‘My husband receives so many deputations from Scotland Yard these days,’ she had said proudly.‘I wasn’t able to contact him, I’m afraid, but I know he won’t be long. He always lets me know if he’s going to be delayed. I’m so sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Detective Chief Inspector David Brock.’
‘Well then, Detective Chief Inspector, would you mind if I leave you here on your own until Jack returns? I happen to be watching on the television the very last episode of a particularly engaging program, which I’ve been following for some years.’
‘Please go ahead. I’ll be fine.’
She had cocked her head just like her husband did, except that in her case the gesture was whimsical rather than interrogative. She was of the same narrow build as him, the same lined features and grizzled grey hair, but at half the scale, so that they seemed liked brother and sister.
The pictures were very good. If there was any criticism to be made of the collection it was that it lacked consistency. Thinking of the spare harshness of the man, Brock had expected some parallel in the paintings, all abstract expressionist, perhaps, or all of a certain period. But the paintings were of every style and philosophy, from Stanley Spencer to Roberto Matta, Bernard Buffet to Gilbert and George, as if the judge had been so greedy for the delights of twentieth-century art that he just hadn’t been able to resist anything.
The paintings dominated the room, and the furniture seemed cowed by comparison. Brock knew the apartment building had not been long completed, and this was its most expensive unit, the rooftop penthouse, and the sofas and chairs had the air of refugees from some cosier suburban mansion.
‘What are you doing here?’ The voice cut into Brock’s thoughts.
He turned to face the man, standing taut in the doorway, staring at him.
‘I’m sorry, I phoned earlier and your wife suggested this time. She’s watching a TV program.’
‘I’m not sure this is appropriate. If you’ve come to talk to me about the report . . .’
‘No, no. I’m here in connection with the Tracey Rudd and Betty Zielinski inquiries.’
‘I know nothing whatever about that.’
‘This was hers, wasn’t it?’ Brock pointed to the Bacon painting. ‘Betty Zielinski’s?’
Beaufort seemed startled, and a new caution entered his voice. ‘I believe that’s true.I bought it from a dealer, Fergus Tait.’ Then Beaufort’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Did Tait tell you this?’
‘Did you ever talk to Mrs Zielinski about the painting?’
‘No. I fail to see . . .’
‘I’m interested in everything to do with Betty Zielinski, sir—who she knew, what she knew.’ He paused, letting that register, then added, ‘It would seem quite natural, inevitable even, that you would speak to the former owner of your painting when you’ve been visiting the house next door to her several times a week for the last eight months.’
‘I didn’t know the former owner lived next door to Reg Gilbey until today.’
‘Well, she knew you had it.’
‘Really?’ His face set hard as if to an obtuse counsel whose claims didn’t merit his consideration.
‘So there’s nothing you can tell me about Betty Zielinski that might assist my inquiries?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What about Stan Dodworth?’
‘Who?’
‘You don’t know him? Stan Dodworth?’
‘I think I recall the name . . .’
‘He’s one of Fergus Tait’s artists.’
‘Then I may have seen his work. Remind me.’
‘
Body Parts
.’
‘Oh yes, I remember. It was of no interest to me.’
Brock turned away, eyes scanning the walls as if searching for some clue. ‘So you wouldn’t have any idea where he is now?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. Why? What’s he done?’
‘He’s disappeared.’ Brock continued his contemplation of the paintings.
‘And that has something to do with the crimes?’
Brock didn’t answer.
Beaufort said, ‘Have you any idea who killed Betty Zielinski?’
Brock said, ‘Buffet went terribly out of fashion, didn’t he? After being so popular. Do you think he’s coming back?’
‘If he is,’ Sir Jack said acidly, ‘then it’s more than can be said of you, Chief Inspector. If you ever want to speak to me again, please make an appointment through my secretary to see me at my office, not at my home. Goodbye.’
As Brock strolled through the front door he heard the faint cry of Beaufort’s wife, ‘Is that you, Jack? There’s someone waiting to see you in the living room. I can’t remember his name.’
The phone was ringing when Brock opened his front door that night, and kept ringing until he climbed the stairs to the living room and picked it up.
‘Hello?’
‘Why don’t you have an answering machine?’
‘Must have switched it off.Who is this?’
‘You know damn well who it is! Your mobile was switched off too.’
‘Yes, sorry, sir.’
Commander Sharpe audibly controlled his irritation with a hissing intake of breath.‘Well, mine wasn’t, and I’ve just had the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, Special Operations, on the phone. His wasn’t either, and he’d just had the Assistant Commissioner on his phone, who’d just had a call from the Deputy Commissioner on his. Tell me there’s been some terrible misunderstanding, Brock. Tell me you didn’t go to the home of Sir Jack Beaufort this evening.’
‘I did.’
Silence, then a wondering voice. ‘Why? Whatever possessed you?’
‘We’ve been interviewing everyone who bought paintings from Betty Zielinski. He was one among several.’
‘You behaved in a threatening manner.’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘His wife was extremely upset.’
‘Rubbish. Did he say that?’
‘
Just listen
. If it weren’t that he insisted otherwise, you’d have been suspended from this inquiry faster than a duck’s fart. Dear God, I always thought you were reasonably intelligent! What on earth did you hope to achieve? Were you so desperate to retire? You have just done more than any single individual to end our chances of survival.
Congratulations
.’
The line clicked dead.
Almost immediately it began to ring again. This time it was Suzanne’s voice. ‘David? Thank goodness, I haven’t been able to get through.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. I’m at the travel agent. Look, there are two seats left on a flight leaving two weeks tomorrow—the evening of Friday the seventh. They may be the last available.’
‘Take them,’ he said.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, we’re going.’
T
he first school parties arrived at The Pie Factory the following morning, Friday the twenty-fourth of October. As she came through the square after the morning briefing, Kathy saw the three coaches parked on West Terrace and the children in uniform forming queues at the entrance to the gallery.What surprised her were the distances they had come; judging by the company addresses on the coaches, they were from Birmingham, Bristol and Leicester. Curious, she followed one of the lines into the gallery. These were senior students, she saw, in well-organised study groups, with notebooks, cameras and sketchpads. The teachers were handing out study notes and question-and-answer sheets, and were carrying files of reference material. As they reached the gallery foyer, Kathy saw that Fergus Tait had set an entrance fee, which was new, and had lavish catalogues for sale, as well as
No Trace
and ‘Gabriel’ T-shirts that were selling fast.
The cluster of girls in front of Kathy were clearly excited by their first glimpse of the artist through the front window, and were talking about him in pop-star terms, text-messaging their friends with the news.When they got inside the girls hurried over to join the ranks of teenagers around the glass cube gawping in at Rudd, who ignored them, head down over his computer screen. Some of the girls were flirtatiously trying to attract his attention, while the boys hung back, smirking and muttering comments. One was on his knees, tapping the glass and calling, ‘Dave, Dave.’ Then teachers appeared, briskly separating the mob into manageable groups and leading them away.
Kathy went first to speak to the computer operators, who confirmed that there had been no further messages from LSterne and that they hadn’t been able to find any earlier references to the name.
‘This is quite a circus, isn’t it?’ Kathy said.
‘Oh yes, and it’s going to get worse. There are art societies and tourist groups booked in for the weekend, and more schools next week. It’s becoming difficult to work, but that’s all part of the deal, apparently. We are the artwork.’ The woman laughed and returned to her keyboard.
Kathy moved over to the banners, curious to hear what was being said about them. A fierce grey-haired woman was challenging her group to interpret the images on the tenth banner. ‘The badger, here at the bottom, what could that represent?’
Silence, a snigger from a gangling boy.
‘Martin? What do you know about badgers?’
‘They’re extinct,’ he offered.
‘No they’re not, they are endangered, which is relevant. What else?’
‘They like the dark,’ someone said.
‘Fierce.’
‘Secretive.’
‘Vegetarian.’
‘No,’the teacher corrected again. ‘They do eat mice and young rabbits actually, as well as eggs and roots. They are in fact omnivorous, which could also be relevant. So we have endangered, nocturnal, fierce, secretive and omnivorous. So what could it be a symbol of?’
A willowy girl said, ‘The spirit of the artist.’
‘Excellent, Angela! The spirit of the artist!’
‘She got that off the web,’ someone muttered sourly.
‘And also,’ the willowy girl continued confidently, ‘the badger’s head is basically white, well, with black stripes. But white really, like . . .’ she lowered her voice to a reverent hush, as if the artist on the other side of the room might be listening, ‘Gabriel Rudd.’
‘Ye-es,’ the teacher said uncertainly.
‘Which is a sign of shock and terror and loss . . . loss of life, loss of colour.’
‘Ah yes.’ Like many of her colleagues, the teacher was carrying a large loose-leaf file, Kathy noticed, subdivided into sections by coloured sheets. She thumbed through this for a moment, then said, ‘Perhaps you should explain that, Angela.’
‘Gabriel Rudd lost the colour in his hair after the tragic suicide of his wife, five years ago.’
‘My dad says that’s impossible,’ someone objected, and Kathy had a sudden glimpse of the case being discussed over dinner tables and pub counters all over the country.
‘But there was a precedent, wasn’t there? Who remembers what I told you in class last week? Someone other than Angela.’
Silence, then a voice, ‘
The Night-Mare
, miss.’
‘Which was . . .?’
‘The picture he won the Turner Prize with.’
‘Yes, but which was also . . .?’
‘Based on a painting by someone else.’
‘Called . . .?’
Silence.
‘Henry . . .?’
Nobody remembered, and she was forced to complete the name herself. ‘Fuseli, whose hair turned white as a result of a fever he caught in Rome, remember?’
‘What about the murder, miss?’ someone urged, and there was a general muttering of enthusiasm. The teacher relented, and they moved on to banner eleven.
‘This has got everything, hasn’t it?’ a woman at Kathy’s elbow said. ‘Are you from Leicester?’
‘No, London.’
‘Ah. I’m from Bristol.’
‘You must have had an early start this morning.’
‘God, yes. But they’ve been pestering us for days, and with the murder yesterday . . . Our Head thought we should seize the moment. It’s not every day the whole school’s demanding to go on an art excursion. And it’s perfect, really—being able to see the artist actually doing it, the work in progress, the workshops where the banners are being made, and hopefully a glimpse of the actual crime scenes, at least the outside of the houses. They even hope that they might catch sight of the murderer, lurking about in the square somewhere. I just feel sorry for the police—if they don’t catch the bastard soon, they’ll be branded as incompetent, and if they do, everyone’ll be disappointed that the show will be over.’
‘Yes. Tell me, what are those thick folders that you’ve got?’
‘Our resource folders? They’re mainly stuff we’ve got off the web. Have you seen his site? It’s huge. Each section relates to one of the banners, about its symbolism, its references, its stylistic approach and so on. Of course, you don’t know how true it is, because people are contributing from all over, both good and bad criticism.’
‘Can I see what you’ve got on the first banner?’
The woman showed her. ‘Anything in particular?’
‘That image of the figure holding the child’s hand.’
They thumbed through the pages, then the teacher said, ‘Here it is.“On the lower left side is a haunting image of the lost child being led away by a sinister dark figure into a tunnel.” That’s all.’
‘Nothing on the source of the image?’
‘No, must be just the artist’s imagination. Poor bloke.’
As Kathy turned to leave, the computer operator she’d spoken to earlier called out to her. ‘Is your name Kathy? I’ve got an email for you.’
‘For me?’ Kathy read the page she was handed. It came from Gabriel Rudd and said,
Hi. Back again? Anything you want to know? Gabriel.
Kathy looked back at the cube and saw him watching her, a little smile on his face. ‘Can I reply?’ she asked.
‘Sure.You want to type it?’
‘Just say,
Where’s Stan Dodworth?
’
The reply came back after a few minutes.
Sorry, can’t help
. She looked back at the cube, but a fresh horde of school children was blocking the view.
It was time to go, she knew, though she would have liked to stay. She was beginning to find Northcote Square addictive, but Brock had given her an assignment and she had to return to Queen Anne’s Gate to follow it up, because he was insistent that no one at Shoreditch should get wind of it. He’d remembered that she had a friend in Criminal Records, now the National Identification Service, didn’t she? She told him that she did, Nicole Palmer, a good friend. And would Nicole Palmer do a favour for her, a discreet favour, possibly entailing unpaid overtime that Brock might repay in the form of theatre tickets or some liquid refreshment of some kind? It was quite possible, Kathy said, wondering why Brock wasn’t using the numerous contacts he himself must have in the NIS. A computer check, but possibly, he wasn’t sure, requiring a manual search—tedious, certainly. Theatre tickets
and
a case of bubbly. Maybe even a modest pre-theatre meal for two. What did Kathy think? Kathy asked who the target was. A certain judge, Brock said. He was interested to know if this man, let’s call him Q, had ever presided over a trial or appeal involving any of the people of interest to them in their present investigations. But no one else must hear of Nicole’s discreet inquiries, and above all there must be no mention of Brock or SO1. Definitely a pre-theatre meal as well, Kathy said, and not too modest.