‘What about DNA?’ Bren asked.
‘Disappointing so far. We’ve only found Rudd’s and Wilkes’s DNA on the cloak, where it came in contact with them presumably, and the blood is all Rudd’s as far as we can tell. The killer was very careful to avoid leaving traces—probably wore gloves and some kind of protective clothing beneath the cloak and mask. There were DNA traces on the abandoned shoes in the bin, but they don’t match anything we have. We haven’t found any discarded hairs or fibres. We had hopes for saliva traces inside the mouth opening of the mask, but there again it turned out to be Rudd’s DNA— we think he must have spat at his assailant during the initial struggle.’
His words took Kathy back to the moment she had forced her way into the studio. Once again she felt her feet sliding on the bloodstained floor, and herself toppling . . .
‘What happened?’ She looked up in surprise. People were clustered around her, looking concerned, and she seemed to be sitting on the floor.
‘You blacked out,’ someone said, and then she heard Brock giving orders to get a doctor. Two men lifted her to her feet and began to move towards the door.
‘I’m fine,’ she protested, and heard Brock at her shoulder, ‘I should never have let you come in today, Kathy.’ She stopped objecting and let them lead her away.
Later that evening Brock received a message to proceed immediately to an urgent meeting with Commander Sharpe at New Scotland Yard.When he reached the office on the sixth floor he thought he detected a spark of interest beneath the chilly glare of Sharpe’s secretary. She knocked on the connecting door and showed him straight in.
‘Coffees, please, Lillian,’ Sharpe barked. ‘Sit.’
Brock did so.
‘You look worried, Brock.’
‘Oh, no. So many things to sort out.’
‘Tell me. But you seem to have sorted out Sir Jack Beaufort. He’s thrown in the towel.’
‘What?’
‘Couple of hours ago. Resigned from the review panel on personal grounds. The Beaufort Committee no longer has a chair.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Brock said cautiously, trying to read Sharpe’s mood.
‘Interesting? It’s spectacular! The whole building’s buzzing like an upturned wasp’s nest. You had a session with Beaufort this morning, didn’t you? I’ll need a full report; every fact, every suspicion, every innuendo.’
‘Innuendo?’
‘The man’s a paedophile, isn’t he?’
‘I’m not sure that he is. I think Wylie set him up.’
‘Come on, Brock, don’t go soft on me now.You must have shaken him this morning. He knows the game’s up. No smoke without fire.’
‘In this case, there’s lots of smoke and very little fire.’
‘Well, we can hand him over to the tender mercies of the Child Protection Unit if you want him out of your hair. The important thing isn’t him, though, it’s his damned committee. We’ve got to make sure it’s so tainted by this that they’ll never dare to bring its recommendations into the light of day.’
The door opened and the secretary came in with a tray.
‘What’s this?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Your coffees, sir.’
‘Bugger the coffee. We need a drink. Whisky for me. Brock?’
Brock nodded.
‘Big ones, Lillian. And pour yourself one.’
While Brock was away, Bren made a last check of his emails for the night, giving a little start to see the letters FBI appear. The message was brief and impersonal. Approval had been given to release to the Metropolitan Police the contents of six hundred and seventy-two messages stored in the accounts of Patrick Abbott and Robert Wylie. A CD containing the material had been despatched by secure express mail. Bren sent an acknowledgement and thanks, knowing that he wouldn’t sleep well that night.
28
Kathy blinked awake and realised with relief that she was in her own bed. She’d had a dream about passing out in a team briefing held at a crime scene with enormous bloodstains on the walls. Then she heard a noise in the living room, a tap running, then stopping. Someone was there. A figure appeared in the bedroom doorway.
‘Hi, how are you feeling?’
‘Nicole? Is that you?’ She couldn’t remember what her friend from the National Identification Service was doing there.
‘Yes. Brock asked me to come over. You’ve had a good sleep. Do you feel any better?’
Kathy sat up slowly. ‘I think so, yes. I feel as if I’ve had a long rest.What time is it?’
Nicole checked her watch. ‘Ten past ten.’
‘I don’t remember how I got here.’
‘The doctor checked you out at Shoreditch and gave you a shot of something. They brought you home and Brock gave me a ring. He’d have stayed himself but he had things to do.’
‘Have you had dinner?’
‘Yes, and breakfast.’
‘Breakfast?’
‘It’s Thursday morning. You slept for eighteen hours straight. I kipped on your sofa. I’ll make us a cup of tea.’
As Kathy listened to the comforting sounds of Nicole outside at the kitchen sink she adjusted to what she’d just learned. It was frightening how little control you had when you could be switched on and off like a TV set. In her mind, the bloodstained wall and writhing blue snakes were more vivid and immediate than the smell of toast coming through the door. She closed her eyes and let the images fade.
Nicole returned with a tray and sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘You’ve got a bit more colour in your face,’ she said. ‘I was worried about you.You looked so white.’
‘I’m sorry, Nicole. I seem to be getting you to do me favours all the time.’
‘That’s what friends are for.’
‘What about your work?’
‘There’s nothing urgent.I can stay as long as you need me.’
‘Didn’t Lloyd mind?’
‘He’s a copper too, remember.’
Kathy didn’t know Nicole’s latest partner well, but remembered that he was a detective in west London. All in the family.
‘Incidentally, he knows someone you met recently. Special Branch, Tom Reeves.’ Nicole raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘Oh yes. I’ve bumped into him a few times,’ Kathy said vaguely.
‘Interesting?’ Nicole persisted.
‘I’m too ill to answer that.’
Nicole laughed. ‘Only, he rang you this morning on your mobile. I answered it in case it was Brock. I hope that’s okay.’
Kathy felt a small buzz of pleasure. ‘That’s fine. What did he want?’
‘Didn’t say. He seemed concerned about you. He left a number.’
‘Thanks. Did Lloyd tell you anything about him?’
‘He’s single, that’s the main thing. Lloyd said he seems a nice bloke, but he doesn’t know him well. A bit of a dark horse. You know what Special Branch are like. Someone else rang your phone.’ She checked her note on a piece of paper. ‘Adrian Schropp.’
For a moment Kathy couldn’t place the name, then she remembered the West End art dealer.
‘He didn’t leave a message either. Both Brock and DI Gurney phoned me as well, just to check how you were.’
‘Did they say whether they’ve found a woman called Poppy Wilkes yet, by any chance?’
‘They didn’t say. There was a report about her on the news this morning. Police are appealing blah, blah, blah. We’re nothing if not appealing. How’s the toast?’
‘Good. I’m really hungry.’
‘I’d make you some more, but that’s all there is. And it seems that was the only solid food you had in your flat.’
‘Sorry. I wasn’t expecting visitors.’
‘I can see that. I might pop out and buy a few things.’
‘There’s money in my bag, wherever that is.’
While Nicole was out, Kathy washed her face and brushed her teeth. Looking at herself in the bathroom mirror she understood the concern she’d seen in
her friend’s face. She looked drained, the way her car battery sounded on cold mornings. Coupled with the empty fridge and generally unkempt state of her flat, it didn’t need a detective to draw conclusions.
She had a drink of water and began using her phone, starting with Shoreditch,where she was put through to Bren. He was relieved to hear from her and sounded just a bit too sympathetic for her liking, as if she’d been relegated to the ranks of the fragile and infirm. They hadn’t found Poppy yet; her face was in all the papers.
She got the answering service on DI Reeves’s phone and left a quick message, then tried Adrian Schropp’s number. The strange mixture of German consonants and plummy public-school vowels answered, sounding oddly evasive.
‘I’m sorry, Sergeant Kolla, I rang you in error, really. It vas nothing.’
Kathy looked at Nicole’s note, with his name, number and the time of the call, two hours before, and the comment, Information for you. ‘I understand you have some information, Mr Schropp.What’s it concerning?’
‘As I say, an error. I saw the picture of that girl in the paper this morning, Poppy Vilkes, and thought I knew her. But I vas wrong. So sorry to bother you.’ He hung up abruptly, leaving Kathy puzzled.
Nicole came back with four heavy carrier bags, and set about filling Kathy’s shelves and refrigerator. ‘We’ll have a proper breakfast, bacon and eggs, and I’ve bought you some cutlets for your dinner, and salad and fruit . . .’ Kathy watched, feeling guilty, guessing what was coming.
As they finished the bacon and eggs, Nicole said casually, ‘You’ve been feeling low, haven’t you, since you split up with Leon?’
‘I’m not depressed.’
‘Aren’t you?’ Nicole looked pointedly around the room, then at Kathy. ‘When did you last get your hair done?’
‘I had an appointment the day this case started, and I had to cancel. I haven’t had time since.’
‘You mean you haven’t made time since.You can’t just live through your work, Kathy. That’s a trap.’
‘I think about Leon sometimes, but mostly I think about that little girl we found, with the black leg.’
‘What?’
Kathy explained, Nicole looking horrified. ‘And I imagine Tracey going the same way while we’ve been trying to find her, the gangrene spreading . . .’ She was suddenly startled to find her eyes filling with tears. Hell, she thought, maybe I am depressed.
Nicole put a hand on hers. ‘You must find it lonely on your own up here, don’t you?’
‘Sometimes.’ Kathy used her other hand to wipe her eyes.‘But not as lonely as living with someone whose mind is taken up with someone else. That’s much worse, isn’t it?’
‘Look, I think you should go to your GP. There’s lots of things they can give you now, to get you over a hump.’
‘Thanks. Maybe I will.’ She glanced at the time. ‘I’m worried about you being away from work. I’m really fine now, if you want to get back.’
‘Well, perhaps I should, if you’re sure. I bought you the paper and a couple of magazines. Go back to bed and have a real rest today. I’ll look in on the way home tonight.’
She was talking as if to an invalid, Kathy thought. She gave a suitably limp smile of thanks and saw Nicole to the door, then went to her bedroom and started getting dressed. Before leaving she spent a bit more time on her make-up than she’d been accustomed to lately, trying to manufacture a glow of health in her cheeks.
Adrian Schropp was talking to his assistant at the desk in the front room of the Cork Street gallery. On the walls around them the large, misty Norwegian landscapes glowed beneath the lights as if some revelation were about to emerge. Kathy hoped that it might serve as an inspiration to the fog in her own head.
Schropp looked up and tried to hide his surprise. ‘Vy, Sergeant Kolla, how nice. Have you changed your mind about buying a fjord? Better hurry, they’ve nearly all gone.’
‘Yes, I see the red spots. But it was your phone call I wanted to speak to you about, Mr Schropp.’
‘But I thought I explained . . .’ The dealer glanced at his assistant and said, ‘Give me five minutes, darling.’ He crooked a finger at Kathy and led her through to the rear gallery and a couple of seats set beside a coffee table piled with art magazines and catalogues.
‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, as I said, it vas all a mistake.You’ve vasted your time.’
‘Any information about Poppy Wilkes may be vital at this time, Mr Schropp. Please tell me what you had in mind and let me be the judge.’
Schropp sighed, looking uncomfortable. ‘It really is important, is it?’
‘Please.’
‘Vell . . .’ he began reluctantly, ‘I recognised her face in the paper this morning. She came in here several years ago, vith an odd story. She’d been told she vas related to a painter who had done a portrait of Mick Jagger, years ago. She’d recently visited the National Portrait Gallery and had seen such a portrait there. The people there told her that the painting had been acquired through the Adrian Schropp Gallery, and that ve might be able to put her in touch vith the artist. I pointed out that there might be other portraits of the singer, but she vas convinced it vas this one. I saw no harm in it, and told her vhere the artist lived.’ He hesitated.‘It vas Reg Gilbey. Vhen I saw the girl’s picture this morning, I thought, that if Reg is her relative he may know vhere she has gone, to some other relative maybe, so I tried to ring him. Vhen I got no reply I rang you instead. Then I thought maybe that vas a stupid thing to do. Maybe the whole thing vas a mistake, and anyvay, it’s up to Reg to get in touch vith you. I vouldn’t like the old boy to think I vas informing on him.’
‘You’re quite right to tell me this, Mr Schropp. Reg may not have seen the papers.’
‘Exactly!’ Schropp seemed relieved. ‘He’s been rather vague lately. I think vhat’s been happening in Northcote Square has affected him deeply.’
‘Do you know of any relatives of his?’
He scratched an ear.‘I recall a couple of old dears who came to an opening once—sisters or cousins—but I don’t know vhere they lived. You’d have to speak to Reg.’
The crowds were as dense in the square as before, and the floral tributes outside Gabriel Rudd’s house had grown to a small meadow, extending out across Urma Street, which had now been closed to traffic because of the risk of accidents. People were moving among the flowers, taking photographs and stooping to read the messages. Although it was midday, the sky was so darkly overcast that the lights in the buildings shone almost as brightly as at night. From the street Kathy saw a light in the bay window of Reg Gilbey’s studio. She pushed her way through the throng to the iron gate, went up the steps to his front door and rang the bell, hammering the brass lion-head knocker at the same time. There was no response. She returned to the street and went round the corner. Across the way, children in the school playground were pressed against the railings, pointing and waving to the crowds. She turned down the lane behind West Terrace and opened the gate into Gilbey’s backyard.His kitchen door was unlocked, and she went inside. The house was silent, a faint smell of burnt cheese and cigarette smoke hanging in the air.
‘Reg!’ She listened for a reply, but there was nothing. She continued along the hall, seeing the mail spilled over the floor beneath the letterbox in the front door. She climbed the stairs and opened the door to the studio. Gilbey was sitting in the middle of the room, staring at his painting of Betty Zielinski as a young woman. Beyond him, the easel that had held the portrait of Sir Jack Beaufort was empty.
‘Reg? Are you all right?’
The old painter stirred, turned his head and squinted at her through his thick-framed glasses. ‘Poppy’s not here,’ he said, his voice weak. The flesh on his face seemed pinched and even more wizened than before.
‘But she’s been here,’ Kathy said, guessing.
He gave a little nod. It seemed such an effort for him to speak that Kathy took a chair to his side and leaned close so that she wouldn’t miss
anything.‘Tell me about it,’ she said softly.
‘She screamed,’ he said after a pause, eyes narrowed as if watching a replay inside his head. ‘She just screamed. Never heard such a scream.’ His voice faded away and with it his attention. Close to, his skin looked as thin as tissue paper. Kathy got to her feet and hurried downstairs to the kitchen, finding the cupboard where she remembered him keeping the whisky bottle. She found a glass and returned upstairs. He hadn’t stirred an inch.
‘Here, try this, Reg.’
The smell of the vapour under his nose roused him a little, but when he tried to take the glass his hand was trembling too much, and Kathy held it while he sipped. After a moment a little glow of pink blossomed in his cheek.
‘Want a cup of tea?’
He shook his head. ‘Another one of them.’
She refilled the glass, and his grip was steadier.
‘You never told me you two were related,’ Kathy said.
He shot her a sideways glance.‘How do you know that?’
‘I’m the police, Reg.We get to know things.’
‘Tell me what she’s supposed to have done then.’
‘That I don’t know, but I do need to speak to her. So what happened exactly?’
He took another sip. ‘Couple of years ago she turned up on my doorstep. Never seen her before. Claimed I was her natural father. I told her that was bollocks. I didn’t know anyone by the name of Wilkes. She said that was the name of her adoptive parents, both now dead. Before she died, her mother’d told her she was adopted, and her real dad was a famous London painter, who’d done a portrait of Mick Jagger. Well, I had done one, but others had too, so I told her it was a case of mistaken identity.’
Gilbey emptied the second glass and handed it to Kathy, who took it but didn’t refill it. ‘Tell me the story first,’ she said.
He grunted and fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes, lit one and coughed.‘She wasn’t convinced. She said she was an artist too, and it obviously ran in the blood. When I went on denying I had anything to do with her blood she seemed more sad than anything else. Anyway, she finally left. Then I discovered she’d got herself taken on by Tait as one of his tame artists at The Pie Factory. She didn’t raise the matter of her paternity with me again, or mention it to anyone else, as far as I know, but sometimes I’d catch her looking up at my windows, or watching me in the supermarket, with a look in her eyes that said, You know. It got on my nerves. Eventually it occurred to me that Fergus Tait might have her date of birth for her national insurance or whatever. I thought I’d work out when she was conceived, and with luck I’d have been abroad at the time, or in hospital or something, and I’d be able to put the matter to rest.’
No Trace Page 30
