‘Hm.Well, I’d better go.’
‘Listen, if I can help at all . . .’ He suddenly seemed embarrassed, and shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
Kathy smiled at him, realising she’d be sorry not to bump into him again. ‘Thanks. I don’t suppose you’ve come across anyone called L. Sterne, have you, Tom?’
‘Lawrence Sterne,’ he said immediately. ‘Wrote
Tristram Shandy
.’
‘When was that?’
‘Oh, eighteenth century.’
Like Henry Fuseli, Kathy thought. But that couldn’t be it.
‘Why? Looking for something to read? Try this.’ He handed her the book he’d been reading. She took it and saw from the cover that it was a crime thriller.
‘It’s good. I’ve just finished it. I was checking some of the early clues I’d missed.’
‘Thanks. I’ll try it, when I get some time. Better write your name in it, so I don’t steal it.’
He grinned and wrote. Afterwards she saw he’d put his phone number as well as his name.
Brock looked up as the guard tapped on the door. ‘Prisoner’s ready to see you again, sir.’
‘Thanks.’ He followed the man down the corridor and waited while he unlocked the door to the interview room. Wylie was sitting alone, looking sullen and thoughtful.
‘Where’s your lawyer?’ Brock asked. It was only on hearing the tightness in his own voice that he realised how much the news of Lee’s death had shaken him. He looked down at the pale blob of Wylie’s face and felt an overwhelming urge to bury his fist in it. Instead, he was obliged to wheedle and cajole and talk to this monster as if his needs and thoughts were really worthy of consideration.
‘I sent Russell out to get some air. He needs to relax more. Sit down, I want to talk to you, off the record.’
Brock knew that he ought to stop this, walk out and calm down, but instead he took the seat. ‘I’m listening.’
Wylie waved towards the tape recorder. ‘I want that kept off.’
Brock nodded.
‘The emails won’t help you with the girls. They contain personal stuff, to do with business, that I don’t want getting out. That’s number one. Number two: I got slapped around last night; they told me it was just the beginning. I know who ordered it. I want out of here. I want the charges dropped or I want bail.’
Brock watched him become more agitated as he spoke, fidgeting with his fingers, tapping his foot beneath the table.
‘And in return?’
Wylie leaned across the table and whispered, barely moving his lips, ‘I’ll give you the judge.’
‘For what?’
‘He took the girl, the third one, Tracey.’
Brock remained motionless, but inside his chest he felt his heart hammering unnaturally fast. ‘Go on.’
Wylie shook his head. ‘That’s all I’ll say. I’ve got pictures.’
‘Who hit you?’
‘I got bumped. It was a warning from him, of course. Christ, he killed the old woman, and now this other bloke.’
Brock sat back, wondering if the man’s panic was genuine. He was inclined to think it was.
‘Well?’Wylie demanded.
‘I’ll need a lot of convincing. I won’t have you released, but I can move you away from here, to somewhere you’ll be safe.’
Wylie chewed his lip.‘All right. Do it straight away. My brief’ll contact you after that.’
The girl at the entrance desk of the gallery was distracted by the winding snake of school students when Kathy arrived. ‘Sorry,’ Kathy said. ‘I can see you’ve got your hands full. I want to see Mr Tait.’
‘He’s in his office, I think. Do you want me to ring . . .’
‘Don’t worry, I know where it is.’ Kathy smiled brightly and continued past the scrum in the hall down the corridor that led to Fergus Tait’s office. She knocked at the door, and Tait opened it. ‘Ah, Sergeant, what can I do for you?’
‘I’d like to have another look in Stan Dodworth’s room, if that’s all right.’
‘Again? Your people were there yesterday. They have the key.’
‘Oh, of course. I should have realised.’
‘Not to worry. If you won’t get me into trouble, I’ll confess that I have a spare.You can use that.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Are you any closer to some answers, might I ask?’
‘There’s not a lot I can tell you.’
‘Ah, only I paid a visit to Gabe this morning and he’s in a bad way. He’s worked himself up to such a pitch. I’ve never seen him so frayed, coming apart at the seams, pale as a ghost. Poppy’s very worried about him.’
‘I’ll go and see them when I’ve finished here.’
‘Today’s will be the sixteenth banner.We’re running out of space. Don’t call me a cynical businessman if I say that it would be a great relief to everyone concerned if you could wind this thing up before too long.’
‘We’re doing our best.’
‘Of course. I’ll get you that key.’
While he searched in a drawer of his desk, Kathy said, ‘I spoke to Sir Jack Beaufort just now. I believe he was in here earlier, wasn’t he? Did you manage to sell him something?’
Tait raised his eyebrows. ‘No chance of that. He was mad because I told you about selling him that painting of Betty’s. Goodness knows why he was so upset. Told me in no uncertain terms not to gossip about him. Gossip! I ask you.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across a little oil painting that Tracey Rudd did, have you? A self-portrait.’
Tait looked at her in surprise. ‘Tracey? No, I’ve never heard of that.’
In Stan Dodworth’s room she found that the gruesome contents that would be of interest to the coroner had been removed. There seemed little chance that the searchers would have overlooked a painting of a child’s face, but Kathy searched anyway, without result. Later, she would check the inventory of items the police had removed, again without finding any reference to it.
‘H
e’s on something, no doubt about it. I’m Colin, by the way.’ The officer closed the front door behind Kathy and turned to face her, speaking with voice lowered. He was wearing a protective vest over his uniform shirt and tie, and a 9-mm Browning was holstered on his right hip, yet he looked like a boy, barely old enough to be out of school. ‘Doesn’t look as if he’s slept for days, and he’s getting to the jumpy stage, I reckon. I told the lady we should get a doctor to check him, but she said he won’t hear of it.’
‘Has he been giving you any trouble?’
‘No. He stays up on the top floor most of the time, working. At least he’s safe up there.’
They climbed up the stairs to the main living floor, where Poppy was sitting by the big windows overlooking the square. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I saw you coming.’ Her voice sounded distant and vague.
‘How are you?’ Kathy asked.
‘Oh . . . not bad. Bit tired.’ She gazed blankly out at the skeletal branches in the gardens silhouetted against the grey sky.
Kathy wondered if this distraction was the result of a night in bed with Gabe, but then noticed the slightly uncoordinated hand movement as the magazine on Poppy’s lap slid to the floor. ‘Have you been taking medication, Poppy?’
‘What?’ Poppy slowly turned her head. ‘Oh, Gabe gave me something to relax me, that’s all. He says I’m too wound up after what’s happened. God, you should see him! He’s on three packs of fags a day now.’
‘Has he been taking pills too?’
‘I don’t know. Probably. Can’t blame him, can you? Poor Stan. Poor Betty. Poor Tracey.’ A tear began to trickle down Poppy’s pale cheek. ‘Gabe says it’s finished now, but it isn’t, is it?’
‘Why don’t you lie down and get a bit of sleep?’
‘Yes, I might do that.’
‘Colin here will help you down the stairs while I talk to Gabe.’
‘Right . . . Don’t be cross with him about the pills, Kathy. He’s doing the best he can. He doesn’t show it much, about Trace and everything, but that’s just his act.’
‘Don’t worry.’
Kathy watched the young constable take hold of Poppy’s arm and help her to her feet. Her legs seemed rubbery and he had to support her to the stairs.
‘Can you manage there, Colin?’ Kathy asked, and he grinned and nodded. They disappeared and she took the stairs up to the studio. As she pushed open the door a cloud of cigarette smoke billowed out to meet her. Gabe was on his hands and knees on the floor. He was wearing a stained T-shirt and boxer shorts, bare feet, white curls all over his face, and looked like a shipwrecked soul crawling out of the sea. He lifted his head towards her and stared through red-rimmed eyes without a glimmer of recognition.
‘Gabe? It’s me, Kathy Kolla, from the police.’
‘Oh . . . yeah.’ He got laboriously to his feet and pushed the hair out of his eyes. His chest was heaving with quick, shallow breaths. ‘Sorry, concentrating.’
Kathy saw that he had been crawling across a long roll of plastic, scribbling red pencil marks on what looked like a draft print of another banner.
‘Yesterday’s number fifteen. Liberty and Justice, remember?’ His words were slightly slurred.
She saw the two figures dangling from a gibbet. ‘Yes, I remember. How are you feeling?’
‘On fire . . . drowning.’
‘You should get some rest. I’m going to call a doctor to look at you.’
‘NO!’ The sudden violence of his shout made her start. ‘I mean, no, please. Maybe tomorrow, but I haven’t got time just now.When I’ve finished this I’ll be able to sleep, then everything’ll be fine.’
‘You sure?’
‘Really. Absolutely.’ He reached for a mug of something and took a gulp, then for the pack of cigarettes beside it. ‘They never found Dave, you know.’ He blew smoke.
‘Dave?’
‘My little badger friend. He scarpered. Sensible bloke.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘You think I’m paranoid, don’t you? Well, you know what they say—just ’cause you’re paranoid doesn’t mean the bastards aren’t out to get you.’ He chuckled at his own joke.
‘Why would anyone be out to get you?’
‘See! You do think I’m paranoid. They’d be out to get me because I know too much.’
‘What do you know?’
‘Ah, that’s the question.’
‘Look, why don’t I get you some food. I think you’d feel better.’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’ve eaten. Mrs Fikret brought us stuff.’ He glared at an untouched plate of kebabs and vegetables on a table. ‘Look, come over here, I wanna show you something you’ll like. Come on.’
Kathy followed him over to the plastic on the floor and looked where he was pointing. Beneath the hanged figures was some text:
The Fate of Justice and Liberty, as revealed by KK.
‘There, is that discreet enough for you?’
‘Yes, that’s just fine, Gabe, thanks.’
‘You see? You proved I wasn’t being paranoid. It all means something.’
‘I think I was wrong about that.’ Kathy was regretting telling Gabe her bright idea. ‘I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.’
‘No, no, no. There are no coincidences. Everything means something, if you can just figure it out.’
Later that afternoon, at Shoreditch, Brock called to speak to her.‘I’ve got a meeting arranged with Wylie’s solicitor at six, Kathy. I was wondering if you’d be free to come along too. I may need a witness.’
‘Yes, of course. I have to tell you one or two things.’
‘Right. His office is south of the river. Can it wait until we drive down there?’
‘Fine.’ She thought he sounded keyed up.
On the journey she told him about her abortive search for Tracey’s self-portrait. ‘I just thought, if Stan stole it from Betty’s house and I could have found it among his possessions, it would have given us a firmer link from him to the killing.’ She saw that Brock wasn’t convinced, but when she mentioned the call to meet with Beaufort he immediately became interested.
‘What did he want?’
‘To warn us to be careful, I think.’
‘Everybody’s doing that,’Brock growled under his breath.
‘He seemed to want me to pass on to you the idea that Wylie might try to sow suspicion in your mind about him. Is that possible?’
‘Could be,’ Brock said. ‘We’ll find out tonight.’ Then he gave her an outline of his session with Wylie in the prison. Kathy thought Wylie’s claims about the judge were preposterous, and said so.
‘Let’s wait and see, Kathy,’ Brock said. ‘Let’s just wait and see.’
They stopped on the high street outside a Chinese takeaway. Half a dozen customers stood inside under a blaze of light, waiting for their orders. A nameplate on the doorway next to the shop said,
Russell Clifford, Solicitor
. They went inside and climbed a threadbare stair-carpet to the office above. Clifford’s staff, if there were any, had apparently left for the night. He emerged from his room in shirtsleeves, looking as preoccupied as ever, and showed them to an interview room at the back. On the table lay a single large yellow envelope and a notepad.
‘I’m acting on my client’s instructions, of course,’ he said. ‘He’s asked me to allow you to view the contents of this envelope, but not remove them.’
Brock stared at the envelope. It had a handwritten note on it:
Mr Wylie, Deposit A
.
‘Do you know what it contains?’ Brock asked.
‘No.’
Brock reached for the envelope, unfastened the flap and looked inside. There were a number of photographs, which he shook carefully onto the table without touching. Kathy caught her breath as she made out the first—a picture of Tracey in her school uniform, standing in sunlight in a street. A tall man, Beaufort certainly, was bending to offer her something in his hand. Kathy recognised the corner of The Daughters of Albion in the background. Brock took out his pen and used it to slide the picture aside.
The second photograph showed Beaufort seated in a room. Tracey was sitting on his knee, an arm around his neck, face close to his cheek as if she’d just kissed it or whispered something in his ear. He looked rather surprised, but pleased, too. The light was very bright and clear and there was no mistaking the two of them, although the background was out of focus. Tracey was wearing what looked like a dressing gown, too large for her, and one leg was exposed to the hip.
Kathy didn’t want to see any more. She looked up at the lawyer who was staring fixedly at his framed certificate on the wall, as if using all his willpower to prevent his eyes dropping to the photos.
The third picture seemed to be taken in the same place, but now Tracey was naked. She was kneeling on a table with a fixed, faintly puzzled expression on her face and Beaufort, fully clothed as in the previous picture, was stroking her shoulder. The fourth was shot in a bedroom in poor light. A small naked girl lay beneath a large naked man. Again, Tracey and Beaufort.