No Trace (32 page)

Brock peered closely at each in turn for some time before speaking.

‘You say you haven’t seen these before, Mr Clifford?’

‘That’s right,’ he said, eyes still fixed above their heads. ‘Mr Wylie specifically asked me not to. I am simply instructed to make sure you don’t remove any. There are four photographs, I understand.’

‘No, that won’t do. These appear to be material evidence relating to a major crime. I’ll have to retain them.’

‘But . . .’ Clifford started to object, but Brock went on.

‘And I want you to look at them so that you can identify them later in court, if asked.’

For a moment it seemed as if Clifford was debating trying to physically retrieve the pictures, then he subsided in his seat and allowed his eyes to drop. Brock turned the photos round, one by one, so that he could see them. With each, the solicitor’s worried frown intensified.

‘My God,’ he whispered. ‘That’s Sir Jack Beaufort, isn’t it?’

‘And that’s the missing girl, Tracey Rudd. You see why I have to have these, don’t you?’

‘Mm.’ Clifford was chewing his bottom lip. Brock watched him, thinking how different he was to Virginia Ashe. The public prosecutor worked for the state, had a steady flow of work, lots of backup and a regular pay check, and could afford a wry air of clinical detachment. The defence solicitor, on the other hand, had a client who wasn’t confiding in him, had a dodgy record and might not pay his bill at the end of the day. And there would be other calculations going through his head: his own legal position, his reputation within the profession.

‘What exactly are your client’s instructions, may I ask?’ Brock prompted.

‘I’m to seek your written guarantee that his and Patrick Abbott’s email accounts will not be accessed, now or in the future. I am also to seek your assurance that you will support the dropping of all charges against Mr Wylie and his immediate release from detention. In return, he’ll provide you with these pictures and other evidence he has relating to the same matter.’

‘Do you know what form this other evidence takes?’

‘No.’

‘I assume you’re holding it for him. Deposit B, presumably?’

‘I really couldn’t say.’

‘When did he deposit these with you?’

‘I . . . couldn’t say.’

Brock rubbed a hand wearily across his eyes. ‘Do you know whether your client took these pictures himself, or witnessed them being taken?’

The solicitor shook his head.

‘Or what kind of camera was used?’

‘No, I don’t.’

Brock gathered the pictures, scooped them into the envelope and handed it to Kathy.‘I can’t agree to anything on the basis of these. They’re useless.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They look to me like digital pictures. The courts won’t accept them as evidence.’

‘You think they’ve been fabricated?’

‘I don’t know. That’s why your client will have to give us more, much more, before I can help him.’

The lawyer now looked very worried.‘There may be a problem. He mentioned to me that he had no faith in the police. He said—his phrase—that you were all in each other’s pockets, and you might try to suppress his evidence and maintain his guilt in order to protect your friends. In which case, he said, he would have to find other ways to make use of it.’

‘What do you think he meant by that?’

Clifford shrugged unhappily. ‘Go public, perhaps?’

‘There are other copies of these?’

‘I don’t know, but Mr Wylie is a very cautious man.’

‘I think you’d better try to persuade him to give me what I need.’

‘Yes, but he doesn’t always take my advice.’

They bought takeaway downstairs and ate it in the car, still parked at the kerb. While they were eating the lights went off in the solicitor’s office. A few seconds later they saw him exit the building and walk off into the night, stooped by the prospect of another visit to the gaol.

‘What have you got on tonight?’ Brock asked.

Kathy wiped her fingers and started the car. ‘I thought I might do a spot of babysitting. Our artists, Gabe and Poppy, are in a pretty disturbed state, and I feel they know more than they’ve told us, but I couldn’t get any sense out of them this afternoon.’

‘Back to Northcote Square, eh? That place is getting to you, Kathy. They’ve got a minder, haven’t they? Take a break. Have a night off. Catch a movie or something. Something light.’

‘Yes . . . soon.’

She drove back by way of the Forensic Science Laboratories, where they dropped off the envelope with a note for someone Brock knew in the Photography Unit.

24

P
C McLeod peered around the edge of the door, then released the chain and let Kathy in.

‘Hi, Colin. You still here?’

‘Yeah, my relief hasn’t come yet.’

‘How are the artists?’

‘They ordered a pizza a couple of hours ago, but hardly touched it. Then they went up to the studio together. I heard them moving around and a bit of chat. Then he called down that they were having an early night and didn’t want to be disturbed. That would be over half an hour ago.’ He gave a yawn and led the way upstairs.

‘Yes, I noticed there wasn’t a light on in the studio.’ Kathy smelled the pizza before she saw it, almost finished, on the coffee table with a can of soft drink. PC McLeod blushed. ‘They said they didn’t want it.’

Kathy smiled. ‘So you’re reading about art?’ She nodded at a couple of books lying open on the seat.

‘Yeah, it’s interesting. I don’t like to watch telly when I’m working in case I don’t hear something. I was reading about Van Gogh. He only sold one painting in his whole life. How would that make you feel, eh? It’d be like being a copper and only making one arrest.’ He eased his shoulders under the body armour.

‘Heavy?’

‘Yeah. By the end of the day you really feel it. I have to keep it on, even though there doesn’t seem a lot of point, sitting in here.’

They heard a heavy thump on the floor above and both turned their eyes up to the ceiling, but heard nothing more.

‘How’s your day been then?’he enquired companionably.

‘Bit frustrating, really.’

‘Yeah, I know the feeling. Like having to make an arrest half an hour before the end of your shift.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Well, you know you’re going to be stuck for another five or six hours doing the processing. Try telling that to the missus.’

Another thump, more like a crash of something hitting the floor and breaking. McLeod rose to his feet.‘I thought I heard them having an argument earlier. I’d better check if everything’s . . .’

A scream, piercing sharp. McLeod ran for the stairs, leaping up two steps at a time, Kathy following. He reached the landing at the top and grabbed the door handle. It didn’t budge.

‘Door’s locked,’ he panted, then loudly, ‘Mr Rudd! You all right? Let us in, please.’

He stepped back a couple of paces and prepared to charge the door, but at that moment it was flung open. For a second, both he and Kathy were transfixed by the sight in front of them. A tall figure in black cloak and hood, a death’s-head mask covering its face, stood before them. In its clenched hands it gripped the handle of a sword. As they began to recover their wits it gave an extraordinary roar and stepped forward, raising the sword high overhead. In front of her, Kathy saw McLeod fumbling for his pistol with one hand, then raising the other to protect his face as the blade began to arc down. For a horrified fraction of a second, she watched it flash through the air and across his body. He stumbled back against her, she put out a foot to brace herself and felt nothing but air, and together they crashed backwards down the length of the stairs.

He was on top of her, motionless. She struggled to push him off and looked back up the stairs. The door was closed again, the apparition gone, and for a moment she wondered if she’d imagined it. But the blood was real enough, lots of it. She hauled his body over onto its back and saw that his protective vest was slashed open, the armoured plates inside exposed. Blood was pumping from his upper left arm, and she grabbed it, feeling for the pressure point and gripping tight until the flow slowed to a seeping trickle. Then, with one hand she reached for the radio on his chest.

‘Urgent assistance,’ she panted, breathless. ‘Urgent assistance. Officer hurt. Armed assailant. Five-three Urma Street. Suspects on.’

PC McLeod’s eyes blinked open. ‘Wha . . . What happened?’

‘You’re hurt, Colin. Can you move your right arm?’

He raised it. ‘Yes.’

‘Grip the pressure point. I’ve called for help. I need your gun. Do you understand?’

He nodded and she felt around his side, easing the pistol out of its holster. She got to her feet, working the Browning’s slide, and pain shot through her left leg and shoulder on which she’d landed. It was as much as she could do to drag herself back up the stairs, holding the handrail with her right hand, gun in her left. At the top, she transferred it to her right hand and tried the door handle. Locked again. She aimed the muzzle at the base of the handle and pulled the trigger. There was a deafening crash, splintered plywood, then she pushed with her shoulder. The door opened and she stumbled inside, slipping on a pool of blood.

Gabe was on his back on the floor, blood all over him, Poppy curled on the bed nearby. A trail of things—the sword, the cloak, the mask—led beneath the overhanging gallery towards a panel of the wall which, inexplicably, was open to the night. Kathy went to Gabe’s side and saw that his throat was cut, possibly with other wounds on his hands and body. There was no pressure to the blood that seeped from his throat wound, and when she felt for a pulse there was none. Kathy turned to Poppy and found that she was breathing normally, as if she were sound asleep. Then she heard the wail of the sirens, coming loud through the opening in the wall, and in a moment the pounding of boots on the stairs, men shouting.

‘I’m fine, really,’ she said, although she couldn’t stop shaking, even after they’d wrapped a thick blanket around her shoulders. She was sitting propped against the wall with Brock and one of the Shoreditch detectives crouching beside her. ‘How’s Colin?’

‘Who?’

‘The bodyguard.’

‘Don’t worry, they’re looking after him.’

‘And Poppy?’

‘They think she’s been drugged. No wounds.’

She told them what had happened, every detail that she could remember. ‘He must have got in through that door over there. I didn’t even know it was there.’

‘It’s a fire escape onto the roof,’ the detective explained to Brock, ‘but he’d covered it with the pinboard that lines the rest of the walls, so you wouldn’t notice it. It gives access onto the neighbouring roof and from there to a fire stair into the lane. There are footprints.We’ve got a dog on the way.’

‘Gabe’s dead, isn’t he?’ Kathy asked.

‘Yes.’

She shuddered. ‘I know it’s what people always say, but it is like waking from a nightmare. The awful thing is, I feel I’ve had it before.’

She stared for a moment at the blank polymer strip of the next banner, which had been suspended against the wall not far from Gabe’s body. At the top was the number sixteen, and beneath it the squiggle of black line that appeared on each of them. Below was a long blank space awaiting Gabe’s inspiration. It was sprayed with his blood.

The detective’s radio crackled. He listened, then said, ‘They’ve found a pair of bloodstained shoes in a bin further down the lane. The dog’s arrived.’

An ambulance officer came up.‘We’ve got transport for you, miss.’

They helped her to her feet. Her head was aching now, and she stumbled.

‘I’ll get a stretcher up here.’

‘No, I’m okay.’

The square was filled with flashing lights once again, and on the way to the hospital they passed several road blocks and foot patrols.

25

S
he woke with a start. The room was in semidarkness, some light reflected in through an open door. She had no idea where she was, and her mind was confused by an image, a dream or a memory, of a dark figure poised, arms upraised, and ready to strike. She turned her head towards the door and gave a cry as she saw him there, a dark shape rising against the light.

‘It’s all right, it’s only me.’ Brock’s voice, gentle and reassuring. He was reaching to the wall above her head. There was a click and the bed light came on.

She tried to sit up, but a jolt of pain in her shoulder held her back. There was a dull ache in her head.

‘Lie still. You’re probably concussed. Nothing broken, only bruises.’

‘Where am I?’

‘Hospital. They’re keeping you in overnight.’

There was a clock on the wall reading three-fifteen.

‘You’re still up?’

‘I’m going to get a bit of sleep now. I just called in to see how you were.’

‘Have you caught him?’

Brock shook his head. The assailant had vanished into the night, the dogs unable to pick up a scent from the place where they’d found the bloodstained shoes. ‘He probably had some kind of transport waiting there.’

‘What about Colin?’

‘He’s out of danger. He has a bad cut to his arm and he broke his leg on the fall down the stairs, but his vest saved him from the worst of it. Poppy’s in here too, but she’s not in any danger. She slept through the whole thing, doped to the eyeballs.’

‘She was lucky.’

‘Yes, I’ll be interested to hear what she has to say for herself. Anyway, that’s not your problem; you’re on sick leave until the doctor says otherwise—two days’ home rest at least.You took quite a fall.’

She began to form a protest but let it go. She felt very tired. Tomorrow she would see.

Among a pile of reports waiting for Brock at Shoreditch the next morning was a phone message from Wylie’s solicitor, requesting an urgent meeting. It had been logged at nine thirty-five the previous evening, but in the turmoil at that time it hadn’t been passed on to him. He put it to one side and concentrated on the various files that had been prepared for the new case; the action book, the policy file, and the preliminary forensic reports. When he’d digested these he went to talk to the action manager who was collating the various activities of the large number of people now involved. Like Brock, Bren Gurney had already returned to duty after a brief sleep and was now at the crime scene, where a new forensic team had taken over.