‘Did she have anything particularly valuable?’
He pondered, taking a faltering drag on his cigarette. ‘Never saw her wear jewellery, and she never had much cash. As far as I know, the only things of value that her husband left her apart from the house were his paintings. He’d been a bit of a collector, and his father before him.’
‘And they were valuable?’
‘The best English artists of the time: Ben Nicholson, Paul Nash, Sutherland, several Henry Moore drawings- stuff like that, all very solid, bought through reputable galleries. I know she’s sold a few of them over the years. I’m not sure what’s left.’
‘Later on, when the scientific people have finished, I’d like you to come next door with me and have a look to see if you can spot anything missing.’
He shrugged.‘If you want.’
‘So you’ve known Betty a long time?’
He seemed lost in thought for a while, then he stubbed out his cigarette and got stiffly to his feet. ‘Come on, I’ll show you something.’
He led her along the hall and began climbing the stairs, using the banister to help haul himself up. Kathy followed him up to the studio she’d visited before, recognising the smells of oil and pigment that seemed to impregnate the walls. Gilbey was searching through a rack of unframed canvases set up in a corner of the room. Finding the one he was after, he pulled it out, turning it towards the light for her to see. It was a large painting of a young nude woman, sitting in front of a window. Gilbey propped it up on a chair and stepped back, his eyes fixed on the face of the model. As she came closer, Kathy thought she recognised the large eyes and angular features, the central parting of long thick hair, jet black. The style of painting, with the paint densely applied in scoops and whorls of browns and white and black, was very different from the portrait of the judge standing nearby on its easel. Kathy assumed it must have been the work of another artist, but then she recognised the windows behind the seated model as those of the corner bay in this same room, with the trees of the central park beyond.
As if answering her unspoken question, Gilbey said, ‘I painted differently then.’ He gently touched the corrugated surface of the pigment with his fingertips.‘Laid it on thick, squeezed straight from the tube. I wanted to show the force of the material thing, the energy of its presence in the world, just as it was, without frills and tricks. The Kitchen Sink school, they called us in the fifties.’
In the corner of the painting Kathy noticed lettering, blunt and square: GILBEY 1969.
‘Later I moved on. I became less interested in the material presence and more in the spirit of what lay behind it.’ He sounded nostalgic, regretful, as if the texture of the paint against his hand had reminded him of an old friend. ‘The paint became thinner, more calculated, as I tried to show the soul… but it’s so bloody hard. I did this in one session, ten hours, and I knew I’d finished when I ran out of paint. Now…’ He looked over his shoulder at the judge’s portrait, ‘Well, I’ve been doing that for eight months now, maybe seventy or eighty sessions, layer upon layer, and I still haven’t captured the old goat, not really. I may never finish it.’
Comparing the two paintings, Kathy suddenly understood what he meant. The girl in the window had a real presence, but was flat and stylised, like a Byzantine icon, whereas the judge seemed to emerge out of the canvas as a human character in full, a man of judgement, intelligence and authority, yes, but also something else; crafty, predatory even, dangerous.
‘She was the one who made me want to change,’ Gilbey went on, and seeing the query on Kathy’s face he explained, ‘She was the first model I had who talked. Couldn’t shut her up. Told me more than I wanted to know about her life, and Harry. Harry was her husband, owned the house next door. I wanted quiet to concentrate on the paint, but she had to talk, and gradually I came to realise that the person that the talking revealed was more interesting than the body I was trying to represent. Took me a long time to come to terms with that.’ He turned back to examine the old painting, lost in memories.‘Resisted it until I began to see that my work was becoming just decorative, pattern-making. Then I had to start again, with sitters who would talk about themselves. And most of them will, with a bit of encouragement.’ He nodded his head, thinking, talking more to himself than to Kathy.‘Reckon it’s something to do with having to hold the same position all the time-frees the mind, like the psychiatrist’s couch. The judge is a great talker, oh yes.’ Gilbey gave a snort that sounded like contempt. ‘Well, I knew his reputation, of course. A man of fine words and firm moral judgement. But why was he so strict with certain types of criminals; the sex offenders, the rapists and pederasts? Was it because he felt so deeply for their victims? Or was it because he understood what drives them only too well? Now how do you show that in a portrait?’
‘He told you that?’ Kathy asked.
Gilbey looked up sharply, as if he’d forgotten who he was talking to.‘What? No, no, of course not.’
He turned away, a stubborn set to his jaw, as if he’d said too much and wouldn’t say any more. ‘So Betty was your model all that time ago,’ she tried, but he just grunted and refused to respond.
‘I need you to help me, Reg. I need to understand her, how she came to be the way she was. Paint her portrait for me now, in words.’
She waited, and then he began to speak again, voice low. ‘She was always like that, damaged goods. I don’t know where Harry found her or when they came to the square, but her English was still very ropy when I first arrived in the late sixties. Harry was twenty years older than Betty, and he’d had an eventful war by all accounts, and was pretty damaged himself. Couldn’t have sex with her, so she told me, after she’d been modelling for me for a while. Sounded like an invitation to me, so I obliged. Got her pregnant.’
Gilbey was speaking in a monotone, addressing himself to his portrait of Betty, stroking the surface of the paint like a lover.
‘Harry scared me, to be honest. He got this odd look in his eye sometimes. I didn’t fancy fronting up to him, or facing the complications that would follow. So I arranged for her to have an abortion. Practically frogmarched her to the place. Not like now. Backstreet knitting-needle stuff. Nasty… I was so self-centred, you see, I couldn’t imagine what it was like. You’ve lost your whole family in Europe somewhere, and then you fall pregnant, life returns, new hope. And then you have it snatched away from you, like that.’
He sniffed, ran a hand absent-mindedly across his head, making the tufts stand up more wildly than ever. ‘Nearly did for her. Tried to kill herself twice. Then Harry died one bitter winter, of pneumonia, and Betty went into a kind of trance. I tried to help, but she wouldn’t have me near her. Gradually she took on a role, Batty Betty, the mad woman of Northcote Square. She’s gone on playing the part ever since, an actor in a long-running show, becoming more extravagant year by year. At least that’s how I saw it, thinking of myself again, seeing it as a form of persecution of me, but maybe there was nothing voluntary about it.’
He fell silent, and Kathy became aware of sounds from beyond the window, of children’s cries from the school playground. Gilbey heard them too, and said,‘Has this got something to do with the little girl …?’
‘What do you think?’
‘They knew each other. I used to see them talking together, through the school railings or out there in the park. They seemed drawn to each other, two lost souls.’
‘Could Betty have known something about Tracey’s disappearance, or seen something? Did she hint at anything to you?’
He frowned.‘I don’t know. She liked to pretend she had secrets, it was part of her role…’
Then his concentration was broken by a loud rap on the door downstairs and a man’s voice, harsh, imperious. ‘Gilbey? I’m here. Where are you, man? Are you ready for me?’
Gilbey swore under his breath and Kathy heard footsteps, more than one pair, on the stairs. Then a tall, elderly man, hawk-nosed and severe in appearance, marched into
the room.
‘Ah, here you are,’ the man said, and then, noticing Kathy, gave a stiff little nod of his head.‘Going to introduce me to the lady, Reg?’
‘Sir Jack Beaufort, this is Detective Sergeant… I’m sorry, I can’t remember.’
‘Kathy Kolla,’ she said.
‘Hackney?’
‘The Yard,’ Kathy replied.
‘Brock’s crew? Aha.’ Beaufort eyed her narrowly, then carelessly indicated his companion.‘You know DI Reeves, Special Branch?’ Kathy recognised the man who’d come to see Brock on that first morning. She particularly noticed his eyes, watchful, but with an ironic glint, as if well used to Beaufort’s antics. He nodded to her with a hint of a smile.
‘I can’t do it today, Judge,’ Gilbey said. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll have to cancel.’
Beaufort looked from Kathy to Gilbey and back again, as if he suspected some kind of conspiracy in his courtroom.‘Nonsense. What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve just had some bad news. A friend of mine has died.’
‘At our age that happens every week. Close?’ Then he noticed the portrait of Betty against the wall. ‘My God! I haven’t seen that one before, Gilbey. You’ve been hiding her from me.’ He moved closer, taking out a pair of narrow glasses and putting them on.‘Oh my! Sixty-nine, eh? Your best year, in my humble opinion. It’s the same model as the Woman in a Bath, isn’t it? Yes… yes…’ He absorbed it, then barked,‘I’ll have her. How much do you want?’
‘She’s not for sale.’
‘We’ll see. So who died?’
‘My neighbour,’ Gilbey muttered, staring at the floor, apparently intimidated by his client.
The boisterous mood seemed suddenly to desert Beaufort, and he became serious.‘Not the mad woman?’
‘You know her?’ Kathy said.
He took his time to turn his gaze to her and respond, as if to make the point that it was his habit to interrogate police officers and not the other way around. Then, at the last minute, he flashed what might have been intended as a disarming smile. ‘Yes indeed. We’ve seen her in the street, haven’t we, Reeves?’
‘Sir.’
‘She was being pursued by a flock of little girls, at a safe distance. What were they calling her?’
‘Batty Betty, I think it was.’
‘Yes. Were you close friends, Gilbey?’ Then he stared again at the painting and realisation lit his face.‘It’s her, isn’t it? The Woman in a Bath was the lady next door, yes? How fascinating.’ He turned to Kathy.‘And is this of interest to you, Sergeant?’
‘Yes.’ Kathy bit off the ‘sir’ that almost followed. ‘It seems probable she was murdered.’
‘Really!’Beaufort looked startled.‘But…why? Was it a robbery?’
‘We’re not sure at the moment.’
‘But you people are looking into it, are you? Not the local division? So you think…’
‘It’s too soon to say, sir.’
‘Well… yes, that is a shock for you, Gilbey. Northcote Square is becoming quite a hotbed of crime, it seems…’ he regarded Kathy with a malicious glint in his eye,‘… despite the heavy presence of Special Operations.’
Kathy caught the sarcastic tone and noticed a thoughtful frown cross the face of DI Reeves in the background.
‘Well, anyway, I’m here now, Gilbey old chap. You need something to distract you, and our deadline is fast approaching, so let’s get on with it, shall we?’
The way he spoke to the painter reminded Kathy of the way Tait had spoken to Gabriel Rudd that first morning, as to a distracted child needing to be brought into line. And Gilbey seemed to accept it, giving a resigned sigh and shuffling across to his easel while Beaufort draped himself on the chair placed by the window. It was the same place where Betty had sat almost thirty-five years before, Kathy thought. She also noticed that the pose Gilbey had given Beaufort had his head facing towards the window, although his eyes were turned back at the painter, as if the sitter had just been caught looking out at something-the children in the playground, perhaps.
‘I will need to speak to Mr Gilbey again soon,’ Kathy said.‘I’ll call back at eleven.’
Beaufort said,‘Reeves, old chap, how about making us some coffee?’ and the Special Branch inspector followed Kathy down the stairs.
‘Talks to me like a bloody butler,’ he said when they reached the kitchen. He seemed more amused than annoyed.‘Fancy a cup?’
‘A quick one, thanks. He is a bit of a pain, isn’t he? Is anyone really trying to kill him?’
‘Hard to say, but we don’t want anything to happen to him right now.’ Kathy caught Reeves’s glance at her, as if to see whether she’d followed the significance of the remark, but she hadn’t and he went on,‘Did you ever see him in court?’
‘No.’
‘Worth reading his sentencing speeches. Venomous, they are-a pungent mix of sarcasm, self-righteous outrage and contempt. The barristers say they’re an art form and should be published.’
Kathy smiled, thinking that his vocabulary was different from that of most coppers she met, and wondered if he was a reader. She noticed what looked like paperbacks in a carrier bag, and supposed he’d have plenty of time for that in his present job.
‘I’ve no doubt that anyone on the receiving end of one of those must have spent a good part of their time inside dreaming of putting a bomb under his car, or something worse… You’re thinking this woman’s murder has something to do with the missing girl, are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Must have.’ Reeves poured boiling water into the mugs.‘Milk? Sugar?’
Kathy shook her head. He took a splash of milk.
‘Smoke if you want,’ he said.‘Reg does.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Me neither.’ Kathy had the feeling she was being assessed.
‘They were setting up crime scene tapes closing the whole lane when we arrived.’
‘She was found in the building site.’
‘Really?’ He thought about that, sipping from the mug. ‘Have you seen how much they’re selling those flats for?’
‘No.’
‘Four hundred k each, off the plan, four in each house. I wonder how much they offered the mad woman. Or Gilbey, come to that.’
‘Mmm. Incidentally, did you tell Beaufort we’re from Special Operations?’
‘Didn’t need to. He’s come across Brock before. And then, of course, he has a particular interest.’
‘What’s that?’
Reeves lowered his voice. ‘He’s doing a review of SO for the Met. You didn’t know? No, you and I are too lowly to be told-strictly senior management only at this stage. I only know because I saw documents he was reading in the car and he dropped a few hints. Could be radical. He murmured ominously about amputations.’
‘Well, if he knows of Brock’s reputation, he should be kind to us.’
‘With Beaufort the opposite’s more likely to be the case. That’s something else he’s famous for-puncturing other people’s reputations.’
Kathy thought about the man upstairs and felt a sudden sympathy for the people who’d faced him in his court.
There was a roar from above. ‘Reeves! Where’s that bloody coffee? I can smell it! We’re dying up here.’
‘Promises, promises,’ Reeves murmured, and got reluctantly to his feet. ‘Funny thing… the morning after that bloke fell from the tower block, Saturday, his lordship had a session here. It was my day off and my offsider drove him. Afterwards he told me that Beaufort told him to drive here by way of the Newman estate, just to have a look.’
Another cry from above. ‘Reeves! Put that damn woman down!’
The inspector winced and picked up three mugs. ‘See you later.’
16
Mr Sundeep Mehta could usually be relied upon for a joke and a few wisecracks. When Brock and Kathy arrived at the autopsy room the pathologist was in the middle of a story about a man and a frog that he was relating to his unsmiling pa
thology technician and the bored photographer. For the benefit of the newcomers he quickly recapped, taking no notice of the grim looks on their faces.
‘Man walking down street, frog stops him and asks him to buy it a drink, takes it to a bar, frog also starving, man buys it sandwich, frog says it’s exhausted and could he give it a bed for the night? Man agrees, takes it home. Frog asks for goodnight kiss. Good Samaritan hides disgust, kisses frog, frog turns into beautiful princess. “And that, Your Honour, is how I came to be found in bed with an underage girl.” Ha!’
Nobody laughed.
‘Oh, come on you lot!’ Dr Mehta protested.‘What’s the matter with everyone this morning? Is it your dismal weather getting you down?’
‘Where did you hear that one, Sundeep?’ Brock growled.‘The Dirty Raincoat Club?’
‘Ah, Brock, your other case, of course. How tactless of me. But still, if we can’t laugh in the face of life’s tragedies we have no business coming to a place like this. So, let’s get to work.’
Betty was laid out on the table just as she had been found, hands bound and face blindfolded. Mehta removed the strip of cloth from around her head and set it aside for examination. Kathy confirmed the identification.
They photographed the corpse, turned it over and photographed it again. Mehta cut the tape from around the wrists, clipped nail and hair samples, and took a number of swabs. Then the technician washed the body and Mehta began a detailed examination. A mood of dispassionate routine established itself as he tonelessly described the injuries. He began with the head, noting a small contusion behind the left ear.
‘Enough to knock her out?’ Brock asked.
‘Mmm, possibly.’ The pathologist stroked the area, parting the strands of hair. ‘We may see more when we look under the skin. It’s not a big bump.’
He moved on to the throat, which had a broad band of bruising and discolouration.
‘This is not a simple hanging,’ he said.‘There are several overlapping rope marks. Notice the edges of the marks. No inflammation, no vital reaction. It looks as if she was hanged after she was dead.’
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