No Trace (41 page)

‘They’re fakes,’ he told Brock gleefully. ‘They’re recordings of earlier scenes that’ve been patched into the live transmission.’

‘Could Rudd have done that from inside his cube?’ Brock asked.

‘Absolutely. He had all he needed in there with him. His computer controlled the camera, and he could have switched the film on and off while he was still in his bed. So we don’t know where he was at the times Zielinski and Dodworth died, nor on a couple of nights in between.’

‘I think we can make a fair guess,’ Brock said.

Later that afternoon, Kathy’s mobile rang. It was Tom Reeves.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘How are you now?’

‘I’m feeling a bit better, thanks.’

‘Good. You’ve heard about Beaufort stepping down, I suppose?’

‘Yes.’

‘And I’ve been taken off his detail, which means there’s no more risk of a conflict of interest.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Between your job and mine. So that leaves me free to ask you if you’d like to go out for a drink or something.’

Kathy smiled to herself. ‘Oh, well . . . thanks, Tom. Though I did go out with a Special Branch man once, and it didn’t work.’

‘What happened?’

‘They changed his identity and he disappeared without a word.’

He laughed. ‘Still, you don’t sound too resistant to the idea of one date, by way of a preliminary investigation.’

‘You can tell that, can you?’

‘I think so. How about tomorrow night, Saturday?’

She hesitated. ‘I’m still tied up in this case. Maybe next week, I’m not sure. Can I call you?’

‘That’s a brush-off, isn’t it?’

‘No, really.’

‘Well, can I ask you for a favour anyway? It’s about the judge’s wife, Maisie.’

‘Is she really called Lady Maisie?’

‘That’s right. She’s okay, a bit vague when she takes too many of her little pills. She asked me to help her. She wants to have a private word with your boss, Brock, but not at the station. I thought you might be able to arrange it for her.’

‘And my reward is a date with you?’

‘No, no.’ He sounded embarrassed.

‘When does she want to do this?’

‘Soon. Right now, if you can fix it. I can bring her straight over.’

‘Hang on.’

She saw Brock in the corridor, talking to Bren, and she went and spoke to him. He raised an eyebrow then said, ‘Make it the exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery in half an hour.’ Then he added under his breath, ‘As long as she’s not armed.’

• • •

Half an hour later he was standing in front of Reg Gilbey’s portrait of Sir Jack Beaufort, described in the exhibition catalogue as a leading figure of the British legal establishment and a noted collector of twentieth-century British art. The painting had a powerful presence, and Brock was struck by the contrast between the frailty of the artist, whom people might dismiss as a boozy old codger, and the strength of the work, as if the discipline of a lifetime had a momentum of its own, carrying him through.

He became aware of someone at his side and, turning, recognised Lady Beaufort. Her hat and silk scarf gave her an almost jaunty air, offset by slightly sinister tinted glasses. She gazed vaguely at the portrait as if uncertain whether she knew who it was, then murmured, ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to see me, Chief Inspector. Jack hasn’t told me much of what’s been going on, but I think I can interpret him quite well by now. He announced the other day that he was getting tired of his work commitments and wanted to take me on a cruise, and I realised right away that things must be very bad, very bad indeed. Jack has never willingly taken a holiday in his life, and detests cruises. Of course, he refused to elaborate, but fortunately he keeps a personal diary, which he doesn’t know I read. From that I gathered that he has been going through a form of purgatory recently, in which you appear to have been the principal tormentor.’

She paused and looked around the gallery room, which at that moment was empty apart from themselves. ‘Is it little girls?’ she asked, gazing steadily up into Brock’s face.‘Is that the problem?’

‘Yes.’

‘I assumed so. It’s something that’s always troubled him. I remember not long after we were married confronting him with some pictures which I’d found in his study. He was mortified, literally sick with shame. I must confess I’ve often found it difficult to fathom what goes on in men’s minds, but I am absolutely certain that that is where Jack has kept this particular demon of his—in his mind. He would never, never do anything shameful in that way.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I know him, Chief Inspector. I know him better than you or anyone else does. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I realise that it may not be a very satisfactory thing for you, a wife’s endorsement of her husband, but in this case it’s the most dependable thing you can have.’

She turned back to consider her husband’s portrait.‘It’s caught him rather well, hasn’t it? His weaknesses as well as his strengths, Moloch as well as Solomon.’

‘Didn’t Moloch demand children as sacrifices?’ Brock said.

Lady Beaufort gave an embarrassed flutter of her hand. ‘Oh, well I’ve probably mixed him up with somebody else.’

‘Your husband told me that he became involved with a man called Robert Wylie in order to help a friend whom Wylie was trying to blackmail. Have you any idea who the friend might be? It might help your husband if the friend could confirm the story.’

‘Didn’t Jack tell you? Well, well, how gallant of him.’ Brock caught the stress on the word “gallant”. A group came into the room, and Brock and Lady Maisie drew back into a corner as the people clustered in front of Beaufort’s portrait.

‘It’s a Gilbey, isn’t it?’ one said, peering at the title panel. ‘Yes. I’ve always loved this guy. Do you remember his Mick Jagger? He hasn’t really lost it, has he? A bit more blurry, like Monet in his old age, his eyesight going.’

‘I don’t think Jack would be altogether happy that they call it a Gilbey, rather than a Beaufort, as if he’s coincidental, like a bunch of flowers or a bowl of fruit.’ Lady Maisie allowed herself a little smile. ‘The friend was my sister—my younger sister. When Jack and I first went out she was a sweet, spoilt little girl of ten. Jack adored her, like everyone else. Well, perhaps not quite like everyone else. Anyway, later she became bored with being spoilt all the time and took to drink in a big way, and got into various kinds of trouble. Jack pulled strings for her a couple of times. She’s a reformed character now, so one is led to believe, married to a lovely man in the City. I’m not sure if she’d confirm Jack’s story or not. It might be an interesting test.’

There had been an edge to her voice throughout this account, and while he believed her, Brock wondered what else there might be to the story. Did the little sister know something about Beaufort that he wouldn’t want her to bring up?

Lady Maisie glanced at her watch. ‘I really must go now. There are so many last-minute arrangements to be made. I’m so glad we’ve had this little chat, Chief Inspector. I feel I shall be able to relax now, while we’re away.’

She pursed her lips into a smile. They were orange, not quite right with the crimson scarf, and Brock wondered if she was colour-blind.

31

T
he next morning they picked Poppy up at the hospital and took her back to Shoreditch station. Some colour had returned to her face, and though she still looked exhausted, a little of her old cheek had reasserted itself. ‘Got a fag?’ she demanded as she sat down. ‘Can’t talk without a fag.’

After a search was mounted in the front office, a packet of Benson and Hedges was requisitioned from a reluctant constable and the interview resumed. Kathy decided Poppy was robust enough to take some hard questions.

‘Okay now?’

‘Yeah, yeah, fire away.’ Poppy casually lifted her chin and drew on the cigarette.

‘Just so you know, we checked your DNA. Betty Zielinski was your birth mother.’

The thin column of blue smoke quivered. ‘Yeah,’ Poppy said after a pause, ‘I know.’

‘When did you find out?’

‘When Reg spoke to me. Yesterday was it? God, it feels like weeks ago.’

‘Did you suspect it before?’

‘No, of course I didn’t. What, that old bag?’ She shook her head in disgust, as if someone had swindled her out of small change.

‘And the DNA confirmed that Reg was your father, too. But you’ve been sure of that for some time, haven’t you? Is that why you dumped that rubbish of Stan’s in Reg’s bin and told me to look there? Were you trying to punish him for denying you?’

But Poppy wasn’t yet ready to make admissions of this kind, and Kathy took a different line.

‘Reg said you were very upset when he told you about Betty. So upset you ran back to Mahmed’s and tried to kill yourself.Why was that?’

Poppy seemed to shrink a little in her chair, as if fending off some terrible memory. She didn’t reply.

Kathy leaned forward and spoke gently. ‘We know. We worked it out for ourselves, Poppy. It was Gabe, wasn’t it? You realised that your boyfriend had killed your mother.’

Poppy flinched but kept herself under control, biting her lip as if at a spring tightening inside her.‘He didn’t. He was in that glass cube.’

‘We’ve found out how he was able to leave the cube without being seen on camera, just as he did later, when Stan died.Were you there, Poppy, when Stan was hanged?’

Poppy glared at her, mouth tight. ‘God, you’re so fuckin’ sanctimonious, aren’t you? So pleased with yourself.
Were you there, Poppy?
like a fuckin’ primary school teacher. Gabe was so right about you!’

Brock broke in, ‘That’s not going to help, Poppy . . .’ but Kathy had seen the glint of tears in Poppy’s eyes, and she said gently, ‘It’s okay, I think it already has.’

Poppy stared at her for a moment, and then the tears began to flow.

They sat in silence while Poppy sobbed, head bowed, then Kathy nodded to the uniformed woman constable who was standing by the door. She came forward and put an arm around Poppy’s shoulders, took a packet of tissues from her pocket and said, ‘It’s all right, love. Can I get you something, a nice cup of tea?’

Somehow the uniform and the platitude had a calming effect. Poppy sniffed, nodded her head and wiped her nose. Then she took a deep breath and lit a new cigarette from the stub of the old one. ‘No, I wasn’t there,’ she said, voice subdued to a whisper. ‘I had no idea that was going to happen.’

‘Just tell us what you know,’ Kathy said.

She had seen Stan Dodworth on the morning after Betty was murdered, Poppy explained, though she didn’t know about the murder at the time. He had returned briefly to his room at The Pie Factory, and he was so jumpy and wired that she’d thought he’d taken drugs. Something had happened, he said, something really scary and exciting. He said he had to go away for a while, and made her promise not to tell anyone she’d seen him. She’d stayed in her room after that until the police came to get her to be interviewed, and only then did she learn about Betty being killed. She was terrified that Stan had been involved, but decided to say nothing until she’d had a chance to speak to Gabe, which she did later that day, on his mobile. He told her to keep quiet and wait to hear further from him.

She was surprised when Gabe came to her room later that night, after everyone was asleep. He told her he had a way of slipping out of the cube without being seen in the dark, and together they went across the square to Gabe’s house, where Stan was waiting for them. Gabe explained that the police thought Stan had something to do with Betty’s murder, and they had to help him because he had no one else to turn to. He was going to hide at Gabe’s until things quietened down, and Gabe wanted Poppy to keep an eye on him, get him food and pass him messages. Apparently the police had already visited Gabe’s house, looking for Stan, who’d hidden outside on the roof until they left. Stan seemed very low, and Gabe was trying to keep his spirits up.

Later, at the weekend, Stan told her that Gabe had been visiting him again at night. Stan was lively now, almost too lively, and Poppy was worried that he might do something stupid like go out into the street. He’d been making little clay maquettes for sculptures in Gabe’s studio, and he said he felt inspired to do something really awesome. That night he died.

The next day she was very upset when she heard the news. She couldn’t believe Stan had committed suicide, and when she eventually got Gabe alone in his house again she told him how he couldn’t have killed himself when he was planning to do a really special work. Then Gabe said something weird. He said, didn’t she realise that’s exactly what he had done?

‘He wouldn’t explain what that was supposed to mean.’ Poppy was oblivious to them now, telling the story as if arguing with herself, trying to make sense of it. Her fingers flew between the cigarette packet, her mouth and the ashtray, flicking, tapping, scratching. ‘He changed the subject. Didn’t I ever get fed up, pushing the same tired old rubbish, spouting the same pretentious garbage,
playing
at being an artist, showing off like a kid with a drum? I told him I took it seriously, what I did, and he laughed. He said we were just playing with other people’s second-hand toys, that we made these gestures about life and death and violence and stuff, like we were really angry and profound, but nobody believed us and nobody gave a toss. People just wanted a bit of a laugh. We had less meaning than the ads on TV. Far, far less than some demented madman who strapped a bomb under his coat and got on a bus.’

Poppy paused as the constable came in with her tea. ‘He really meant it. He scared me. I said that wasn’t so, that people really were interested in his work, that
No Trace
was pulling bigger crowds than Manchester United. He said that was because people realised it was true, it was real. It wasn’t just another artist wanker pulling down his pants to shock the bourgeoisie. Trace really had gone, Betty really was dead, so was Stan, and so . . . He didn’t finish the sentence, and that was when I first realised that he was behind the whole thing. The idea was so terrible that I couldn’t really take it in. Betty and Stan had died for Gabe’s artwork. He’d killed them so that he and his work would be more famous. He’d used them like disposable models.’