No trace

22

Brock watched several rooks burst cawing from the copse on the hilltop as three men appeared over the rise. They made their way steadily down the slope, towing their equipment behind them, untroubled by the fine rain. Coming to a stop, the leading figure, wearing a red tartan peaked cap, drew a weapon from his bag. It flashed through the air and for a moment all three men stared motionless at the sky. Then a white ball landed with a plop on the green in front of where Brock was sheltering, and came rapidly to a stop on the wet grass, barely a yard from the pin with its soggy red flag. A muted cheer went up from the distant group.

They noticed Brock watching them, of course, as they converged on the green, for they were all observant men, and when he moved out from beneath the eaves of the clubhouse to intercept them on the path they each gripped the handles of their clubs a little tighter, out of habit.

‘Roy?’ Brock asked, and the one with the red tartan cap peered at him more closely before exclaiming, ‘Brock? Why yes, it’s young David Brock!’

They all shook hands and proceeded together to the clubhouse door. Later, showered, changed and seated around a table in the bar, the three retired police officers seemed keen to hear about Brock’s current case, but when he began to describe how it had turned into one of those difficult ones, a sticker, he sensed their interest fade to polite indifference.

‘Frankly, I don’t know how I ever had the time to work,’ one said, and the others nodded sagely. ‘I’m so busy, I just don’t know where the time goes, the days, the months, the years… I’ve got six grandchildren now. Do you want to see their photos?’

‘Roy,’ another remonstrated, ‘he hasn’t got time for that; the man’s working. Although I can’t imagine why. You’ll be entitled to your two-thirds pension aren’t you, Brock? Why do you bother? There’s another life out there.’

‘Actually, I came about one of your cases, Roy,’ Brock managed to get in.

‘Course you did. Robert Wylie, right? You’ve finally got him for a big one. Knew it would happen eventually. Slippery customer. I almost had him in ninety-six.’

‘That’s the case I’m interested in. Before Justice Beaufort.’

‘Old Jugular, that’s right. He threw it out. I got the other three bastards though.’

‘Was he right to throw it out?’

‘Well, I didn’t think so, of course, but the CPS had warned me. They really didn’t want to proceed against him on the basis of what we had, but I was so revved up to get that slimy bastard-too keen, in retrospect.’

‘So Beaufort acted fairly?’

The three golfers stared at Brock.‘That’s an interesting question,’ Roy said.‘Are you after Jugular Jack now?’

‘I’ve got nothing specific, but Beaufort’s appeared on the sidelines in this case-not really involved, you understand, but it did seem a coincidence, remembering your experience.’

‘You’ve got a good memory,’ Roy said, with a quizzical smile at Brock, ‘because that case wouldn’t be on Wylie’s record, would it, what with him having got off scot-free?’

‘I was hoping your memory would be pretty good too, Roy.’

‘Well now… I do recall something one of my snouts said to me after that case. He said that he’d heard Wylie bragging that he’d had influence with the judge. I didn’t believe it, and still don’t. Not Jugular Jack, the scourge of scum like Wylie.’

‘He didn’t say what kind of influence?’

‘No, nothing specific. One thing I will say, though-if you’re after old Jugular, you might be well advised to check out your pension entitlements.’

‘Thanks, Roy. Now, let me buy you gentlemen another shandy.’

Kathy had seen Brock like this before-secretive, unwilling to share what he was thinking or planning concerning the ex-judge. And because she had seen it before, she thought she knew the reason. It was protection, not for himself but for the rest of them, in case things went wrong. It was a measure of how risky he knew the enterprise to be, like a bomb-disposal expert ordering his colleagues out of range of the volatile thing he was probing. But it was a dangerous manoeuvre, separating himself from the support of the team, keeping them in the dark. She felt instinctively that it was wrong and wanted to circumvent it, which of course was precisely why Brock felt obliged to act the way he did. That morning, for example, with the press office clamouring on one phone and Commander Sharpe’s office on the other, no one seemed to know where he’d gone, off on some mysterious trail apparent only to himself.

All she could do was try to find grist for his private mill-facts, observations, or failing that rumour and gossip. So she had come back to the source once again, Northcote Square, where everyone was connected to everyone else by invisible threads of history or loss, business or desire. On the north side, on Urma Street, she could see the light shining through the glass wall of Gabe’s studio on the top floor, where he and Poppy had spent the night together in the fold-out bed. She knew this because the duty sergeant had told her that their police bodyguard had said as much in his morning report. It must have been a great relief for them both after Gabe’s idiotic vigil in the glass cube, Kathy thought with a touch of envy. If she turned one hundred and eighty degrees she could see the cube illuminated through the gallery window, with its untidy workstation and crumpled bed still as they were when abandoned twenty-four hours before, like a shrine for pilgrims, to judge by the queue waiting along the footpath outside.

But she planned to begin elsewhere, at Betty’s house on West Terrace, for which she had signed out the keys. She started in the attic at the top of the house and worked carefully down through each room, each closet, each cupboard and drawer. She was looking for Tracey’s self-portrait, and it took her two hours to work her way down to the basement floor. Along the way she had uncovered glimpses of Betty’s life-a photograph of her husband Harry in army officer’s uniform, an ancient West End theatre program for Irma La Douce, a snapshot of ‘Helga’s children at Broadstairs, 1963’-but no sign of what she was looking for.

She stepped out into the tiny sunken courtyard beneath the footpath on West Terrace, remembering that she hadn’t searched the kitchen on the floor above, and climbed the stairs back up to the front door. As she opened it she glanced up at the projecting bay window beneath the turret on Reg Gilbey’s house next door and saw a figure staring down at her. With a sense of apprehension she recognised the judge. She walked quickly into Betty’s hall and closed the door behind her, wondering what excuse she could use to bump into DI Reeves again, who was no doubt sitting on the other side of the wall in Gilbey’s kitchen at that moment, reading one of his books. She turned this over in her mind as she began searching the kitchen cupboards. Then the phone on the little mahogany table in Betty’s hall began to ring, and when she picked it up she was startled to hear his voice.

‘DS Kolla? It’s Tom Reeves. I’m next door as it happens, with the judge, completing the session with Mr Gilbey that was interrupted yesterday. He wonders if you’d care to pop over for a cup of coffee in, say, half an hour?’

‘Reg Gilbey?’

‘No, Sir Jack Beaufort.’

‘Oh… well, yes.’

She replaced the phone, astonished. For a moment she wondered if she should contact Brock, then decided against it.

Brock took his seat in the same prison interview room as before. Wylie and his solicitor came in, and he looked at them carefully as they took their seats, trying to interpret their moods. Unlike the lawyer, who seemed preoccupied and agitated, Wylie looked casual, sitting back in his chair, arms folded. But he was paler than the previous time, hair lank, eyes puffy, as if he wasn’t sleeping so well, and there was the trace of what might have been a bruise on the side of his head.

The solicitor glanced anxiously at his watch and said, ‘I was reluctant to agree to this meeting, Chief Inspector, given that my client will be released today, but he felt we should hear you out. You’ve read his statement, I take it? I really don’t think there’s anything we can add.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Brock said.‘I thought I should give Mr Wylie one last opportunity before we proceed to court.’

The lawyer frowned. ‘To court? If you’re thinking of pressing some lesser charge in the Magistrates’ Court…’

‘Magistrates’ Court?’ Brock looked at him as if he’d made some kind of legal gaffe.‘Murder and abduction have to be tried in the Crown Court, you know that.’

Now the lawyer was incredulous. ‘Haven’t you spoken to the Crown Prosecution Service? There’s no possibility of you proceeding to committal on those charges.’

‘Perhaps you misunderstood them. We’re not talking about committal, we’re talking about a notice of transfer to take the case directly to trial at the Crown Court without committal proceedings taking place. As you would know, we’re entitled to do that where violence against children is involved and where, as in this case, a child victim is at risk from your client.’ Brock gave him a patient smile. ‘Maybe you’d like to explain the legal processes to Mr Wylie.’

‘But…’ The solicitor was perplexed but also wary. He knew Brock was no fool. He scanned his face and saw only confidence. ‘You have no evidence. The CPS knows that. You can’t go to trial.’

‘Well, things are continuously developing, as you well know. Evidence is often buried in shifting sand.’ He guessed the metaphor would register. Any lawyer representing Wylie would be painfully conscious of it. ‘Mr Wylie’s and Mr Abbott’s email records, for instance…’ He deliberately wasn’t looking at Wylie as he said it, but he saw an involuntary twitch at the edge of his vision.‘They were lost along with their computers, of course…’

The solicitor glanced at his client, whose face was blank, then back at Brock.‘So?’

‘But fortunately we can do something about that.’

‘How?’Wylie couldn’t help blurting out the question.

Brock turned to look at him as if for the first time. ‘Microsoft keep servers in California which store information on all their email accounts around the world, including a copy of every email that passes through them.’

‘You’re joking,’Wylie said in disbelief.

His solicitor, who had obviously come across this before, said, ‘You’ll need a US court order. Have they agreed to release them to you?’

‘It’s in train. That’s why there’s been a delay in our proceeding. I’m afraid there’s no question of bail, though.’ Again he picked up a signal from Wylie, a clenching of fingers.‘As I said, we’re convinced that the victim’s welfare would be prejudiced.’

‘You bastard.’ Wylie stared at Brock, his face white, breathing becoming more laboured.

‘I’d like some time alone with my client,’ the solicitor said, fingering his watch again.‘Two or three minutes?’

‘Be my guest,’ Brock said. He got to his feet and knocked on the locked door.

Outside, he asked the prison officer to let him use a vacant interview room to make a confidential phone call. He got through to Virginia Ashe and explained what he was doing. She listened without interruption but with several sharp intakes of breath. When he had finished she made her points in the quick, decisive manner of hers.

‘One, a notice of transfer has to be served on the court by the Director of Public Prosecutions.’

‘You act for him. You can do it.’

‘Not on something like this. I’d need approval, which I certainly won’t get on the basis of what we currently know. Two, to be valid it must be served before the magistrates begin committal proceedings. Now you’ve disclosed your tactic, Wylie’s legal representatives will press for those to begin.’

‘You’re the lawyer, Virginia. That’s your field.’

She sighed. ‘Three, since you’ve disclosed your subpoena for the emails, they will also fight to block their release. Do you know that they contain anything incriminating?’

‘I didn’t before, but I do now. It was written all over Wylie’s face.’

‘That’s not evidence.’

‘Microsoft refer requests from foreign police services to the FBI for approval. It’ll be up to them. If there’s the faintest hint of violence against children, I’m sure they’ll be sympathetic.’

‘But why did you warn Wylie of all this?’

‘I want to panic him, Virginia. I want him to react before he knows for sure how we stand.’

‘His solicitor will be straight onto us. My boss practically promised that Wylie could expect to be out of goal today.’

‘That’s why I’m ringing you now. I want you to stall them. Talk to Wylie’s brief about shifting ground-the poor bloke looks as if he’s balancing on a pile of shale. Just play for time. I think gaol is beginning to get to Mr Wylie.’

‘I do hope you know what you’re doing, Brock.’

‘Of course I do, Virginia,’ he said, sounding as confident as he could.

As he finished the call his mobile rang. It was Bren, his voice sounding unnatural, tight.

‘Chief? We’ve just heard from the hospital. Lee passed away less than an hour ago.’ Then he repeated himself as if he still couldn’t come to terms with it. ‘She’s dead. She never regained consciousness.’

After thirty minutes Kathy rang the bell on Reg Gilbey’s front door. It was opened by Tom Reeves.‘Hi.’ He grinned at her, winked and nodded back with his head to indicate that they could be overheard.‘Come on in.’

Sir Jack Beaufort was waiting for her in Reg’s dining room, sitting on one side of a polished pine dining table. The chair opposite him had been pulled out in preparation for her, and Kathy had the unnerving impression of a courtroom, the judge behind the bench and the witness -or was she the accused?-facing the court for interrogation.

Beaufort rose to his feet and offered his hand across the table, shaking hers briefly and indicating the vacant chair. ‘Coffee, Sergeant?’ he asked curtly.

‘Thanks. Black, no sugar, please.’

‘I know,’ Reeves said, and left the room.

‘He likes you,’ Beaufort said.‘He speaks highly of you. That’s what persuaded me to speak to you.’ He cleared his throat, as if offering Kathy a chance to say something, but she remained silent. His gaze was steady and unblinking, and despite herself she felt intimidated.

‘You look uncomfortable,’ he said softly. ‘Please don’t be. I’m not a monster, you know. My colleagues used to call me “Jocular Jack” behind my back, on account of my sense of humour in court.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, indeed. Reg Gilbey told me about your interview with him yesterday. He was quite upset about it.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘We often forget, don’t we, in our line of work, how distressing our ways can seem to the lay public when they experience for the first time what is commonplace to us?’

‘I assure you that we complied with the rules laid down in PACE.’

Beaufort waved his hand dismissively.‘I never doubted it. But still, just the idea of being questioned like a criminal would be enough to throw someone like Reg into confusion.’

‘He didn’t seem confused to me.’

‘He’s desperately worried that he may have given the impression that he felt guilty, or had something to hide, about the encounter with the Rudd child that he described to you. As he said, I was there that afternoon, and I can assure you that there was absolutely nothing untoward about it. The little girl was perfectly happy and Reg behaved impeccably towards her. That’s really what I wanted to tell you. Ah, Tom, well done. Biscuits too!’

Reeves came in with a tray, put it on the table between them and left again. Beaufort fussed over the milk and sugar, humming softly to himself as if content to have completed his business. Kathy watched him, pretty certain that he had not.

‘Don’t you find police work very stressful, Sergeant?’ he asked conversationally.

‘It can be, yes.’

‘Especially a case like this. The thought of that missing child, the demands on you to come up with a result…

I imagine the pressure must be almost overwhelming for the person leading the team, the senior investigating officer.’

Brock, Kathy thought, that’s what this is about.

‘You’re SIO’s getting on a bit, too, for such a role, isn’t he?’

‘No, I don’t think so. The important thing is his experience. That’s what gives him the edge. It’s what gives Special Operations the edge.’

Beaufort smiled.‘Very loyal, as you should be. But I must confess I’m not convinced. I’m pretty experienced too, at judging men and their patterns of behaviour under stress, and it’s my humble opinion that your chief, and perhaps SO1 also, has been overstressed for too long. I would say that he is in the process of having a breakdown.’ He held up his hand as Kathy started to protest. ‘I know, it’s none of my business, and I hope it won’t go beyond these four walls. I’m just expressing a personal opinion, and perhaps offering a little insight for you to think about, because I know that, deserved or not, the team tends to be identified with the actions of its leader. Did you know that DCI Brock called at my house recently and behaved in a quite threatening way to my wife and myself?’

Kathy felt a jangle of anxiety.

‘Of course, I know of his tremendous professional reputation,’ Beaufort went on, ‘and I imagine it was an action out of character, born of desperation, no doubt.’

He sipped fastidiously at his coffee and nibbled the corner of a biscuit.‘These are stale. Reg isn’t a great one for housekeeping. Why he never married I can’t imagine. Hm.’ He laid the biscuit and cup to one side.‘There is one other thing that bothers me, Sergeant, and I don’t mind if you do pass this on to DCI Brock, if you feel it relevant. The man Wylie you’ve arrested is known to me. He is an extremely devious and evil character, and I am quite sure he will try to exploit any weakness he perceives in those against him, including offering false information. I should hate to imagine that DCI Brock’s opinion of Reg Gilbey, or of me for that matter, would be influenced by a character like that. Have committal proceedings begun?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Really?’ He frowned.‘There’s no doubt, I take it, about his guilt?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘Then the sooner he’s put away the better. Well now,’ he brushed his fingers together and rose to his feet, ‘it’s been most pleasant talking to you, Sergeant. I’m obliged to you for giving me your time. Now I’d better return to the master upstairs. You’ve seen the portrait, haven’t you? What do you think of it?’

‘It’s very strong.’

Beaufort seemed pleased with the reply.

‘Did you ever see Tracey again,’Kathy asked,‘after that day she called here?’

‘I believe I may have seen her in the square.’ His voice had become cool.‘Why do you ask?’

‘We ask everyone who may have seen her. Did you notice anyone watching her?’

‘Ah, I see. No, I’m afraid I can’t recall anything. I wasn’t really looking, you see.’

‘When would this have been?’

‘I’m not sure. Two or three weeks before she disappeared? Now, if you’ll excuse me, Tom will see you out.’

While he went back upstairs to the studio, Kathy looked in on Tom Reeves in the kitchen. He put down the book he was reading and closed the door quietly behind her.‘How did it go?’

‘All right. I think I got the message.’

‘Am I allowed to ask what it was?’

‘Lay off Reg Gilbey and beware of my boss. The same message you gave me.’

‘Not at his bidding.’

‘He happened to mention that he saw Tracey Rudd a couple of times before she disappeared. Do you remember that?’

‘No, I’m pretty sure I never saw her. Maybe he bumped into her at the gallery.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, I assume Rudd took his kid down there, and the judge calls in now and again.’

‘Yes, the owner mentioned he has dinner in the restaurant.’

‘And he checks out the exhibitions. He looked in there this morning, as a matter of fact.’

‘What, with all those school kids?’

‘Yeah.’ Reeves laughed. ‘He had some bone to pick with the owner. Seemed rather annoyed.’

‘Do you know what about?’

‘No idea. Why, are you spying on him?’

‘Of course not. How’s old Reg today?’

‘He didn’t seem too bad. From the bottles I found in his waste bin I’d say he had a boozy night and it must have restored his spirits. He was ready to get back to work this morning, at any rate.’

‘I’d better get going.’

‘Okay. You may not be seeing me much longer.’

‘Oh. You moving on?’

‘Yeah. This job’s okay for overtime, but it’s dead boring really.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Back to CID for a spell. Listen, you didn’t think I was telling you that stuff because the judge told me to, did you? I mean, he did ask me to pump you about the case, but I said you wouldn’t tell me anything anyway.’

‘What did he want to know?’

‘Oh, who your suspects were for the old lady’s murder, and what the pathologist had to say about Dodworth’s death.’

‘Just out of idle curiosity, do you think?’

‘No, he seemed more insistent than that. I assumed he was wanting to reassure Reg.’

‘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.