No trace

21

Brock 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 adrink.’

‘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.’

‘Of course you will. We just…’ She seemed lost for words.‘The poor man. He was always polite when we met him, but very quiet. I felt Tracey didn’t… No, I shouldn’t say that.’

‘Go on,’ Kathy coaxed.

‘Tracey seemed very nervous around him. Maybe it was his manner. His appearance too, all dressed in black, his head shaved like a convict. But he wouldn’t have killed himself because of Tracey, would he?’

She appeared to need reassurance on this. Kathy said, ‘We’ve got no evidence of that, Bev.’

‘I see, yes. Thank you, dear. I am sorry to have bothered you.’

‘If we get any firm news about Tracey, I will phone you, I promise.’

Kathy rang off and saw that the sparrow had gone.

The laboratory liaison officer had encouraging news. The frozen dinner packet that Kathy had spotted in Reg Gilbey’s dustbin had once contained a meal very close to, perhaps identical with, that found in Stan’s stomach.

‘Perhaps?’ Brock pressed.

‘They’re doing chemical tests for additives, but even if they’re identical, it won’t prove that his food came from that particular packet. But we will be able to trace the shop where the packet came from.’

‘Fingerprints? DNA?’

‘No, we couldn’t find either in the rubbish, I’m afraid. But there was a pear, half eaten, in the same plastic bag as the meal packet. They’ve made a cast of the teeth marks and the forensic odontologist over at London Hospital Medical College is preparing a mould to test against Dodworth’s teeth. The trouble is, the pear was bitten into about forty-eight hours ago, and the flesh has lost some of its crispness. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to make a certain match.’

‘Was there anything else in the bag containing the meal packet and the pear that we can definitely link to Reg Gilbey?’

The LO handed Brock the list of items: the plastic food tray from the meal, food scrapings, banana peel, stale bread, a wad of plastic film, a screwed-up paper bag, two crumpled beer cans. Brock shook his head, disappointed. ‘He’ll be able to claim anyone could have dropped it into his bin.’

‘Fraid so.’

‘Still, it should be enough for a search warrant.’

The timing was bad, no doubt about it. Bren’s knock on the door was answered by DI Tom Reeves, whose eyebrows rose at the sight of all those police officers. Kathy realised what his presence meant, but she didn’t have a chance to warn Bren as he and two others charged on up the stairs. After the others filed past Reeves, who held the door open for them like an ironic butler, Kathy said,‘I take it the judge is upstairs.’

At that moment there came a roar of anger from above, and Reeves said, ‘Yes, I think we can assume that. Mind telling me what’s going on?’

‘We found some stuff in Reg’s dustbin that links him to Dodworth, the bloke we were looking for who was found hanged this morning.’

Reeves looked puzzled.‘Meaning what, precisely?’

‘That’s what we’re here to find out.’

‘I take it your guvnor knows about this raid?’

‘Of course.’

‘I mean, he ordered it, right?’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Kathy, a little bit of advice? Beaufort was steaming mad when I drove him over here. You know how shook up old Reg was after the woman next door was found. He’s been refusing to get on with the judge’s portrait, says his hands are shaking too much. Then this business in the gallery. It was all we could do to get him going today. But that wasn’t the only thing making the judge see red. He was also mad about you lot, and especially your guvnor.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he thinks he’s stuffing up this whole case…’

‘No!’

‘… and because of that stunt your guvnor pulled last week.’ He saw the incomprehension on Kathy’s face. ‘You don’t know about that? DCI Brock paid the judge a visit at his home last week and tried to intimidate him and his missus.’

‘Oh come on, Tom, that’s bullshit. Why would Brock do that?’

‘Because he knows what Beaufort’s got in store for SO1, and he’s trying to use this case to get at him. That’s why you’re here now.’

‘No, it’s just an accident we came when you and the judge were here.’

‘That’s not the point, Kathy. By the time you’re finished with Reg he won’t be painting for weeks, and Sir Jack’s moment of fame at the National Portrait Gallery will be stuffed. Listen, believe me or not, but do yourself a favour-get yourself off this case and distance yourself from Brock. He’s finished.’

Kathy sat in the back seat with Reg Gilbey for the trip back to Shoreditch station. He looked stunned, hands trembling, and Kathy could believe Reeves’s predictions about the effect on his painting.

‘Don’t worry, Reg,’ she whispered. ‘It won’t take long, then you can get back and have a drop of Teachers.’

He shot her a panic-stricken look, his jaw clamped so tightly shut it looked as if his teeth might crack. Kathy wondered if they’d be taking a cast of them too.

When they got to the station Reg was led away to an interview room. Brock met Kathy at the door. ‘Any problems?’

‘Only that Sir Jack Beaufort was there, having a sitting for his portrait. He was mad with Bren for interrupting.’

Kathy knew every shade of expression on Brock’s face, and recognised the neutral screen that seemed to slip across his eyes.

‘Mm. Oh well.’

‘His minder had a word with me. Apparently Sir Jack isn’t happy with us. He told me that you paid the judge a visit last week.’

‘Did he now? Well, let’s get on, shall we? I think I’ll do this with one of the Hackney lads, Kathy. You might like to observe, and tell us what you think.’

He left her standing in the corridor, puzzled. She turned back to the room with the monitors for recording the interviews and took a seat.

The Hackney detective was grim-faced as he led the questioning, while Brock was distant in his manner, as if he didn’t much care what Reg had to say. The detective began with a formal caution. It was hard to tell if the painter understood; he looked as if he were about to be hauled away to the scaffold.

‘Do you like fruit, Mr Gilbey?’

The absurdity of the question startled Reg out of his paralysis. The stare he gave the detective seemed to harden into focus.‘What?’

‘Simple question. Do you like fruit?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Apples, oranges, pears? When was the last time you had a piece of fruit?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Perfectly. It’s not a trick question. When was the last time you ate an apple or a pear, say?’

Reg turned to look at Brock, searching his face for some acknowledgement of the madness of this, but Brock just stared impassively back.

‘Well?’

‘I don’t know. Not this week…Not last week. Why?’

‘We found a half-eaten pear in your dustbin.’

Kathy could see the bewilderment grow on the painter’s face. This is Kafka, it said, this is Lewis Carroll.‘Is that an offence now, then?’

‘Who ate it?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. It wasn’t me.’ A bit of colour was returning to his cheeks, some spirit to his voice.‘Why, was it a police pear? Was it an undercover pear?’

Brock’s voice broke in sharply. ‘When did you last see Stan Dodworth, Mr Gilbey?’

‘Stan?’ Reg was bewildered again, trying to follow this jump.‘Stan? Not since he disappeared. The week before last…’ His voice trailed off as he saw Brock shaking his head.

‘No. Think very carefully before you answer. When did you last see Stan Dodworth? It was last night, wasn’t it?’

‘Last night? No, no. Who says so?’

Brock suddenly reached into his briefcase and produced the frozen meal packet inside a plastic pouch. ‘You recognise this, don’t you?’

To Kathy, watching Reg’s image on the screen, it didn’t look as if he did.

‘No.’

‘This was the last meal Stan Dodworth ate before he died last night. It was found in your backyard, in your dustbin, in the same plastic bag as the pear.’

Enlightenment seemed to come at last to Reg Gilbey. ‘Ahhh…’ he sighed, and sat back in his chair. ‘You think… But you see, you’ve got it all wrong. I’ve never seen that before in my life, nor the pear. Someone must have put the bag in my bin, mustn’t they?’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘To get rid of it, I suppose.’

‘But why in your bin? No suggestions? Then we’ll go back to the beginning and start again. Where did you buy the pear?’

Kathy watched Brock grind away at Gilbey for another forty minutes without result. As the time passed, and Reg realised that Brock genuinely didn’t believe him, his confidence seemed to drain away again. He became querulous and indignant, then more and more subdued, just shaking his head as he finally seemed to run out of words altogether.

It was at that point that Bren came into the room where Kathy was sitting.‘How’s it going?’ he said.

‘Nothing. How about you?’

‘No, we haven’t found any sign of Dodworth in Gilbey’s house. They’re still collecting fibre samples, but there was nothing obvious. I’d better let the old man know.’

In the break that followed, Kathy continued watching the screen as Gilbey accepted a mug of tea and lifted it with both trembling hands to his mouth. She got up and found Brock and Bren, deep in conversation.‘Can I have a go?’ she said.

They looked at her in surprise, then Brock shrugged and said, ‘Be my guest, Kathy. Give him ten minutes to think about things first, eh?’

‘Yes.’

She got herself a mug of tea and after a while took it in to the interview room with her, together with a uniformed woman officer, who remained by the door.

‘I suppose you’re going to be nice to me, are you?’Gilbey said.

‘If I can.’

He heaved a deep sigh. ‘That boss of yours isn’t very nice, is he? I thought he seemed a decent bloke when I met him before.’

‘Tracey’s been missing for two weeks, Reg. DCI Brock’ll do whatever’s necessary to get her back.’

‘Yes, yes, I know… It’s just not very pleasant to be on the receiving end. It’s not like on TV. I feel… gutted.’ Another deep sigh.‘No chance of a smoke, I suppose?’

‘I think this is a smoke-free workplace, Reg.’

‘Gawd help us. Well, he’s wrong about me hiding Stan.’

‘Is he?’

‘Anyone could have put that bag in my bin. Maybe the builders. Stan might have been hiding in one of their buildings.’

‘We looked.’

‘Yes, I suppose you did. I feel bad about Tracey too, you know.’

‘She was a very pretty little girl, wasn’t she?’

Reg looked wary.‘True.’

‘Did you paint her at all?’

‘I’m not Renoir. Pretty little girls aren’t what I paint.’

‘But you did paint the children in the playground, didn’t you?’

‘That’s different, a pattern of shapes, light and shade.’

‘That’s probably what Renoir said.’

‘Maybe he did, I wouldn’t know. But if you’re trying to suggest I’m a pervert, you’re wrong.’

‘Did she ever come to your house?’

Kathy caught a flicker of perturbation in Reg’s eye that would never have registered on the monitor. He hesitated, and to Kathy’s mind it seemed as if he was calculating the odds of getting away with something.

‘Betty brought her up to my studio once. She wanted to show the girl that portrait I did of her as a young woman.’

‘Did she stay long?’

‘A while… She liked the smell and the feel of the oil paint I was using. Her father and those other so-called artist friends of his don’t use oil paint any more. I gave her a brush and a small canvas to muck about on. A self-portrait, looking in the mirror, all blonde hair and blue eyes.’

Of course, Kathy thought, the little painting Betty had shown her. And now it occurred to her that she hadn’t noticed it in Betty’s house after her death.

‘Did she come again?’

‘Em, yes… she came one other time. That’s all.’

‘And was Betty there?’

Reg held Kathy’s eye so steadily that she was certain he was about to lie.‘Yes.’

Kathy reached for her mug of tea, letting Reg study the puzzled look on her face. ‘You couldn’t be getting mixed up about that, could you, Reg? About Betty being there?’

‘She was there,’ he insisted, pressing his thumb nail so hard into a finger that the flesh went white.

Lying but also telling the truth, Kathy thought. ‘For part of the time,’ she prompted.

He looked startled. ‘Ah… you may be right. I’m not sure.’

‘When was this?’

‘A couple of months ago. Look, you’re barking up the wrong tree. It was all perfectly straightforward and innocent.’

‘Then there’s no need to be secretive, is there? I need to know all about that visit, Reg.’

‘I’m not sure I can remember.’ He was speaking more slowly, trying to give himself time.

‘Yes you can,’ Kathy said briskly.‘It was a weekday?’

‘Um…yes.’

‘Afternoon?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, come on, there was a knock at the door…’

Reg was staring at Kathy as if she must be reading his mind.‘She was standing on the doorstep.’

‘Alone.’

‘Yes. She wanted to finish her self-portrait.’

‘So you took her upstairs…’

‘To the studio, yes. She sat down in front of the mirror and got on with her painting. It was a warm afternoon. The window was open, sun shining on the trees of the gardens…’

‘She’d want your advice,’Kathy cut in gently.‘She’d want you to hold her hand, show her how to put the paint on.’

‘No! She was quite confident, didn’t need my help. I got on with my own work. We hardly exchanged a word.’ Gilbey came to a stop.

‘Go on, what happened then?’

‘There was another ring at the front door. It was Sir Jack, for a sitting. His driver had dropped him off and gone to find a parking space. I took him upstairs and introduced him to Tracey, and he admired her painting.’

‘What did he say, exactly?’

‘I don’t really remember. I think he said it was very lifelike.’

‘Was she pleased at being praised?’

‘Yes, of course. She was proud of it.’

‘So she smiled and flashed her big blue eyes.’

‘You make it sound indecent.’

‘I’m just trying to get the picture. What happened then?’

‘Em… the doorbell rang again. I thought it was Sir Jack’s bodyguard, but it was Betty. She…’ Reg hesitated, frowned.

‘Come on, Reg.’

‘Well, you know what she was like, flying off the handle for no reason. She’d been in the gardens, feeding her birds, and she’d seen Tracey up in my window. She blew her top, thought I’d kidnapped her or something. She marched in screaming blue murder and charged up the stairs.’

‘So while this was going on, Sir Jack was upstairs alone with Tracey.’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened next?’

‘Betty flew into the studio and grabbed Tracey. When I got there she had her arms around the girl, abusing Sir Jack. It took Tracey to calm her down. She told Betty she was fine, and showed her the painting she’d done, then she and Betty left. Tracey never came to my house again.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us about this before, Reg?’

‘Why would I? It wouldn’t help you find Tracey and it was just embarrassing for me. You were bound to put the worst construction on it, just as he said.’

‘Who said?’

‘Sir Jack. When we heard about Tracey being abducted, he suggested I’d be wise not to mention being alone in the house with her that day. He said he knew how the police mind works, and he was right, wasn’t he?’

‘Let me get this straight; Sir Jack Beaufort suggested that you lie to us.’

‘Not lie, no! Just not mention Tracey’s visit that day. I mean, it wasn’t significant. But I didn’t lie, and now you’ve asked me point-blank, well, I’ve told the truth, haven’t I?’

‘I hope so, Reg. You see, the way the police mind works, if a witness misleads you once, they’re never really trustworthy again. Now, you and Sir Jack might keep quiet about being alone with Tracey, but what about Betty? Weren’t you worried that she’d tell people?’

‘I made it up to her, took her some flowers, and Tracey had reassured her.’

‘All the same, she was a loose cannon, wasn’t she? She used to call you “the monster next door”.’

‘People didn’t take her seriously.’

‘No, that’s right. That was your salvation, wasn’t it? All right, let’s talk about Stan Dodworth.’

‘I told you, I didn’t shelter him. I didn’t see him.’ There was an edge of panic in his voice now as he realised that Kathy was leading him from one victim to the next.

‘But you were good mates, weren’t you? Drinking buddies.’

‘No! You’re wrong. We had nothing in common. I couldn’t stand the man.’

‘That’s not what I hear, Reg. I hear you used to buy him drinks, have long conversations.’

‘Look, I may have bought him the odd drink. He looked so bloody pathetic sitting there in The Daughters, talking to nobody, muttering to himself. When I’ve had a few I tend to be magnanimous-ask anybody.’

‘So you met Stan regularly in the pub.’

‘Not regularly, no. Frankly, there was no point. We had nothing in common. I hated his work and he had no conversation.’

‘He must have talked about something. Didn’t he tell you about his work, his methods?’

‘Not really. I wasn’t interested. Too grotesque for my taste.’

‘Didn’t he tell you where he got his models from?’

‘Models?’

‘For his sculptures.’

‘No, can’t say he did. Why, where did they come from?’

‘From a mortuary.’

‘Ugh.’ Gilbey made a face of disgust.

‘Rembrandt did that too, didn’t he?’

‘Rembrandt wasn’t obsessed by death.’

‘So Stan talked about death, did he?’

‘A bit.’ Then something struck Gilbey. He stared off into space, thinking.

‘What is it?’

‘I just remembered the last time I saw Stan. It was in The Daughters, a couple of nights after Tracey disappeared. He was particularly gloomy, even by his own low standards. He asked me if I thought children felt death more keenly, being newer to life.’

‘What did you say to that?’

‘I told him to bugger off. Look, I don’t think I can take any more of this. I’m not feeling well. I want to stop now.’

‘All right, Reg. If you think of anything else we might want to hear about, you’ll let us know, won’t you? Incidentally, what happened to Tracey’s self-portrait?’

‘Eh?’ He thought for a moment and then said, ‘Betty took it with her when she and Tracey left. She told me later that Tracey gave it to her as a present.’

‘Well, it’s not in Betty’s house now.’

He shrugged.‘I don’t know where it is.’

Afterwards Brock looked pleased. ‘Well done, Kathy. You did well.’

‘Thanks,’she smiled back but felt uneasy.‘What he said about the judge advising him to keep quiet… well, it doesn’t really mean anything, does it? It’s the sort of advice you might give a friend.’

‘Yes, but it had the effect of protecting him as much as Reg, didn’t it?’

When Brock had gone, Kathy said to Bren,‘He seems to have it in for the judge, doesn’t he? I hope he knows what he’s doing.’

‘Judge or not, he’s as accountable as everyone else.’

‘Yes and no. You know this new review of Special Operations that’s under way?’

Bren rolled his eyes.‘Another one?’

‘Yes, and Sir Jack is the chair of the review committee.’

‘Really? Brock never mentioned that to me.’

‘No. We’re not supposed to know. Senior management only.’

‘And Brock knows?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘So… it’s like the judge is investigating us while we’re investigating him.’

‘Mm.’

‘Tricky.’

Kathy was working late that evening when the call came from Nicole Palmer. She listened carefully, taking notes, then thanked her and rang off. She thought for a moment, then tapped out Brock’s home number.

‘You owe someone some theatre tickets,’ she said.

‘Ah. Where are you?’

‘Shoreditch.’

‘Still? Can you talk?’

‘Not really.’

‘Have you eaten? I’ve got a nice steak here, if you’re interested. Or I could come to you.’

‘Steak sounds fine.’

It took her the best part of an hour by the time she’d caught the tube across the river, then waited for a connection on the surface electric rail at Elephant and Castle to continue south. She walked down the high street, almost deserted in the cold night, and turned into the arched entrance to a cobbled courtyard. A big old horse chestnut tree stood in the far corner, brown conker shells scattered on the ground beneath its branches, and beyond it the beginning of a lane, with a hedge on one side and a row of old brick houses on the other. Kathy rang the bell and after a moment Brock opened the door and ushered her in.

‘I’m sorry,’ Brock said when they reached the living room on the next floor, taking her coat, ‘I should have come back up to town, or waited till tomorrow.’

‘No, it’s better done tonight, away from everybody. Unless your house is bugged.’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘Are you sure? He’s got Special Branch protecting him, remember.’

Brock looked to see if she was serious, and saw she was. ‘Well, that is a nasty thought.’

He watched her reach into her shoulder bag and pull out a folded sheet of paper, which she handed to him without a word. It read, ‘Robert John Wylie appeared before Justice John Beaufort in May 1996 in the company of three other defendants on a variety of charges under the Sexual Offences Act 1956, the Obscene Publications Act 1959 and the Indecency with Children Act 1960. The judge dismissed the case against Wylie. The other defendants went on to trial, were found guilty and received sentences of between three and six years. They are known to us as business associates of Wylie.’

Brock looked up with a grim smile.‘Well done, Kathy. Now, let’s do something about that steak, shall we?’