No trace

19

The first school parties arrived at The Pie Factory the following morning, Friday the twenty-fourth of October. As she came through the square after the morning briefing, Kathy saw the three coaches parked on West Terrace and the children in uniform forming queues at the entrance to the gallery. What surprised her were the distances they had come; judging by the company addresses on the coaches, they were from Birmingham, Bristol and Leicester. Curious, she followed one of the lines into the gallery. These were senior students, she saw, in wellorganised study groups, with notebooks, cameras and sketchpads. The teachers were handing out study notes and question-and-answer sheets, and were carrying files of reference material. As they reached the gallery foyer, Kathy saw that Fergus Tait had set an entrance fee, which was new, and had lavish catalogues for sale, as well as No Trace and ‘Gabriel’ T-shirts that were selling fast.

The cluster of girls in front of Kathy were clearly excited by their first glimpse of the artist through the front window, and were talking about him in pop-star terms, text-messaging their friends with the news. When they got inside the girls hurried over to join the ranks of teenagers around the glass cube gawping in at Rudd, who ignored them, head down over his computer screen. Some of the girls were flirtatiously trying to attract his attention, while the boys hung back, smirking and muttering comments. One was on his knees, tapping the glass and calling, ‘Dave, Dave.’ Then teachers appeared, briskly separating the mob into manageable groups and leading them away.

Kathy went first to speak to the computer operators, who confirmed that there had been no further messages from LSterne and that they hadn’t been able to find any earlier references to the name.

‘This is quite a circus, isn’t it?’ Kathy said.

‘Oh yes, and it’s going to get worse. There are art societies and tourist groups booked in for the weekend, and more schools next week. It’s becoming difficult to work, but that’s all part of the deal, apparently. We are the artwork.’The woman laughed and returned to her keyboard.

Kathy moved over to the banners, curious to hear what was being said about them. A fierce grey-haired woman was challenging her group to interpret the images on the tenth banner. ‘The badger, here at the bottom, what could that represent?’

Silence, a snigger from a gangling boy.

‘Martin? What do you know about badgers?’

‘They’re extinct,’ he offered.

‘No they’re not, they are endangered, which is relevant. What else?’

‘They like the dark,’ someone said.

‘Fierce.’

‘Secretive.’

‘Vegetarian.’

‘No,’the teacher corrected again.‘They do eat mice and young rabbits actually, as well as eggs and roots. They are in fact omnivorous, which could also be relevant. So we have endangered, nocturnal, fierce, secretive and omnivorous. So what could it be a symbol of?’

A willowy girl said,‘The spirit of the artist.’

‘Excellent, Angela! The spirit of the artist!’

‘She got that off the web,’ someone muttered sourly.

‘And also,’ the willowy girl continued confidently, ‘the badger’s head is basically white, well, with black stripes. But white really, like…’ she lowered her voice to a reverent hush, as if the artist on the other side of the room might be listening,‘Gabriel Rudd.’

‘Ye-es,’ the teacher said uncertainly.

‘Which is a sign of shock and terror and loss… loss of life, loss of colour.’

‘Ah yes.’ Like many of her colleagues, the teacher was carrying a large loose-leaf file, Kathy noticed, subdivided into sections by coloured sheets. She thumbed through this for a moment, then said,‘Perhaps you should explain that, Angela.’

‘Gabriel Rudd lost the colour in his hair after the tragic suicide of his wife, five years ago.’

‘My dad says that’s impossible,’ someone objected, and Kathy had a sudden glimpse of the case being discussed over dinner tables and pub counters all over the country.

‘But there was a precedent, wasn’t there? Who remembers what I told you in class last week? Someone other than Angela.’

Silence, then a voice,‘The Night-Mare, miss.’

‘Which was…?’

‘The picture he won the Turner Prize with.’

‘Yes, but which was also…?’

‘Based on a painting by someone else.’

‘Called…?’

Silence.

‘Henry…?’

Nobody remembered, and she was forced to complete the name herself. ‘Fuseli, whose hair turned white as a result of a fever he caught in Rome, remember?’

‘What about the murder, miss?’ someone urged, and there was a general muttering of enthusiasm. The teacher relented, and they moved on to banner eleven.

‘This has got everything, hasn’t it?’ a woman at Kathy’s elbow said.‘Are you from Leicester?’

‘No, London.’

‘Ah. I’m from Bristol.’

‘You must have had an early start this morning.’

‘God, yes. But they’ve been pestering us for days, and with the murder yesterday… Our Head thought we should seize the moment. It’s not every day the whole school’s demanding to go on an art excursion. And it’s perfect, really-being able to see the artist actually doing it, the work in progress, the workshops where the banners are being made, and hopefully a glimpse of the actual crime scenes, at least the outside of the houses. They even hope that they might catch sight of the murderer, lurking about in the square somewhere. I just feel sorry for the police-if they don’t catch the bastard soon, they’ll be branded as incompetent, and if they do, everyone’ll be disappointed that the show will be over.’

‘Yes. Tell me, what are those thick folders that you’ve got?’

‘Our resource folders? They’re mainly stuff we’ve got off the web. Have you seen his site? It’s huge. Each section relates to one of the banners, about its symbolism, its references, its stylistic approach and so on. Of course, you don’t know how true it is, because people are contributing from all over, both good and bad criticism.’

‘Can I see what you’ve got on the first banner?’

The woman showed her.‘Anything in particular?’

‘That image of the figure holding the child’s hand.’

They thumbed through the pages, then the teacher said,‘Here it is.“On the lower left side is a haunting image of the lost child being led away by a sinister dark figure into a tunnel.” That’s all.’

‘Nothing on the source of the image?’

‘No, must be just the artist’s imagination. Poor bloke.’

As Kathy turned to leave, the computer operator she’d spoken to earlier called out to her. ‘Is your name Kathy? I’ve got an email for you.’

‘For me?’ Kathy read the page she was handed. It came from Gabriel Rudd and said, Hi. Back again? Anything you want to know? Gabriel.

Kathy looked back at the cube and saw him watching her, a little smile on his face.‘Can I reply?’ she asked.

‘Sure. You want to type it?’

‘Just say, Where’s Stan Dodworth?’

The reply came back after a few minutes. Sorry, can’t help. She looked back at the cube, but a fresh horde of school children was blocking the view.

It was time to go, she knew, though she would have liked to stay. She was beginning to find Northcote Square addictive, but Brock had given her an assignment and she had to return to Queen Anne’s Gate to follow it up, because he was insistent that no one at Shoreditch should get wind of it. He’d remembered that she had a friend in Criminal Records, now the National Identification Service, didn’t she? She told him that she did, Nicole Palmer, a good friend. And would Nicole Palmer do a favour for her, a discreet favour, possibly entailing unpaid overtime that Brock might repay in the form of theatre tickets or some liquid refreshment of some kind? It was quite possible, Kathy said, wondering why Brock wasn’t using the numerous contacts he himself must have in the NIS. A computer check, but possibly, he wasn’t sure, requiring a manual search-tedious, certainly. Theatre tickets and a case of bubbly. Maybe even a modest pre-theatre meal for two. What did Kathy think? Kathy asked who the target was. A certain judge, Brock said. He was interested to know if this man, let’s call him Q, had ever presided over a trial or appeal involving any of the people of interest to them in their present investigations. But no one else must hear of Nicole’s discreet inquiries, and above all there must be no mention of Brock or SO1. Definitely a pre-theatre meal as well, Kathy said, and not too modest.

The teacher’s assessment of the significance of what was happening at Northcote Square seemed to be confirmed by the commentators in the Sunday papers two days later. What had started out for some as a self-indulgent exercise in dubious taste had now been transformed into a statement on art and life as significant as, according to one excited reviewer, Picasso’s Guernica, or Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe paintings. There was speculation that, taken as a whole, The No-Trace Project, as people now seemed to be calling it, had become too big and too important even for the premier contemporary art prizes, such as the Turner Prize and the Beck’s Futures award. Questions were being asked as to what should happen to the work when it was completed. There was speculation that Fergus Tait intended to auction the banners individually, something that would result in the whole set being fragmented and dispersed, number one to Los Angeles, perhaps, number two to Bilbao, and so on. This would surely be intolerable. There was call for a public subscription fund to keep the work together and in the UK, preferably at Tate Modern.

Kathy yawned as she read this and took another sip of the coffee she’d made. She was in her office at Queen Anne’s Gate, where she came when she wasn’t required at Shoreditch or elsewhere. Since that Monday morning two weeks ago when the case had begun she’d barely had a day off. It didn’t seem right with Tracey still missing. She looked again at the girl’s picture pinned to the screen behind her desk. Today she had been searching Gabriel Rudd’s web site for some clue as to the connections or references that Brock had suggested must lie in the style of Betty’s murder. The trouble was that the material in the site really was as extensive as the teacher had said, and there were endless references to the work of other artists, from Giotto to Koons.

She needed help. She picked up the phone and rang Bren’s home number. Deanne answered, the sound of children’s voices in the background.

‘Hi, Deanne, it’s Kathy. Is this a bad time?’

‘No, it’s fine, Kathy. How are you? I’ll get Bren.’

‘It’s you I wanted to speak to, if you’ve got five minutes.’ She explained her problem.

‘How about Fuseli?’ Deanne said.

‘Yes, you mentioned him before, but I can’t find any references to him in connection with the work Gabe’s doing at the moment. What made you suggest him? Didn’t you say that the image of the little girl being led off by a stranger was his? Because there’s no reference to that on the website.’

‘Well…’ Deanne hesitated. ‘I just assumed it was Fuseli, because of the melodramatic style. I mentioned him because he inspired Rudd’s last really successful show, The Night-Mare, and because he seemed to consciously model himself on Fuseli-brooding, eccentric, a bit violent and wild.’

‘I heard someone mention that Fuseli’s hair turned prematurely white, like Rudd’s.’

‘Really? I didn’t know that. Well, there you are.’

‘But I don’t know that this has anything to do with Rudd’s sources. It might be Stan Dodworth’s that I should be looking at.’

‘Oh… I’d have to think about that. Goya? Maybe Giacometti.. .’

‘Oh dear.’ Kathy groaned, feeling the ground sliding out from under her again.

‘Tell you what,’ Deanne said. ‘I have to go to the university library this afternoon. Why don’t I get some books for you to look at? That might give you some ideas. Are you free tonight? Come and have dinner with us and we can talk about it.’

After another fruitless day, the idea of spending the evening soaking in the warm tub of the Gurneys’ domesticity seemed quite appealing, although Kathy almost changed her mind as she heard the sounds of squealing children through the front door. They were overtired and ready for bed, and after greeting the older two and handing over the colouring books she’d brought, Kathy kissed them goodnight and Bren coaxed them away. He was immensely patient and gentle with them, so huge and protective alongside their little figures that Kathy was touched with a sense of sadness and loss that she couldn’t quite pin down.

Deanne was in the living room, about to feed the youngest girl, Rachel. At six months, Rachel was just beginning to appreciate her mother’s fine art books, one of which she was trying to get into her mouth. Deanne whisked it away, wiped it with a kitchen towel and substituted her breast.

‘Sorry, Kathy. You know how it is. There’s a bottle of wine on the sideboard next to the books I got you. You can set the table if you feel like it. The stuff ’s on the tray. Dinner’s nearly ready. How was your day?’

‘Useless. I achieved nothing.’ She began laying out the knives and forks.

‘Oh dear. Mine was much the same.’

‘Well, at least at the end of it you can say you filled a small stomach.’

Deanne gave her a curious look.‘Not envious, are you? Take her, she’s yours. Let me have her back in a year or two.’ She shifted the baby across to the other breast. ‘I’ve been trying to think about your problem, but I couldn’t come up with anything brilliant. I’m not sure I really understand what you’re looking for.’

‘Me neither. It’s just that there were some odd things about the way the body of the murdered woman in the basement was treated.’

‘Yes, I talked to Bren about that-the electric torture. It’s disgusting. The only artistic allusions I could come up with were Andy Warhol’s images of the electric chair, and a man called Leon Golub did some creepy paintings in the eighties of people being interrogated and burned with cigarette ends. Dodworth went to art school, didn’t he? I suppose he’d have come across those. Was he a smoker?’

‘I don’t know.’ Kathy thought back to the foetid atmosphere in his room, but couldn’t recall the smell of tobacco smoke.‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, maybe he substituted electric burns for cigarette burns.’

‘There was the blindfold as well, that was put on after she was dead.’

‘Yes, that is weird. That didn’t ring any bells at all.’

Kathy finished setting the table and, picking up her glass of wine, came and sat opposite the mother and child.

‘I’m sorry I never got in touch with you when you broke up with Leon,’ Deanne said.‘I wanted to, but I didn’t know what to say. I suppose I’ve forgotten what it’s like. You were together for quite a while, weren’t you?’

‘He lived with me for six months.’

‘I think that’s a good way of putting it. More independent than saying you were living with him, or you were living together… So you’ve got over it?’

‘Mm,’ Kathy replied vaguely. Deanne was talking about it as if it were the subject of one of her master’s assignments, something remote and academic that happened to other people. Seeing her there with her baby, her third baby, so pinkly fecund, Kathy hoped she would never have to make the sympathy call to her; You’ve lost him, he’s gone.

‘Well, try the books, anyway. You never know, something may strike a chord. It happens to me sometimes when I’m stuck for ideas-the pictures get my imagination going again. Maybe, when this case is over, you should take a holiday. You’re looking tired.’

‘Me? Not me. Hell, look at you and Bren. I don’t have babies crying through the night.’

They both laughed.

Later, lying alone in her bed, Kathy thought about their conversation. They were about the same age, she and Deanne, and had known each other, through Bren, for some years, but tonight they had felt like strangers. She didn’t mind being alone, she told herself, tucked up in a warm bed with a good book. Well, the book wasn’t very gripping, as it happened-a thick biography of Henry Fuseli-and she was struggling to stay awake. She decided to focus on the illustrations, but didn’t find them very inspiring either, scenes of posturing characters from mythology and Shakespeare… Feeling herself dozing, she sighed and turned to switch out the light, barely noticing the illustration in front of her as she closed the book, Justice and Liberty Hanged, while Voltaire Rides Monster Humanity and Jean-Jacques Rousseau Takes his Measure. It showed two eccentric eighteenth-century gentlemen, one sitting on the back of a crouching man and, in the background, not one but two figures hanging from a gallows, hands tied behind their backs, one of them blindfolded.