted it straight away. I do thank you, Kathy. I really do.’

  Kathy shrugged, avoiding his eyes. He was playing some game with Poppy, she felt sure, deliberately provoking her, and doing it very successfully.

  But he was stroking the page of the book now, his thoughts moving on. ‘I’ll have to use this, Kathy, for the work, the next banner, you know that, don’t you? And I will acknowledge you—not like the last time, but discreetly, so you aren’t embarrassed. And when it’s hanging in the big hall in Tate Modern, you’ll be able to point it out to your friends. “See?” you’ll say, “I helped make the first friggin’ masterpiece of the twenty-first century.”’

  He laughed, and Poppy, unable to take any more of this, got to her feet and stomped off to the kitchen bench, where she began noisily loading the dishwasher.

  21

  Brock agreed to Kathy’s suggestion to place an armed police officer in Gabriel Rudd’s house, at least for a day or two, and Fergus Tait put out a press and web statement saying that, in view of the dangerous events that had occurred in Northcote Square, he had insisted that the artist go into hiding at an undisclosed location where he could continue his work undisturbed. Poppy remained with him in the house.

  Dr Mehta was in his office when Brock and Kathy arrived at the mortuary. While Kathy chatted to the photographer outside, the pathologist explained to Brock his tactics for survival in a work environment where everyone else was so much younger than he was.

  ‘The vital thing is to give absolutely no indication that you were around in the sixties and seventies, Brock, otherwise you’re finished. So when someone asks about something that happened then, you simply look blank, as if to say, “How should I know?”’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind, Sundeep.’

  ‘You do that, old chap. Even the early eighties is prehistory to some of the kids I work with now.’

  Like the man himself in life, Stan Dodworth’s remains were remarkable for having little to say. They bore no wounds or bruises, no signs of constraint apart from the single rope mark to the throat.

  ‘I’d say it was a straightforward hanging suicide,’ Dr Mehta concluded from his external examination, ‘apart from two things. One, the cord tied around his wrists, almost certainly after death. And two, the dirt on his hands.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘There isn’t any!’ Mehta gave his comic magician’s smile.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Brock asked patiently, well used to Mehta’s ways.

  ‘Just look at the rope he was hanged by. It’s filthy, encrusted with a grey dust that I’ll bet this month’s salary is cement or plaster from a building site. It’s come off on his neck and on his scalp, but there’s none on his hands. I’ve taken swabs, but, unless somebody washed his hands afterwards, I’d say he never carried that rope, or rigged up the noose. I think someone else did that, and placed it around his neck.’

  ‘You think he cooperated in this?’

  ‘Well, there’s no sign of coercion. None at all.’

  ‘He was obsessed with death,’ Kathy said quietly, almost to herself.

  Later Mehta established that Stan had eaten a final meal of roast beef, peas and boiled potato approximately seven hours before his death. There were also traces of a grey putty or clay embedded in the soles of his shoes, which were sent off for analysis.

  Within an hour, Yasher Fikret was complaining once again at having his building site closed down for another police search, which yielded nothing.

  While that was going on, Kathy returned to 53 Urma Street, on the north side of the square. The uniformed cop who let her in had nothing to report. She went up to the living room where Poppy was reading a newspaper.

  ‘Where’s Gabe?’ Kathy asked.

  Poppy paused a moment before replying. ‘Upstairs, in his studio.’ She didn’t sound happy to see Kathy, who had gone over to the kitchen, now clear of dirty dishes.

  ‘Those things you were washing up, Poppy . . .’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Were they recently di
rtied?’

  ‘How should I know? Anyway, how could they be? No one’s been here for a week.’

  ‘Could you tell what the meal was?’

  ‘What?’ She looked at Kathy as if she were mad. ‘No, I wasn’t that interested, actually.’

  Kathy was now examining the rubbish bin under the sink. ‘Okay, thanks.’ She smiled at Poppy and made for the stairs. ‘See you later.’

  In the dustbin in the backyard Kathy found week-old newspapers on top of plastic bags containing what was obviously old debris. She peeled off her gloves and made her way over to the lane behind West Terrace. Police were standing at the far end where the building site was being searched, but Kathy was interested in the dustbin standing beside Reg Gilbey’s back gate. She lifted the lid and peered in at the plastic bag on top. Its neck was loosely tied, but through a hole she was able to see the packaging for a microwave dinner. She could just see an illustration, of potatoes, peas and sliced roast beef. She closed the lid and went down the lane to find a SOCO.

  The call from the solicitor at the Crown Prosecution Service suggesting an urgent conference had left Brock puzzled, but he’d agreed to meet her during the lunchbreak of the trial she was involved in at the Old Bailey, at what she said was her favourite pub, The Seven Stars, just behind the Royal Courts of Justice. He found her perched at a narrow table against the window of the little pub, which was crowded. Some of the customers looked like lawyers and officials from the Law Courts, others like lecturers from the nearby London School of Economics.

  Virginia Ashe was small, neat and ferociously bright. Through her narrow glasses she regarded Brock squeezing his way between the tables, and pronounced judgement as he eased into the chair. ‘You look worn out.’

  ‘Thanks. I see you’re as indomitable as ever.’

  ‘It must be this awful case of yours.’ The relish with which she said it made him smile.

  ‘Tell me you’re not about to make it worse.’

  ‘Order lunch first. The food here is fabulous. I think you need a square meal—try the steak and kidney pudding.’

  ‘Fine.’