Gilbey was in his kitchen, a glass of golden liquid on the table in front of him, a cigarette held in an unsteady hand. He looked as if he’d aged ten years in a week, grey skin, grey bristles on an unshaved cheek, bent shoulders. Kathy felt sorry for him, but then remembered Betty’s words; ‘I watch him you know, I know his secrets.’ It seemed entirely possible that she had been referring to Gilbey, the neighbour with whom she shared a long and troubled history. Stan Dodworth wasn’t the only one who might want to see Betty dead.
‘Your sitter’s gone?’
Gilbey gave an abrupt little nod. ‘Couldn’t do any painting, hand was shaking too much. Just seems to have hit me . . .’ He reached for the tumbler of whisky and lowered his head to it so as to reduce the chances of it spilling in his trembling hand. He swallowed, gave a rasping cough. ‘Wouldn’t stop talking about her.’
‘The judge?’
‘Mmm. How well did Betty know the girl? Were they very close? Did she talk to me about the kidnapping?’
Good questions, Kathy thought, and wondered at Beaufort’s curiosity. There had been something insistent about it, she remembered.
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Yes, of course Betty talked about it, we all did. But with Betty, you never knew what was real and what was fantasy. She was obsessed, you see, with the idea of the stolen child. Had been ever since . . . that business I told you about. So when the reports of the other missing girls appeared in the news, she got it all tangled up with her own fantasies, even before Tracey disappeared.’
‘Do you feel able to come next door with me?’
‘All right.’ His eyes darted up to hers with an anxious look. ‘You don’t think those Turks could have done it, do you?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Only . . . well, they made no secret of wanting to buy her house, and she was always fighting with them about one thing or another—noise, mud in the lane, blocked drains, smells. I’ve heard her screaming at that Yasher character more than once . . .’His voice petered out. ‘No, doesn’t seem likely, does it?’
‘Come on, let’s take a look at her house.’
The SOCO team were finishing as they reached the back door. She led Gilbey slowly from room to room, trying to prompt his memory and taking notes as he identified this item or that. The dolls spooked him, watching with their blank smiles, and Kathy had to force his attention to the drawings and paintings. He pointed out a number that she’d hardly noticed on her previous visit, when she’d been concentrating on signs of disturbance. Some especially caught his eye. ‘Oh yes,’ he said as they came upon an abstract in a dark corner of the living room, ‘William Scott, of course, I’d forgotten about this one.’ She noted the unfamiliar names, checking the spelling: Wallis, not Wallace; Brangwyn not Brangwen. By the time they came to the last room, Betty’s own bedroom, Kathy had listed a dozen original works of mid-twentieth century British art, which Reg assured her would together be worth well into six figures. They had also come across a similar number of empty picture hooks. He mentioned the details of those of the missing paintings he could remember.‘I helped her sell them, through my own dealer.’
‘Fergus Tait?’
‘Fergus Tait! Fergus Tat, more like. Certainly not, I wouldn’t deal with that cowboy. My bloke’s in Cork Street, in the West End.’
Gilbey was looking uneasily at Betty’s bed, stripped of its sheets and pillowcases for laboratory analysis. He seemed very pale, and Kathy saw his eyelids flutter, his body begin to sway.
‘Sit down, Reg,’ she said, and quickly grabbed a chair into which he almost toppled.
‘It’s been a shock,’ he whispered. ‘I still can’t believe it. Hanged, you say?’
‘I think you need a doctor.’
‘No, no. I need a drink. Take me home.’
Kathy looked at the colour returning to his cheeks and nodded. Then she said, ‘What was the painting in this room?’ She pointed at the empty hook on the wall beside the bed.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never been in here before.’ He caught her watching him. ‘And that’s the honest truth.’
She took him back to his kitchen and got the name of his dealer in the West End, just in case. Then her phone rang, Brock on the line.
K
athy joined Brock and Bren for their first formal interview regarding the murder of Betty Zielinski at Shoreditch, beginning with Yasher Fikret, as representative of the family companies that both owned the house in which Betty’s body had been found and were carrying out the building renovations.
‘What can I say,’ Yasher said, making an expansive gesture with his hands,heavy gold rings glinting. ‘I’m devastated, as a neighbour, as a friend, as a local businessman. My whole family is devastated. I speak for them all. When’s the funeral, incidentally? We will want to show our respect with floral tributes etcetera etcetera. My mother is offering to cater, no charge.’
Yasher was smartly turned out in dark suit and thick silk tie, but his gestures and way of speaking suggested that the style of businessman he modelled himself on owed less to the
Financial Times
than to Hollywood,
The Godfather,
perhaps. But the suggestion of menace beneath the swagger was real enough, Kathy thought. She eyed the big gold rings and wondered if one of them had torn Poppy’s cheek.
‘That’s very generous, I’m sure,’ Bren said dryly. ‘At present we’re still trying to trace Ms Zielinski’s next of kin. Do you know if she had a solicitor?’
‘No idea.’
‘You didn’t have dealings with her, as an adjoining owner to your development?’
‘Our lawyers may know.You want me to check?’
‘Please.’ Bren pushed the phone across the table, but Yasher ignored it, slipping an impressive little silver machine out of an inside pocket, unfolding it and pressing a few buttons.
‘Allo,Tony?’ Yasher drawled. ‘You remember the owner of number fourteen West Terrace, next to the end of our block, Betty Zielinski? . . . Yeah, well she’s been done in, mate, last night . . . I’m not kidding. I’m with the cops now. Listen . . .’
Bren and Brock waited impassively while the exchange continued. Yasher finally folded away his phone and said, ‘Sorry, no. Never dealt with a solicitor, just Betty in person.’ A slight pause, then, ‘So you don’t know the next of kin?’
‘Not yet.’
Yasher looked thoughtful. ‘Bad business.’
‘Where were you last night, Mr Fikret?’
‘Me? I was at home with my wife and little boy. After dinner I watched football on the sports channel till eleven, then I went to bed. My wife will confirm that.’
‘How many people know about that cellar room in your property, where the men play cards?’
‘Well . . . all the regular building gang, of course, plus most of the subcontractors—plumbers, electricians . . .’
‘We’d like all their names. Anyone else?’
‘You know about me taking some friends there, the night poor little Tracey disappeared. My
artist
friends.’ He smiled as at a private joke.
‘To sell them drugs, yes.’
Yasher held up his hands in protest. ‘If you’re going down that road, Mr Gurney, I’m saying nothing. I’m here to help . . .’
‘The point is that whoever took Ms Zielinski down there knew it very well. They knew exactly what was down there—a live power supply, for instance.’
‘They broke in; they didn’t have a key,’ Yasher said defensively.
‘That doesn’t necessarily follow. They knew how easy it was to break in with just a screwdriver through the hasp. No alarms, no guard dogs. Very poor security for a building site in that area, Mr Fikret.’
‘That’s the site manager’s business, not mine.’
‘The site manager tells us that you had your own arrangements for a dog and a security guard right up until last week.’
Yasher scowled truculently. ‘As it happens, I’m in dispute with that company over a commercial matter. And I completely deny your allegations about drugs. If there were any there they had nothing to do with me. I resent your insulting . . .’ He began to rise.
Brock broke in, voice mild, ‘Please sit down, Mr Fikret. Tell us about your relationship with these artist friends. If it wasn’t to sell them drugs, why did you go there the night Tracey disappeared?’
‘It was their idea. They wanted to see what we were doing to the old building. I thought Gabe might be thinking of buying one of the flats for an investment. They’re just neighbours, people I meet in the square. I don’t pretend to understand what they’re on about all the time, but I like their company, okay? That’s the nice thing about living in this part of London—the culture you brush up against every day.’ He gave a broad grin.
‘But you’re a bit of a collector yourself, aren’t you?’ Kathy said.
‘Me?’Yasher looked astonished.
‘That painting in the shop, your mother said you bought it.’
‘Ah, that! Yes, I bought it down the market. That’s real skill, that is. That’s my taste, all right.’
‘What do you think of your friends’ work, Gabe and Stan and Poppy?’
‘You want an honest answer? Don’t tell them, please, but I can sum it up in two well-chosen words—total crap.’ He saw the little smile cross Bren’s face. ‘Aha! You agree with me, Mr Gurney! Am I right?’
‘When was the last time you saw Stan Dodworth?’
‘Stan? That would be the night we went to the cellar that I told you about. Not since then.Why?’
‘He’s missing, Mr Fikret. Any idea where he might be?’
‘No. I really don’t know him that well.’
‘And when was the last time you were in that basement?’
‘Oh, I don’t know . . . a couple of days ago. I seem to remember calling down there for some reason.’ He gave another big toothy grin.‘Mr Brock, sir, let’s be frank. If I was going to bump off the old lady, do you think I’d have left her for you to find on my own premises? The idea’s crazy. If this has anything to do with me at all, it’d have to be someone wanting to embarrass me and my family, right?’
After he’d gone, Bren said reluctantly, ‘He’s right, Brock. He’s not that stupid.’
‘Actually, I think he’s devious enough to do it this way just to put us off. But I don’t think he’s got the artistic talent.’
‘Artistic talent?’
‘Yes. The thing was staged, Bren. Artificial and composed, as if it was a commentary on something. I just wish I knew what.’
Listening to this, Kathy recalled Reg Gilbey’s sneer that the young artists in the square didn’t have an original thought between them, that everything was a reference to something else, and she wondered if Betty’s killer might have been deliberately using some recognisable artistic image of death or suffering. The more she thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. What had been done to Betty surely had meaning, a message of some kind. If they could find the reference, perhaps they could find the killer. What images might inspire Stan Dodworth, for instance?
Bren looked sceptically at his boss. ‘You don’t think you’ve been seeing too much of this contemporary art lately, chief? It can get to you after a while.’
‘Very true, Bren. And I’ve got a feeling there’ll be more.’
• • •
Fergus Tait sat in the interview room at Shoreditch station, full of apologies. ‘I feel mortified, Chief Inspector, but what can I do? I’ve pleaded with him, told him it’s in his own best interests, but he’ll have none of it. He simply refuses to come out of the cube.’
‘It’s his privilege to refuse to talk to us, Mr Tait, but it could compromise his position in the future. I do think he should be persuaded to get legal advice, at least.’
‘Oh, he’s had that all right.’ Tait gave a coy smile.‘Advice from my lawyers is one of the services I provide my little stable of artists. Gabe spoke to them before he went into his retreat, and he was in touch with them by email again this morning. I believe he’s quite clear about his situation, but if you wish, the lawyer will speak to you. And indeed, it’s not as if Gabe’s refusing to answer any questions you may have. It’s just that he’ll only do it by email. Can I also just say on his behalf that he has absolutely no information about this terrible event. He was in his cube all night, of course, and he saw and heard nothing. He’s devastated, absolutely devastated, as we all are. I’m going to offer the gallery as a venue for the wake for the poor, dear soul. That way Gabe can be there, too. But of course it’ll depend on her family. Do you know who they are?’
‘We haven’t been able to trace them yet.’
‘No trace, eh? Well, I’d be obliged if you’d let me know when you do. I seem to recall that the lady had one or two pictures I might be able to help them dispose of.’
‘Just for the record, Mr Tait, is there any way we can verify that Mr Rudd remained in his cube all night? He’s on camera, isn’t he?’
‘That’s right. The eyes of the world were on him all night long. He’s broadcast live on the internet.’
‘What about you? What were your movements last night?’
‘I ate with friends in our restaurant. My goodness, what a spectacle that was in the square. Did you see it? All those people. Anyway, I was there till we closed down, towards midnight. Then I went to bed in my flat at the back of The Pie Factory. I was there till eight this morning, but I’m afraid there were no cameras to back that up!’ He chuckled.
‘What about Stan Dodworth? Have you heard from him?’
‘I’m afraid not. I did promise to let you know if I did, but there’s been no word.’
Brock looked hard at him. ‘I find that hard to believe. You were the one who rescued him from that institution, who brought him back down to London and gave him shelter and security, who protects him from unwanted publicity. Of course he’d get in touch with you.’
‘Well, I assure you . . .’
Brock reached across to some papers that Bren had placed in front of him.‘At nine-oh-three p.m. on Saturday last you had a call to your private number in your flat. It lasted three seconds. It came from a public phone in a pub in Islington. Over the next ten minutes it was repeated five times, all for just a second or two. That would have been to your answering machine, I take it, no message left. Then at eleven-seventeen p.m. on the same night you got another call from a public phone, this time at St Pancras rail station. It lasted six minutes.’