‘How did you reach up to the throat?’ Brock asked Tait.
‘I stood on the chair. It was lying on its side beside his feet. I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have touched it, but . . .’
‘That’s all right. Did either of you disturb anything else?’
They shook their heads.
‘What about the cord around his wrists?’
‘I don’t think I touched it,’ Rudd said, and Tait said, ‘Oh, I probably did when I was looking for a pulse. That’s what really shook me up—I mean, it couldn’t have been suicide, could it?’
‘And you have absolutely no recollection of any noise during the night?’
They shook their heads.
‘One other thing before I let you get dressed,’ Brock said. ‘Who’s spraying these messages on your building?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Tait said. ‘But he’s a bloody pest. It’s not just this building, several others in the square have been done over the past three or four months. “Property is theft” on the building site, adolescent stuff like that.’
Suddenly Rudd exclaimed and made a move towards the cube, but the SOCO put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Where’s Dave?’ Rudd said, and pointed at the tartan blanket lying flat on the floor. ‘Where’s my badger?’
Brock nodded to the officer to have a look. He made a quick search and shook his head. Dave, it seemed, had done a bunk.
Soon the photographers were finished and Dr Mehta arrived. The body was lowered onto a plastic sheet on the ground and the doctors conferred on body and air temperatures and the state of rigor. Mehta finally offered Brock a preliminary estimate of time of death—between two and five in the morning. ‘I won’t be sure until I get him on the table,’ he added, ‘but there’s something odd about that cord on his wrists. It’s quite loosely tied and I can’t see any bruising underneath. It almost looks as if it was applied post-mortem.’
‘Like Betty Zielinski’s blindfold,’Brock said. ‘And make sure they take care with his clothing and shoes, Sundeep. I’m very interested in where he’s been for the past week.’
The body was removed along with everyone else except the SOCO team, which continued its painstaking search of the gallery and hallway outside. Elsewhere in The Pie Factory detectives were working from room to room, establishing who was present, and taking statements and swabs for aerosol paint traces on hands and clothes.
On the way back to the station, Kathy mentioned the engraving in the book Deanne had given her. ‘I barely noticed it just before I fell asleep, but I registered the two hanging figures. Then I arrive here this morning and find a second hanging. It made me think.’
‘Fuseli, you say?’
‘Yes.You remember he was Rudd’s inspiration for
The Night-Mare
after Rudd’s wife died.’
‘Mm, but still, it seems a bit obscure.’
‘I wouldn’t have made much of it if it hadn’t been that one of the figures in the book was blindfolded—“Justice”, I suppose—and they both had their hands tied behind their backs, as if they’d been executed.’
‘Meaning?’
‘If Rudd studied Fuseli’s work, he might be expected to recognise the allusion. Poppy said that Betty’s murder was a warning to Stan Dodworth, and maybe it was. Now Stan’s death may be a warning to Gabriel Rudd. It’s almost as if they’re being stalked in turn, the artists in Northcote Square.’
‘Betty wasn’t an artist,’ Brock objected, ‘and we don’t know that Stan was murdered.’
‘Betty was an artist’s model and someone tied Stan’s wrists,’ Kathy countered.
Brock obviously wasn’t convinced, but he said, ‘All right, why don’t you discuss the two hanged figures with Rudd, see what he makes of it . . . Justice,’ he pondered. ‘Any word from your friend Nicole?’
‘Not yet. She said it might take a few days if she couldn’t do it openly.’
They reached the room at Shoreditch station where the team was assembling, and whiteboards and display panels were being cleaned off to make space for information on the new case. As the meeting progressed, Kathy began to understand Brock’s reluctance to make much of the Fuseli illustration, for it soon became apparent that he had ideas of his own—ideas which, Kathy had to admit, made a lot more practical sense.
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.