No trace bak-8

by Barry Maitland

  ‘Sorry, love, I’ll make it up to you. This has to happen now.’

  Gabe stared at him. ‘You’re crazy.’ But his mind was working and it seemed to Kathy that there was a spark of excitement in his eyes. She wondered if it was Poppy’s objection that had persuaded him.

  ‘What’ll we call the show?’ Fergus asked. ‘How about Scream, in honour of Batty Betty? And Munch of course- we can put an image of his painting on the invitations.’

  ‘Too corny,’ Gabe said immediately. ‘How about, No Trace?’

  ‘Brilliant! That’s it!’ Fergus cried. ‘I’ll get the designer working on the invitations and posters right away.’

  ‘But Poppy’s right,’ Gabe protested, though without much conviction, Kathy thought. ‘Let’s make it a month, three weeks at least. We’ll know then…’ he stopped, before adding in a whisper,‘… about Trace.’

  ‘That’s exactly the point, Gabe, don’t you see? We have to do this now, while it’s front page news. And it can only help the police, with the publicity and all.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’Kathy said.‘You’d better hold off any firm plans until I’ve got clearance.’

  ‘You go ahead, Sergeant,’ Fergus waved airily as he got to his feet. ‘I have to go. Have you been to The Pie Fac tory yet?’

  Kathy said no.

  ‘Well, you must come over and see us. Poppy here has a fabulous show on at the moment, The Loss of Many Little Things-you’ll love it. Are you coming, my dear?’

  Poppy said she’d stay with Gabe for a while.

  ‘Good idea,’ Fergus said, heading for the stairs. ‘Get a few ideas flowing for No Trace.’

  Kathy started to protest, but he was already gone.

  Poppy moved closer to Gabe and began talking to him in a low, insistent monotone. It was to do with his work, Kathy realised, picking up phrases, ‘… a narrative of pain… absence and loss

  …’ but the tone was private, almost intimate, like a trainer psyching up a fighter for the ring. Gabe listened, stuffing food into his mouth. Kathy left them to it and went over to the window to ring Brock.

  Brock was in the control centre that the borough operational command unit had established in the Shoreditch police station, the focus of a storm of activity. He listened to Kathy’s report of Tait’s plans to exploit, as she saw it, Tracey’s disappearance.

  ‘Publicity can only help at this stage,’ he told her, and said he’d get the media unit to agree on some guidelines with the art dealer. ‘Get over here for a team briefing at four, will you, Kathy? I’ll send someone to sit with Rudd.’ He sounded preoccupied.

  All over London the mobilisation was in full swing, detectives tracking down previous offenders, uniforms knocking on doors, volunteers searching parks and wasteland, new technology cranked into action. Brock stared at the large plastic-covered street map of east London on the wall, on which coloured marks were constantly being added and erased to track progress on the ground. To one side, as if to encourage the searchers, were pinned the pictures of the three missing girls, Aimee, Lee and Tracey. They depended on him now. The machine was in his hands. He was filled with a sudden overwhelming sense of inadequacy.

  One of the computer operators said something and the supervising inspector replied, then turned to Brock as if expecting his comment.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.‘What did you say?’

  ‘Oh, just about the new data, sir-so much of it.’

  They were all looking at him now, expectant, waiting for some word of insight or inspiration from the boss, and he felt at a loss, for he had nothing for them, not yet.‘This is how it goes,’ he said, making his voice steady, confident. ‘Until we get a finger on the pulse. We’ll know when that happens.’

  They seemed satisfied, nodding and turning back to their screens. The metaphor was wrong though, he thought, too gentle. He searched for something more visceral; until I have something to get my teeth into. His instinct was that the place to find it wasn’t here, for all the Mission Control paraphernalia of computer screens and headsets and data charts; it was out there, on the street. He fought to suppress his frustration, picking up the latest copy of the log and forcing himself to read.

  Gabriel Rudd was pacing up and down in agitation, muttering to himself. Having worked him up to this state, Poppy had left.

  ‘You okay?’ Kathy asked.

  He stopped in his tracks and blinked at her.‘What? Oh, yeah.’He took a deep breath, trying to calm down.‘This is how it goes,’ he said, flapping his hands in despair. ‘Until something comes. An idea, something to get my teeth into.’

  ‘Maybe this really isn’t the best time, while you’re worrying about Tracey.’

  He frowned, as if he couldn’t for the moment follow what she meant.‘Oh, Trace, yeah. No, Ferg’s right. This is exactly the time to do it, while the pain’s fresh.’

  ‘Is it? I didn’t really understand what he was saying about pain. Isn’t art about, I don’t know, beauty and making people feel good?’

  He shook his head impatiently, as if he didn’t want to get into some kind of childish debate.‘Science reassures, art is meant to disturb,’ he muttered distractedly.‘A painter said that-Braque. I’m going upstairs to the studio, okay?’

  Kathy went back to the window, wishing she’d been given something else to do. She didn’t believe that there would be a ransom phone call, and she didn’t think anyone else did either. Rudd needed a nursemaid rather than a detective in his house. Discounting their anger, Kathy suspected that the Nolans had pretty much summed Gabriel Rudd up-self-absorbed and neglectful. She checked her watch. The ‘golden hour’, that first chaotic period when the most important information was likely to be gathered, was long past. She felt a deceptive calm enveloping the house and the square, as if nothing had really happened. Maybe there would be news at the briefing. he local Head of Operations called the meeting to order. The room was packed, people squeezing into corners against filing cabinets and computer workstations. He gave a brisk history of the Critical Incident Procedures that had been followed since the disappearance of Aimee Prentice on the twenty-second of August, followed by that of Lee Hammond on the nineteenth of September, and now Tracey Rudd on the night of the twelfth of October. Then he introduced DCI Brock as head of the Major Enquiry Team that had assumed overall control. Brock thanked him and called for briefings from the leaders of the various teams.

  The first was a uniformed inspector who had been coordinating the search teams. On a grid map he outlined the areas that had been covered by ground searches and house-to-house enquiries for each of the three abductions. In the case of Tracey Rudd, a number of premises in and around Northcote Square had been searched, including the house of Betty Zielinski, the neighbouring building site, and the grounds of both Pitzhanger Primary School and the complex of old buildings known as The Pie Factory. From there the search had expanded out towards the Regent’s Canal to the north and Liverpool Street rail station to the south. Two detectives had also been out to the home of Tracey’s grandparents in west London.

  There had been some promising finds, but so far these had led nowhere. A plastic bag of children’s clothing had been discovered beneath a hedge just two streets away from Northcote Square, but didn’t match the description of clothes missing from Tracey’s wardrobe. There were several reports of a young girl seen walking hand in hand with a man late on Sunday night, but before the time when Rudd had last checked on Tracey in her bedroom.

  The next report came from the Rainbow Coordinator. When Kathy had first heard this term she’d imagined some benign social services program, but of course it was nothing of the kind. Operation Rainbow was the vast network of public and private security cameras that covered the city and were monitored by the Met. The local Rainbow Coordinator and her team had been searching this source for weeks, looking for vehicles and faces that might have been common to both of the first two crime scenes. Now they had a third area to trawl. So far they had come up with only one l
ead in the Northcote Square vicinity, a tantalising two-second clip of a pale child’s face pressed against the front passenger window of a car crossing an intersection on Kingsland Road at two twenty-five a.m. The car resembled an early model Volvo saloon, possibly red or brown, its number indecipherable, and the team was searching for it now in the earlier tapes. The Rainbow team had also been working closely with SO5, the Child Protection unit, with their data on known offenders and their vehicles, and one of their officers reported next.

  As Kathy listened to these reports, so professional and impersonal, she thought how remote they seemed from the plight of the three fragile faces pinned to the wall. Yet she knew that this was their best chance, the huge ponderous machine which most likely already had the name of the perpetrator somewhere in its maw, grinding away until it was revealed at last. But how long would that take? The voices were all so calm, Brock’s most of all, whereas the sight of those three faces caused panic to flutter inside Kathy’s chest.

  Seeing the images together like that, their similarities- white, fair-haired, pretty-seemed compelling, and despite the reservations of the crime scene manager the indications remained overwhelming that the three cases formed a single series. They were discussing this now, and Brock called on the forensic psychologist assigned as profiler to the team to comment. Kathy hadn’t seen him before, but she knew he’d had some impressive results recently. He noted the differences of age, location and MO between the new case and its predecessors, but pointed out how much publicity there had been after the second abduction, with information released about the means of entry through bedroom windows which had caused panic-buying of window locks and bars in the area. He speculated on the impact this would have had on the intruder, probably pushing him further afield, then turned to a map on which were marked numbered spots indicating home, school and other destinations for the first two girls, red for Aimee and yellow for Lee. A black circle had been inscribed around these spots.

  ‘This is the magic circle,’ the profiler said, with some deliberate dramatic effect. ‘This is the abductor’s zone of comfort. His base is somewhere inside that circle, I’m certain of it.’ Then he pointed to a single green spot on Northcote Square, about half a mile outside the circle. ‘He’s been pushed out of his comfort zone.’ He made a sweeping gesture with his hand across the map, spiralling out from the circle like the arm of a hurricane.‘We should look at possible linkages between the circle and the new location-bus and train links, routes to work, family connections…’

  Brock nodded as if he’d already reached the same conclusion, and announced that one of his colleagues from SO1 would be taking charge of that line of inquiry. Kathy felt a stir of excitement. That was more like it, a real job at the heart of the case, from which she’d have access to anything she wanted. Then she heard Brock introduce DI Bren Gurney, and the big Cornishman stood forward so that they’d know his face. Stung with disappointment, Kathy heard Brock mention her name too, almost in passing, saying that she would remain close to Gabriel Rudd and make follow-up enquiries in Northcote Square.

  It made sense, Kathy eventually conceded to herself, after she’d buried her disappointment. Bren was senior in rank and had already spent the day working with the other teams on this problem. But when she looked again at the photographs of the girls they seemed to be accusing her: ‘Is this the best you can do for us?’Wherever they and their abductor were, it certainly wasn’t Northcote Square.

  Later, as the briefing drew to an end with questions, she made an effort to take her role seriously. She put up her hand and said, ‘I wonder if we should look again at the circumstances of the death of Tracey’s mother, Jane Rudd, five years ago.’

  There was a moment’s silence, and Kathy could see the puzzlement on faces trying to figure out the possible relevance. Then an older man across the room growled, ‘I was the investigating officer at the time.’

  ‘Fine,’ Brock said quickly. ‘Will you give DS Kolla a briefing after we’ve finished?’

  The man nodded, watching Kathy through narrowed eyes. As the meeting broke up he came over to her and offered his hand.‘Bill Scott. Coffee?’

  They found a quiet corner in the canteen and Scott said,‘Why are you interested in Jane Rudd’s death?’

  His manner was terse and not, Kathy sensed, sympathetic. She wondered if he’d felt threatened by her question in that gathering of his colleagues. ‘It was only that several people have suggested a parallel between these two tragedies in Gabriel Rudd’s life. I thought I should be aware of what happened.’

  Scott screwed up his nose and sniffed suspiciously at his coffee cup before sipping.‘Don’t see any parallel.’

  ‘No, probably not,’ Kathy said, and waited.

  After a long silence Scott said,‘D’you think he’s going to try to make money out of it again?’

  ‘Rudd? Yes, probably. His dealer’s encouraging him in that direction. Fergus Tait?’

  ‘Don’t know him. They mentioned Betty Zielinski. She’s still around?’

  ‘Yes. She knew Jane Rudd?’

  Scott nodded.‘Neighbour. Off her trolley. Tried to take the kid after Jane died. Claimed it was hers. Completely nuts.’

  ‘She tried to take Tracey?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Scott examined the look on Kathy’s face.‘She didn’t push Jane into the canal, if that’s what you’re thinking. Her movements were accounted for.’

  ‘Right. What happened when she tried to take Tracey?’

  ‘Got herself worked up. Quite hysterical. The grandparents had to step in. They took Tracey to live with them for a while till things settled down.’

  ‘Was Tracey’s father happy with that arrangement?’

  ‘As far as I could tell. My impression was that he wasn’t much bothered. More interested in his work, if you can call it that.’

  ‘How did he react to his wife’s suicide?’

  Scott shrugged. ‘He drank a lot. How do you know what’s really going on inside someone’s head?’ He looked pointedly at his watch.‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Thanks, Bill.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ Scott got to his feet, then added, ‘I liked her, you know, Betty-mad as she was,’ and marched off before Kathy could change her mind.

  ‘Chief? The car’s here for your evening prayers.’

  Brock looked up at Bren who’d tapped on his door. He checked his watch and swore under his breath. He hadn’t noticed the time and realised he was going to be late. He shoved a handful of papers into his briefcase and hurried out. The last thing he needed was a senior management meeting-dubbed morning or evening prayers, depending on the time of day-and especially this one, called specifically to discuss the report he hadn’t read.

  By the time he reached the conference room at the Yard the meeting was well advanced. Commander Sharpe scowled darkly at him as he took the empty seat next to Superintendent Dick Chivers.‘Cheery’ Chivers, ever dour, was looking glummer than usual. Brock’s heart sank as he looked around the table and saw that everyone else’s copies of the report were decorated with dozens of place markers and stick-on notes of many colours, signifying the depth of their study. His own copy, entirely free of such embellishments, looked hideously naked apart from the letter tucked in at the end of chapter one. He made a mental note to get Dot to stick lots of things in for the future, and wondered where they all found the time. As he listened to them droning on he told himself that it was good to suffer these things from time to time, to remind himself just why he’d always refused promotion above detective chief inspector. He suffered less of this than any of them, and some no doubt spent their whole working lives in such meetings, pale termites in the ant heap of number ten Broadway.

  By listening quietly, Brock was able to pick up much more from the exchanges around the table than he had from the impenetrable document. It seemed that some sort of power struggle was going on, though whether entirely within the police service or involving also the security s
ervices was not clear. The battlefield on this occasion was the ongoing allocation of responsibilities and resources between the centre-Scotland Yard-and the periphery- the thirty-three borough operational command units. The focus of this debate was Special Operations, and in particular the Major Enquiry Teams of SO1, to which they all belonged. In essence, it was the opinion of Sharpe- always, in Brock’s view, susceptible to conspiracy theories where his place in the organisation was concerned-that the Beaufort Committee would recommend that SO1 be shafted, sacrificed on some spurious altar of management theory.

  ‘Did he say Beaufort?’ Brock whispered to Chivers.

  Cheery gave him a baleful look to see if he was joking, then reached to Brock’s copy of the report and turned to the introduction. Listed were the names of the committee of inquiry headed by its chair, Sir John Beaufort.‘Jugular Jack,’ Chivers snorted.

  ‘Something, Brock?’ Sharpe was leaning forward over his papers, beaming his piercing stare down the length of the conference table.

  ‘Just that I happened to come across Beaufort today. He’s got Special Branch protection, you know. He’s been getting death threats.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope they come to something,’ Sharpe said acidly.‘I suppose we can always consider that as a last resort. Murder is one thing we should be able to do reasonably well. No, Lillian, that’s not to be minuted.’ He allowed time for appreciative chortles around the table before moving to the next item on his long agenda. n the following days the initial turbulent activity settled into a pattern. New faces became familiar, actions became routine and the hope of quick results faded into a dull frustration. The weather settled too, into the soggy monochrome of autumn; leaves fell in earnest from the trees and people reached automatically for warm coats as if summer had never been.

  Kathy continued to visit Northcote Square each day, although no one seriously expected Gabriel Rudd to hear from his daughter’s kidnapper. She became part of the background at 53 Urma Street, saying little but watching and listening in the hope of catching some reference that might be useful in the hunt for Tracey. She found that the enigma of Gabriel Rudd became no clearer to her. She attended a number of impassioned interviews he gave to radio, TV and press reporters in his house, in which he spoke agonisingly of his loss and pleaded with heart-wrenching conviction for his daughter’s safe return. She also observed the careful way in which he positioned his interviewers and their photographers so that his studies for The Night-Mare always appeared to good effect in the background. She noticed that he encouraged certain styles of photograph of himself, in close close-up, or in apparent conversation with his work, and she was struck by his change of mood when the interviewers left, becoming brisk and focused on his preparations for the exhibition at The Pie Factory, which seemed to absorb all his attention. It was as if she were watching two quite separate movies spliced together, one of a shocking family tragedy and the other of the artist at work.