When Suzanne saw him later that afternoon she found him keyed-up and distracted, ramming the last of his papers into a briefcase, and she put it down to the imminent journey. She felt the same way herself; things would settle down once they were on the move.
‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’ she asked.
‘We should go,’ he said. ‘I want to make a call on the way.’
It was growing dark when they loaded the last bag, locked Brock’s house and set off towards Shoreditch where he’d arranged for Kathy to drive them to the airport and bring back his car.
He crossed the river on London Bridge and continued north along Bishopsgate and Shoreditch Street before turning off into a maze of narrow lanes and emerging into Northcote Square. He parked outside the glass doors of The Pie Factory and said, ‘Won’t be a minute.’
Fergus Tait was standing talking to the girls of ‘Gabe’s Team’. They all turned to Brock as he came in.
‘Can I have a word?’ he said.
‘Of course, Chief Inspector,’ Tait beamed through his big glasses.
‘In private.’
‘Follow me.’
The women watched them curiously as Tait led him away to his office.
Tait waved to a seat, eyeing Brock’s clothes, the light windcheater and cotton drills, the polo shirt. ‘You look as if you’re off-duty, Mr Brock.’
‘I’m just leaving on holiday, actually.’
‘Somewhere warm by the look of it.’
‘Yes. I’m on the way to the airport, but I thought I’d stop by. There was something I wanted to tell you.’
‘Can I offer you a drink? I find I always need one before a flight.Whisky?’
‘Thanks.’
Tait poured two glasses and handed one to Brock. ‘Cheers. Is it about the case? Your people have kept me pretty well informed, I think. I must say I was as staggered as everyone else when they told me about the Nolans.’ He shook his head to emphasise his amazement.‘What a shock.’
‘But not bad for business, I suppose?’
Tait grinned. ‘By no means. If I told you what one of these was worth now . . .’ He indicated the puppy cans in the glass case behind him. ‘Well, let’s just say that it’s a good bit more than the price of your holiday, wherever you’re going, first class. But you know, I was talking about this to one of our customers in the restaurant last night, and they pointed out that a few years ago the Nolans would probably have got away with it. It was the science that caught them, was it not? The DNA and the laboratory analysis. No offence to you, of course, Chief Inspector, but police work is science now, isn’t it?’
‘Actually that’s what I came to tell you, that the science was wrong. I don’t believe the Nolans did kill Betty and Stan and Gabe.’
‘What?’ The affable smile vanished from Tait’s face. ‘You’ve got new evidence?’
‘No, not a thing. Just a feeling.’
‘Well . . . I don’t follow.’
‘It’s a matter of interpretation and feel. Art rather than science. The science may say the Nolans are guilty, but the art says they’re not.’
Tait guffawed.‘Oh,come on.What on earth do you mean?’
‘You’re in the art business. Don’t you get presented with work like that? Your head says it should be okay, but you know it doesn’t really feel right.’
‘Maybe you should tell me what doesn’t feel right about it, then.’
‘First of all, Gabe knew what was going on. He was involved in it, right to the end, but with somebody else.You remember the etching? There are two people observing the hanging of Justice and Liberty—Voltaire and Rousseau, the two students of “monster humanity”. And there were two people involved in the deaths that happened here, in the square—Gabe and a partner, a controlling partner.’
‘Len Nolan,’ Tait said. ‘He admitted that they were in it together.’
‘He admitted the removal of Tracey, yes, but not the murders. I don’t believe that Gabe planned them at all, but he got drawn into it, couldn’t stop it. From the way Poppy described him, I’d say he was both appalled and fascinated by them, until finally he became the last victim.’
‘You’re not suggesting that Poppy was this mysterious partner, then?’
‘No, no. The thing about the killings—especially Betty’s, but the others too—was their callousness, their deliberation, their cruelty. The Nolans simply weren’t like that. Neither was Poppy, nor Gabe. In the end, that’s why I couldn’t believe the science.’
‘I see. Well, who is this amazing specimen of monster humanity then, Mr Brock? Don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘I think it’s you, Fergus.’
There was a moment’s silence, and then Tait chuckled. ‘What is this, some kind of entrapment scheme? Do you expect me to blurt out a confession, like the villain in a cheap novel? Are you wearing a tape recorder or something?’
‘No; no tape recorders, no witnesses, no evidence. I simply wanted you to know.’
‘Well . . .’ Tait put his hands behind his head and rocked back in his chair, examining Brock’s face. ‘I’m not sure whether I should feel affronted or flattered.You’d better tell me what I did, exactly.’
‘I imagine it might have begun quite casually. Maybe Stan had been telling Gabe about his friend Pat Abbott’s interest in Tracey, and Gabe said something about wishing sometimes that he didn’t have Tracey on his hands. Then you might have made a joke about what a publicity coup it would be for him if she became the next missing child— Jane’s suicide all over again. And just out of idle curiosity perhaps, over a few drinks, the two of you speculated on how it could be done—without hurting Tracey, of course; in fact, really, in her best interests. Then Gabe put this to the Nolans, and realised that they would go along with it, and with your encouragement he decided to go ahead. Am I warm?’
‘Fascinating. But why should I have been involved? Surely Gabe could have done all that on his own?’
‘I don’t think he had the nerve. I think he needed to be organised and pushed.’
‘I see. So what happened then?’
‘I think you discovered that Tracey had spoken to Betty before she went away. She gave her the self-portrait as a memento, and you couldn’t be sure what she’d told her. The publicity was working really well, and Gabe’s exhibition opening was a huge success, but you must have realised just how disastrous it would be if we began to take Betty’s wild hints seriously and the truth came out. Apart from any criminal proceedings we might bring, both Gabe and your gallery would be utterly discredited, his work valueless.
‘Did you tell Gabe that you’d only intended to question Betty about what Tracey had told her, and her death was an accident? At any rate, you convinced him that you’d had to make it look as if Stan had done it in order to cover your tracks, and that meant that Stan had to die, too. I imagine that wasn’t too hard after you told Stan that the police would put him back in the asylum when we caught him. Did Gabe work on him too, or did you do that alone? I think a joint campaign, myself. The great compensation for Gabe was that all this was providing incredible material for his No Trace project in the gallery. That would have eased his conscience no end, especially when you pointed out that there really was no alternative.
‘But there was another problem, both practical and aesthetic. How the hell were you going to bring No Trace to a convincing, satisfying conclusion? You couldn’t have the police finding Tracey, but you also couldn’t have the whole thing dragging on for ever. I think Gabe had been thinking about this from the start. He planned sixteen banners, at the end of which he would expose his in-laws and get Tracey back, to everyone’s relief, denying the Nolan’s claims that he’d been involved in Tracey’s abduction. Better still, with the two killings in the square you and Gabe could now stage a failed murder attempt, against him, with watertight clues pointing to the Nolans.
‘That was all right as far as it went, but from your point of view it didn’t really go far enough. It left Gab
e alive to expose you one day if the fancy took him, and it didn’t have the necessary climactic force. The punters want real drama, real tragedy, real pain, isn’t that right? They don’t want Van Gogh pretending to commit suicide, they want the real thing. They don’t want Modigliani recovering from his drugs and TB, they want the tragic corpse, and the distraught pregnant mistress throwing herself out of the window after him.
‘And that’s really what this has all been about, isn’t it? The price of Dead Puppies. Gabe Rudd and Stan Dodworth weren’t making enough money for you any more, so you decided to enhance the market, give the punters what they really want.’
Tait had become very still, his eyes narrowed in thought.
‘You’re not saying much,’ Brock said, draining his glass. ‘Are you thinking of the killings? The moments of death? You enjoyed those, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t find this conversation very amusing any more,’ Tait murmured. ‘If you’ve finished what you had to say, you’d better go.’
‘Right. There is one thing I can’t work out—how you got the photograph from the Nolans’ house, and the things from Len’s workshop. He swears there’s only the one key.’
Tait gave a grim little smile. ‘Well, for your peace of mind I could suggest a hypothetical answer. Len Nolan once made the mistake of lending Gabe his car to ferry Tracey somewhere. While he was at it, Gabe had copies made of the other keys on the ring, the ones to the Nolans’ house. He thought they might come in useful if things between him and the Nolans got nasty.’
‘I see.’ Brock got to his feet. ‘I’m not going to let this go, Fergus. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Good luck, Chief Inspector. And can I say that if this little visit was intended to rattle me, it was a waste of time. You see, I know I’m smarter than you are. I won’t be losing one minute of sleep over you. Enjoy your holiday, won’t you.’
Tait stepped into the outer office and then stopped short. Beyond him Brock saw one of Gabe’s computer girls standing by the photocopier behind the door. She was clutching a sheaf of paper to her chest as if for protection. She stared hard at Tait then spun on her heel and ran out. As Brock passed the door to the gallery he saw her with the other two girls, deep in whispered conversation.
‘That took a long time,’ Suzanne said as he got into the car.
‘Yes, I’m sorry, it took longer than I thought. I had to get one or two things off my chest.’
‘That’s all right. I went into the gallery to see the show. I’ve been reading about it, of course, but I suppose seeing it in the flesh brought it home to me how big this thing has been. I think it’s taken more out of you than you’ve been prepared to admit.’
‘You may be right.’ He stared into the darkness of Northcote Square gardens.
‘What is it?’ She was staring hard at him now, trying to make out his expression.
‘I’m sorry, Suzanne,’ he said softly. ‘But I can’t go. I thought I could, but I can’t.’
‘Don’t,’ she replied, surprising herself with her self-control, almost as if she’d known all along that this would happen. ‘Don’t do this to me, David.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.
‘Is it me? Aren’t I interesting enough company?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Well what then? You’ve found the little girl. Surely you don’t love the Met that much? The hours? The heartache?’ She couldn’t hold back the bitterness in her voice now. ‘It’s a job, David, like any other. It’s not your life.’
‘It’s my case,’ he said, as if that was all that could be said. ‘I can’t leave now.’
He started the car and drove to Shoreditch station.
When Kathy and Bren saw him in the office their smiles faded.
‘What’s wrong, Chief?’ Bren said. ‘You feel all right?’
‘I’ve just been to see Fergus Tait,’ Brock said, and told them what had happened.
‘He admitted it?’ They both looked stunned.
‘No, but he wanted me to know I was right. He’s rather proud of himself.’
‘Hell.’ Bren sank slowly into a chair. ‘We’ll get to work on it while you’re away. He must have made mistakes.We’ll find something.’
‘So Deanne was wrong,’ Kathy said. ‘She said art was the highest value, beating everything else, but Tait has proved that in the end, money trumps art.’
‘Sir?’ A woman had put her head round the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I’m monitoring Gabriel Rudd’s website and something’s just come up. I thought you might be interested.’
They followed her to her computer and saw the message in bold letters:
URGENT
ALL FRIENDS OF GABE RUDD WHO ARE ABLE ARE ASKED TO COME IMMEDIATELY TO THE GALLERY ENTRANCE IN NORTHCOTE SQUARE. WE HAVE IMPORTANT NEW INFORMATION REGARDING GABE’S DEATH
‘They don’t say what the information is,’ the woman said.
Brock read the message again. ‘It’s possible that one of Rudd’s computer operators overheard some of my conversation with Tait.’
‘Blimey. You think they’re organising a protest or something?’
‘Or a lynching. Is the camera operating in the square?’
They went to the monitor and saw that already a small crowd had gathered at the gallery entrance. It was lit up by the headlights of cars circling the square, and knots of people were hurrying in from all directions. It was impossible to gauge the mood.
‘That was quick,’ Bren said. ‘Do you think we should send a patrol car down?’
‘Better inform the duty inspector,’ Brock answered, but then Kathy pointed to a figure standing in the gallery doorway.
‘Is that Tait? Can we get in closer?’
Bren worked the control panel and the camera zoomed in. It was Tait, they saw. He was waving, but not in panic, more as a celebrity might to his fans.
‘He looks full of himself,’ Bren said. ‘Maybe it was he who put the notice on the web, trying to get his spoke in before we do.’
‘Yes, you could be right.’
‘What time’s your flight, Brock?’ Kathy asked. ‘Shouldn’t we be on our way? Don’t worry about this.We can handle it.’
‘I’m not leaving, Kathy. I’m going to stay.’
They looked stunned for a moment, then both began to protest, speaking at once, but he held up his hand and said, ‘I’ll drive Suzanne to the airport, then I’ll be back.’ He turned and walked quickly away before they could say any more. Kathy wanted to go after him, but Bren persuaded her to leave it.
‘Let them sort it out,’ he said. ‘We could have a riot on our hands here.’
He pointed at the camera monitor, where it seemed that half of Northcote Square was now filled with people, a crowd seething like a single organism, amorphous and unsettled.
Brock returned a couple of hours later, looking sombre. He found Bren at the monitor.
‘What’s happening?’
‘It’s still a bit confused. Kathy’s gone to the square to try to get a better idea.’
‘What does she say?’
‘It seems you were right about Gabe’s computer girls. They’ve summoned the crowd.’
‘What for? What are they telling them?’
‘Well . . . pretty much what you told us. That the police know Gabe was murdered by Fergus Tait and not the Nolans, but they can’t prove it. Tait came out to try to calm them down and protest his innocence but apparently that didn’t go down too well and now he’s back inside again, holed up in his office.We’re sending a couple of cars down.’
35
Kathy had worked her way down West Terrace towards the gallery entrance, but there the crush was so dense that she was halted about thirty yards away. The people around her were all young, finishing their day’s work when the messages started coming in. They had poured off the commuter trains and buses, out of the nearby tube stations and pubs, and made their way to Northcote Square. At first it had just been a bit of a lark, and e
veryone was cheerful and intrigued, the atmosphere rather chaotic. But Kathy had sensed a gradual change. As the stories about Fergus Tait began to circulate, the laughter died away and the mood became sombre. Kathy realised that they really had seen Gabe as a star, a tragic hero. The crowd was also becoming organised, although it was difficult to see exactly how this was happening. Messages would filter through about the aims of the gathering and how they should behave, but it wasn’t clear where they were coming from— the group closest to the gallery entrance, Kathy assumed, yet it seemed that people were receiving text-messaged instructions from all over London. An enterprising TV news crew had managed to set up a camera at the top of the scaffolding on Yasher’s construction site, and was now broadcasting live.
‘So what are they after?’ Bren asked over the phone.
‘They’re describing it as a vigil,’ Kathy replied. ‘It seems peaceful enough at the moment, but I think we should be careful about sending in the storm-troopers. There’s so many people here now that a panic would cause a disaster.’
After four uniformed officers were stopped, politely but firmly, at the edge of the crowd now occupying streets all around Northcote Square, the Borough Commander agreed with his Head of Operations that a softly-softly approach should be adopted. Ambulances, a fire tender and a number of unmarked police vehicles were standing by, and uniformed police were attempting to turn new arrivals away. A call was made to the Public Order Operational Command Unit and an expert was on his way from ‘Riot City’, the Public Order Training Centre at Hounslow Heath.
Despite the alarming growth in numbers, the crowd remained calm, almost motionless, and the police were somewhat reassured by a second notice on Rudd’s website, which announced the formation of the ‘Vigil for Gabe’, a non-violent demonstration of support for the dead artist. Its aims were to honour his memory and seek justice for his murder.
No Trace Page 35
