No Trace (27 page)

‘There . . .’ She handed the open book across to him. ‘You see the two figures in the background, Justice and Liberty? Both have their hands tied behind their backs, and one is blindfolded. Like Betty and Stan.’

Gabe took a long look, then gave a low whistle. ‘I’d forgotten this one. How did you find it?’ He stared at Kathy.

‘Just looking for clues.’

‘Well, I’m amazed, Kathy, really,’ Gabe said. ‘That’s inspired, it really is. But I always knew you were the bright one, didn’t I? Do you remember, that first time we met? I told you the others were hopeless.’ The respect and interest in Gabe’s voice, together with what now looked like jealousy on Poppy’s face, caught Kathy unawares, and she felt an embarrassing blush grow in her cheek.

‘But how could this have anything to do with what happened?’ Poppy’s voice cut in. ‘I mean, it’s odd I suppose, but so what?’

‘Don’t be dumb, love.’ Now it was Poppy’s pale face that flushed at Gabe’s words. ‘You think someone might have arranged things as a message to me, Kathy?’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’

‘Assuming that I’d be bright enough to remember my own sources, which it so happens I wasn’t. Well, that is intriguing, isn’t it? In fact it’s bloody scary when you think about it, because frankly, I’m the only one around who’s quoting from Fuseli. I should have spotted it straight away. I do thank you, Kathy. I really do.’

Kathy shrugged, avoiding his eyes. He was playing some game with Poppy, she felt sure, deliberately provoking her, and doing it very successfully.

But he was stroking the page of the book now, his thoughts moving on. ‘I’ll have to use this, Kathy, for the work, the next banner, you know that, don’t you? And I will acknowledge you—not like the last time, but discreetly, so you aren’t embarrassed. And when it’s hanging in the big hall in Tate Modern, you’ll be able to point it out to your friends. “See?” you’ll say, “I helped make the first friggin’ masterpiece of the twenty-first century.”’

He laughed, and Poppy, unable to take any more of this, got to her feet and stomped off to the kitchen bench, where she began noisily loading the dishwasher.

21

B
rock agreed to Kathy’s suggestion to place an armed police officer in Gabriel Rudd’s house, at least for a day or two, and Fergus Tait put out a press and web statement saying that, in view of the dangerous events that had occurred in Northcote Square, he had insisted that the artist go into hiding at an undisclosed location where he could continue his work undisturbed. Poppy remained with him in the house.

Dr Mehta was in his office when Brock and Kathy arrived at the mortuary. While Kathy chatted to the photographer outside, the pathologist explained to Brock his tactics for survival in a work environment where everyone else was so much younger than he was.

‘The vital thing is to give absolutely no indication that you were around in the sixties and seventies, Brock, otherwise you’re finished. So when someone asks about something that happened then, you simply look blank, as if to say, “How should I know?”’

‘I’ll bear that in mind, Sundeep.’

‘You do that, old chap. Even the early eighties is prehistory to some of the kids I work with now.’

Like the man himself in life, Stan Dodworth’s remains were remarkable for having little to say. They bore no wounds or bruises, no signs of constraint apart from the single rope mark to the throat.

‘I’d say it was a straightforward hanging suicide,’ Dr Mehta concluded from his external examination, ‘apart from two things. One, the cord tied around his wrists, almost certainly after death. And two, the dirt on his hands.’

‘What about it?’

‘There isn’t any!’ Mehta gave his comic magician’s smile.

‘How do you mean?’ Brock asked patiently, well used to Mehta’s ways.

‘Just look at the rope he was hanged by. It’s filthy, encrusted with a grey dust that I’ll bet this month’s salary is cement or plaster from a building site. It’s come off on his neck and on his scalp, but there’s none on his hands. I’ve taken swabs, but, unless somebody washed his hands afterwards, I’d say he never carried that rope, or rigged up the noose. I think someone else did that, and placed it around his neck.’

‘You think he cooperated in this?’

‘Well, there’s no sign of coercion. None at all.’

‘He was obsessed with death,’ Kathy said quietly, almost to herself.

Later Mehta established that Stan had eaten a final meal of roast beef, peas and boiled potato approximately seven hours before his death. There were also traces of a grey putty or clay embedded in the soles of his shoes, which were sent off for analysis.

Within an hour, Yasher Fikret was complaining once again at having his building site closed down for another police search, which yielded nothing.

While that was going on, Kathy returned to 53 Urma Street, on the north side of the square. The uniformed cop who let her in had nothing to report. She went up to the living room where Poppy was reading a newspaper.

‘Where’s Gabe?’ Kathy asked.

Poppy paused a moment before replying. ‘Upstairs, in his studio.’ She didn’t sound happy to see Kathy, who had gone over to the kitchen, now clear of dirty dishes.

‘Those things you were washing up, Poppy . . .’

‘What about them?’

‘Were they recently dirtied?’

‘How should I know? Anyway, how could they be? No one’s been here for a week.’

‘Could you tell what the meal was?’

‘What?’ She looked at Kathy as if she were mad. ‘No, I wasn’t that interested, actually.’

Kathy was now examining the rubbish bin under the sink. ‘Okay, thanks.’ She smiled at Poppy and made for the stairs. ‘See you later.’

In the dustbin in the backyard Kathy found week-old newspapers on top of plastic bags containing what was obviously old debris. She peeled off her gloves and made her way over to the lane behind West Terrace. Police were standing at the far end where the building site was being searched, but Kathy was interested in the dustbin standing beside Reg Gilbey’s back gate. She lifted the lid and peered in at the plastic bag on top. Its neck was loosely tied, but through a hole she was able to see the packaging for a microwave dinner. She could just see an illustration, of potatoes, peas and sliced roast beef. She closed the lid and went down the lane to find a SOCO.

The call from the solicitor at the Crown Prosecution Service suggesting an urgent conference had left Brock puzzled, but he’d agreed to meet her during the lunchbreak of the trial she was involved in at the Old Bailey, at what she said was her favourite pub, The Seven Stars, just behind the Royal Courts of Justice. He found her perched at a narrow table against the window of the little pub, which was crowded. Some of the customers looked like lawyers and officials from the Law Courts, others like lecturers from the nearby London School of Economics.

Virginia Ashe was small, neat and ferociously bright. Through her narrow glasses she regarded Brock squeezing his way between the tables, and pronounced judgement as he eased into the chair. ‘You look worn out.’

‘Thanks. I see you’re as indomitable as ever.’

‘It must be this
awful
case of yours.’ The relish with which she said it made him smile.

‘Tell me you’re not about to make it worse.’

‘Order lunch first. The food here is fabulous. I think you need a square meal—try the steak and kidney pudding.’

‘Fine.’

Virginia Ashe called, ‘Roxy!’ across the room, and from behind the bar an attractive dark-haired woman with bright lipstick looked her way. ‘Yes, he will!’ the solicitor cried, and the woman nodded and waved acknowledgement.

‘Wylie’s made a statement,’ Ashe said, ‘through his solicitor.’

Brock’s fist clenched. ‘When did this happen?’

‘An hour ago. They phoned me from the office and gave me the gist. I’ll have to give you a proper assessment, but I thought I should speak to you straight away. There’ll be a copy of his statement waiting for you at Queen Anne’s Gate—oh, wonderful!’

Roxy had appeared at their side with two glasses of cognac. ‘She said you’d be needing this,’ she murmured to Brock. ‘Cheers, darlings.’

They lifted their glasses and Brock let the burn subside in his throat before speaking. ‘Go on, Virginia.’

‘He claims that he knows nothing about the abductions of Aimee and Lee, and had no idea that Abbott was using his wife’s flat, although he had given Abbott a key to keep an eye on it for him.’

‘What?’ Brock was incredulous.

‘Yes, I know. He claims he hadn’t been there for several months. He was living in his office on an industrial estate, because of some dispute over the tenancy of the flat with the wife, though he admits he was paying the rent. He provides her current name and whereabouts. Apparently she’s living with another man in the Midlands.’

‘What was he doing in the flat when we caught him then?’

‘He claims he went there because Abbott had phoned him earlier in the day and asked to meet him that evening for a drink.’

‘Yes, we traced that call. Abbott made it soon after my people visited him the first time.’

‘When he got to the estate he discovered that Abbott was dead. He went to his flat and found all that stuff inside, and claims he was as surprised as the police when you discovered Lee in the cupboard.’

‘Rubbish. Why did he wait ten days to tell us this?’

‘His statement doesn’t explain that. No doubt they’ll come up with something. Why did he?’

‘Because the last person who could disprove it was found hanged last night.’ Brock told her what had happened.

‘My God. He was murdered?’

‘Maybe, or assisted suicide.’ Brock stared at his glass, surprised to see it empty. He had anticipated a number of possible strategies from Wylie to mitigate his guilt, but not outright denial. ‘They must be confident they can pull it off.’

‘Yes. I don’t think I like this, Brock. There were no photographs of him with the girls, were there?’

‘No, he was the photographer.’

‘And the camera and computer equipment were stolen property and can’t be linked to him.’

‘Not so far.’

‘And no change to Lee?’

‘No, still in a coma. But we know she recognised him in that flat. Her eyes were only open for a few seconds, but she was terrified when she saw Wylie.’

‘Yes, but that will work against us. If she regains consciousness and identifies him, they’ll claim she’s confusing the memory of having seen him that night.’

They were both silent for a time, thinking, then Virginia said, ‘No, I don’t like this. Why did they send his statement to us, and not to the police? It was my boss who phoned me about it. He told me to be very careful to get this one right. What did he mean? When I asked him, he made some lame remark about just doing my usual excellent job.’

Brock didn’t reply. Finally he said, ‘Have you come across a judge called Sir Jack Beaufort?’

‘Jugular Jack? Yes, of course. Appeared before him a few times in my youth. Why?’

‘Any rumours?’

‘Only that he’s got a savage tongue. What kind of rumours?’

‘No, nothing, Virginia. Forget I mentioned it. So, where do we go from here?’

‘You get us some hard evidence to pin Wylie down. Otherwise . . .’ she shrugged,‘. . . we’re just not going to be able to proceed against him.’

Their food arrived, the best pub food in London, but Brock didn’t taste a thing.

When he returned to Shoreditch he found the copy of Wylie’s statement waiting for him. He summoned Bren urgently and sat down to study it. Bren was stunned by Brock’s account of his meeting with the Crown Prosecutor.

‘That’s impossible! We found him in the flat, with the victim.’

Brock handed him Wylie’s statement and watched his face fall as he read it.

‘He can’t get away with this. It’s preposterous!’

‘Virginia Ashe thinks he can.’

‘His fingerprints were everywhere.’

‘He says he had a good look around before we found him. He’s thought it through, Bren. It does kind of fit with the evidence we have. We’ll have to speak to his wife, of course, but presumably he’s confident about what she’ll say. What have we really got to tie Abbott and Wylie together, in that flat?’

‘You think Dodworth saw them together?’

‘That would explain the timing of this, wouldn’t it?’

Bren pondered. ‘We found the shop that supplied the batteries in the camera. The assistant thinks he might recognise Wylie.’

‘That would help,’ Brock said, but they both knew it was thin. ‘There is one other avenue. Wylie claimed that Abbott must have destroyed his own hard drive in the microwave, but the smell of burnt plastic in the flat was fresh, and Wylie’s own computer is missing, supposedly stolen.’

‘Emails,’ Bren said.‘Yes, we thought of that, but it didn’t seem a priority to find out.’

‘Until now . . .’ Brock said.

Kathy was sitting in the central gardens of Northcote Square eating a sandwich bought from Sonia Fikret, whose mood had been markedly less accommodating than before, no doubt to indicate that the family’s patience was running out over the continual police harassment at the building site. Kathy finished the sandwich and shook the crumbs from the paper bag. Immediately a sparrow swooped down to the gravel at her feet and began pecking.

‘Ah, you miss Betty,’ Kathy said. The gardens seemed bereft without her, the last of the leaves suddenly fallen as if in grief and the birds all gone except for this one scruffy little sparrow.

Her phone warbled in the pocket of her coat and she wasn’t surprised to hear the voice of Bev Nolan. She sounded older, a quaver in her voice.

‘Kathy? I am sorry to bother you. I know you must be so busy. Do you have a moment?’

‘Of course, Bev. How can I help?’

‘I suppose I shouldn’t ask, but we’ve just been so upset about these terrible things happening in Northcote Square. We only just heard on the news about Stan Dodworth. They mentioned suicide, is that right? I mean, did he leave a note? Did it have anything to do with little Tracey? Could he have . . .’

‘I’m afraid there’s not much I can tell you at the moment, Bev.We haven’t found a confession, if that’s what you were thinking, and we don’t know if it has anything to do with Tracey, but you can be sure that we will get to the bottom of it.’