‘That’s all very well…’
Wylie interrupted his solicitor.‘What murder?’
‘In Northcote Square, another one of the artists there.’ Bren paused, noting the alarm on Wylie’s face. ‘Anyway, I understand you want to give us some information, is that right?’ He opened the file and scanned it as if he’d never seen it before, oblivious to the whispered conversation across the table. ‘Oh, you’re the gentleman with the lost emails. I heard about that.’ Bren beamed happily at him. ‘Shouldn’t have much longer to wait now, sir. We’re expecting them any day, you’ll be glad to know.’
Wylie and Clifford stared at Bren as if at an imbecile. The solicitor recovered first. ‘Look, we want to speak to DCI Brock, no one else. Please get him on his phone and tell him we’re here.’
The amiable smile vanished from Bren’s face and his voice took on an icy menace.‘You’re not trying to tell me how to do my job, are you, sir? It so happens that it’s quite likely that DCI Brock won’t be dealing with you any more. I may be taking over his caseload, and I’ve got plenty more important things to do than sit around listening to your helpful suggestions. If you’ve got something to tell me then say it, otherwise get lost.’
The two appeared stunned, Wylie itching with the onset of panic. ‘Has DCI Brock not briefed you about the evidence I gave him?’
‘What evidence?’
‘Photographs.’ Wylie wheezed. He seemed to have trouble speaking.
Bren carelessly thumbed through the file. ‘No photographs here. What were they of?’
Wylie dabbed his face with a handkerchief and Clifford broke in quickly.‘They were of a confidential nature, and…’
‘Confidential?’ Bren loaded the word with such scorn that the solicitor’s mouth snapped shut. Then Bren leaned forward across the table and said suspiciously, ‘He wasn’t offering you some kind of deal, was he? He’s ruffled a few feathers around here. Don’t expect any favours from me.’
It was at that moment that Brock burst into the room. He appeared harassed and out of breath. ‘Ah, DI Gurney…’ He and Bren eyed each other mistrustfully. ‘I didn’t realise they were with you.’
‘I thought you were otherwise engaged, sir.’ He put unnecessary stress on the last word.
Wylie and Clifford looked from one to the other as if catching a glimpse of some chaotic office feud in which they had no bearings.
‘No, no. I’ve got time for this.’ Brock paused, then added unhappily,‘Ah, I see you’ve got the file. Well, I’ll take over now.’
‘I’d like to stay, sir.’
‘You haven’t been fully briefed.’
‘All the more reason,’ Bren insisted stolidly.
Brock took a deep breath as if summoning his last remaining strength. ‘I’d like a few words with Mr Wylie alone first, Inspector. I’ll call you when I’m ready to begin the formal interview.’
Bren looked angry, but got to his feet and slowly walked out of the room. Brock sat down in his place and leaned forward across the table to switch off the microphone.‘He can watch us,’he said quietly,‘but he can’t hear us.’
‘What the hell’s going on?’Wylie said.
‘There’s nothing I can do for you. I can’t stall the application for your emails, and they’ll probably take you back to prison tonight.’
‘Jesus.’ Wylie went even paler. ‘What about the pictures?’
‘Useless. They’re digital, aren’t they? I’ve had one of our top experts look at them and he says they’d be useless in court. They’re probably all fakes.’
‘No! I…I know they’re not.’
‘The last one, with the two of them in bed, he says that’s definitely a fake, not a very good one. The others he couldn’t be so sure about, but if one’s bad…’
‘All right, that one maybe.’Wylie was talking very fast now, the words tumbling out.‘I can’t rightly vouch for that one, but the others, I swear-I was there.’
‘Where, exactly?’
‘In the square, and in the gallery.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘I was giving Pat Abbott a lift one day and he asked me to drop him off at the gallery to meet this sculptor friend he was doing business with. Beaufort was there-I recognised him. The sculptor and the owner were trying to get him to buy some of their stuff. Pat and I hung around in the back, waiting for them to finish, then Beaufort came into the next room. I could see him through the blind. Then the girl came in, and I took those pictures. They’re real, believe me.’
Wylie was giving off an unpleasant odour as a sweat stain spread across his prison T-shirt. Brock eased his chair back into fresher air, brow furrowed as if struggling for a solution.
‘So you knew Beaufort, did you?’
Wylie nodded, a sly look in his eyes.‘We go way back. He was a customer of mine, years ago.’
‘A customer?’
‘When I had the shop. Adult material, pictures of little girls, imported stuff.’
Brock said, ‘People will find that hard to believe. Between you and him, whose word will they accept?’
‘I can prove it.’ He turned to his lawyer, who, looking unhappy, reached for his briefcase and drew out a yellow envelope which he handed to his client. Wylie glanced up at the camera watching them from the corner of the room and gestured to Brock to lean in closer. He drew two sheets from the envelope and slid them across. One was a photograph of two men on either side of a shop counter. They were viewed from a high angle and the quality was not good, like a grainy still from a security camera, but it was still possible to identify Wylie handing something, a magazine, to Beaufort. It was also possible to make out a title on the magazine, Tiny Tots. The second document was a photocopy of an eight-year-old credit card slip made out for ‘goods’to the value of eight hundred pounds. The customer was John R. Beaufort, and the vendor Cupid’s Arrow Adult Shop.
‘That’s a lot of dirty books.’
‘Oh yes,’ Wylie gave a nasty little smile. ‘They were special.’
‘Does Beaufort know you have this?’
‘I sent him a copy a couple of years later, when I needed a favour.’
‘And did he oblige?’
‘Yes, a bit of bother with the law. He sorted it out. But now.. . now he knows I could be a problem for him, don’t you see? That’s why I’m helping you.’
‘You’re not serious about Beaufort killing the sculptor, Dodworth?’
‘He wouldn’t do it himself, but he had it done.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Dodworth set it up for him, with the little girl. He knew too much, just like I do.’
‘What about the old woman?’
‘She was there in the square that day, feeding the birds, when I took that picture of Beaufort and the girl. She saw them too, and she charged over and told him to leave her alone. She was crazy. I reckon she’d seen him at it before. And now there’s another killing. Who was it this time?’
‘The girl’s father.’ Brock watched Wylie’s reaction carefully. He seemed genuinely shocked. ‘He was attacked at home. It was very violent, I understand. DI Gurney’s in charge.’
‘But he’s only an inspector. You’re senior to him. You’ve got rank.’
‘He’s got friends, the support of people higher up. He’s on the fast track, making a name for himself. I don’t fancy your chances with him, Wylie. I don’t think he’ll lift a finger to help you.’
‘You’ve got to save me.’
‘Then you’ve got to give me the means. By themselves these bits of paper prove nothing and the photographs would be dismissed. What I need is you, on record, telling the story that goes with them. I need you to make a state-ment, to me and DI Gurney, on camera confirming that you took those photographs, describing the circumstances, just as you’ve told it to me.’
‘It’d be my death warrant.’
‘I’ll look after you. Gurney and his friends won’t be able to sweep it under the carpet if you go on the record
with me present. Then I’ll have something to work with.’
Wylie bit his lip, glanced at his solicitor. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’
‘Don’t take too long. Gurney won’t wait.’
‘And the emails? You’ll stop them?’
‘I can’t promise. That’s a chance you’ll have to take.’ Brock got to his feet. ‘Five minutes, that’s all you’ve got.’ He turned and walked out.
He went to the monitoring room where Bren was watching Wylie and his lawyer on a screen.‘We should go on the stage,’ Bren said.‘Do you think he’ll agree?’
‘That depends on how genuine he is about being afraid of the judge.’
‘He looked pretty genuine to me.’
‘Maybe, but he’s still not telling us the whole story. He just happened to be at the gallery with a camera and caught Beaufort red-handed? I don’t think so. If the pictures are genuine, then Beaufort was set up. The question is why, and who else was involved. But for the moment, all I want is for him to admit that he took those pictures, then I can tie him to the camera in his flat that he says he’s never seen before.’
‘Not to mention going for the judge,’ Bren said. ‘If Wylie goes on the record, you’ll have no option but to act.’
‘Yes, that too.’
On the screen they seemed to have reached a decision. They watched Clifford get to his feet and go over to the door, asking the guard outside for DCI Brock. When Brock arrived he said, ‘My client agrees to do as you ask. He has to rely on your good faith to keep the other side of the bargain.’ Good faith the phrase made Brock uncomfortable. There was no good faith on either side of this bargain. He said,‘I’ll get DI Gurney.’
They resumed their double act, Brock coaxing, Bren feigning disbelief, but stopping short of anything that could be interpreted as outright deception on camera, and Wylie repeated the story he’d told Brock, complete with dates and times.
Kathy found what she’d been looking for on the twelfth page of the appendix, with the following entry:
Death Steals the Child at Midnight, 1792, oil on canvas,
47.6 x 35.4 cm, Soane Museum, London. Engraved by William Bromley (1769-1842). Imprint: Published 5th December 1802, by F.J. Du Roveray, London. Inscription (bottom left) Painted by H. Fuseli R.A. / (bottom right) Engraved by W. Bromley.
There was no illustration or description of the painting or the engraving copied from it, but the title was very evocative. Was this the picture that had inspired the image on Gabe’s first banner?
Kathy closed the book and then her eyes. Perhaps she was becoming obsessive too, haunted by ghosts as Gabe had been.
26
Detective Inspector Tom Reeves delivered Sir Jack Beaufort to the door of the Shoreditch police station precisely on time. The judge had said little on the journey, sitting rigidly upright, face as impassive as a Roman bust, hands crossed on the attache case on his knees. He marched through the front door with the air of an inspecting general and was shown to the interview room with more careful deference than any of his predecessors along that route had ever received. Conscious of his own reputation as one of the country’s sharpest legal brains, he had thought it superfluous to bring a legal representative.
Standing stiffly in the small room, Brock introduced himself and Bren as if they were all complete strangers, then recited the caution. They took their seats and all three of them, Brock, Bren and Sir Jack, drew small black notebooks out of their pockets at the same moment. Sir Jack unscrewed the cap of a Mont Blanc pen and began writing.
Brock said, ‘I’m sorry to bring you here, sir, but there are a few things we need to clarify.’
If it was intended to be conciliatory it wasn’t received as such. Beaufort raised cold eyes to Brock and said,‘I heard the news-the shocking news-this morning about Gabriel Rudd. Are you quite sure that this is the best use of your time and resources?’
Brock sensed the anger beneath the sarcasm, and saw it as his best hope. He replied with studied patience. ‘As I said, I believe you can help us clarify one or two things.’
‘I have two conditions. One, I want a copy of the recording of this interview.’
Brock said,‘Agreed.’
‘Two,’Beaufort’s tone became harsher,‘I want to know if you’ve cleared this with your superiors, and if so, what their names are.’
‘Commander Sharpe has authorised this interview,’ Brock replied, unperturbed.‘That’s Sharpe with an “e”.’
‘I see.’ Beaufort wrote in his notebook. ‘Very well, go on.’ He had automatically assumed the role of presiding authority.
‘I’d like you to tell us about each and every occasion on which you met or saw the missing girl, Tracey Rudd. I have a photograph of her here to help you.’ Brock took an enlargement of Tracey’s picture from his file and placed it on the table. For a moment the judge stared down at the bright blue eyes, the curly blonde hair, the shy smile, then he looked up.
‘I saw her on the afternoon of the first of October, at the house of the painter Reg Gilbey, in Northcote Square. I believe Gilbey has already explained the circumstances to you, and I mentioned it again to one of your officers, Sergeant Kolla, yesterday. Do you want me to repeat it?’
‘Yes please.’
Beaufort described the events just as Gilbey had done, emphasising the innocence of Gilbey’s behaviour and the inappropriate intervention by Betty Zielinski. ‘She really was very confused, you know,’he said.‘She seemed to have it in her mind that the girl was her child-she referred to her as “mine”.’
‘That was the first time you met Tracey? Did you see her again?’
‘Yes, a couple of days later. According to my diary I had another sitting with Gilbey on the Friday, the third, so it was probably then. It was a pleasant sunny afternoon, and I took a stroll in the square after my sitting. The little girl was coming home from the school in the corner of the square there, and I said hello. We exchanged a few words.’
‘Like what?’
‘I really can’t remember. Nothing of any substance. Just hello.’
‘Anything else?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did anything else happen while you were talking to her?’
‘I can’t remember anything, no.’
‘Take your time to think.’
‘I don’t need time to think,’ Beaufort snapped, and for the first time he sounded defensive. He realised it, too, and when Brock didn’t say anything to fill the awkward silence that followed, he added, calm returning to his voice,‘There was nothing else I can recall.’
‘All right, so that was the second time you met Tracey. And the third?’
‘There was no third time.’
‘Are you quite sure?’
Beaufort hesitated. ‘I believe I may have glimpsed her once in the gallery, when I was with Fergus Tait.’
‘Glimpsed? Did you speak to her?’
‘No. I’m not even sure it was her.’
‘Very well, now I’d like you to tell us about each of your meetings with Betty Zielinski.’
Beaufort gave an exasperated click of his tongue, a well-practised signal to dilatory counsel. ‘Is that really necessary?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘To what end, Chief Inspector?’ Beaufort demanded acidly, but Brock refused to be ruffled. ‘We’ll get to that,’ he said, and the judge saw that he would have to comply. He had seen her twice, to his recollection, once in Gilbey’s studio and once in the street, when she was being pursued by school children. Once again, Brock didn’t challenge the judge’s account, but asked him to go through the same process with Stan Dodworth, whom he remembered meeting a couple of times, in Fergus Tait’s company, at The Pie Factory, when Tait had shown him Dodworth’s work. ‘But I wasn’t interested. I haven’t yet got to the point of regarding authentic art and bad taste as synonymous. After that appalling effort of his with the Princess Di sculpture, I was surprised that Tait bothered with him. He was obviously
sick.’
‘What about Gabriel Rudd?’ Brock asked.
‘I knew him by reputation, of course, after he won the Turner, and I have to say that of all Tait’s stable Rudd is probably the only one I’d regard as having any talent. Tait tried to interest me in buying something of his, too, but I thought him far too expensive-although in view of what’s happened that was probably a mistake; I dare say his value has doubled overnight. Tait introduced him to me once, when I was having dinner with friends at the restaurant. Rudd was very drunk, and made a fool of himself.’ Beaufort pointedly looked at his watch.‘Is that it?’
But Brock still had other names, other connections, which he wanted to explore. He showed Beaufort a photograph of Patrick Abbott. The judge stared at it without blinking.‘The face seems familiar, but I can’t recall…’
‘His name’s Patrick Abbott.’
‘Ah, the man who fell from that building. No, I don’t believe he ever appeared in my court.’
‘But you visited the place where he lived, didn’t you?’
Beaufort looked startled.‘How…?’He recovered himself and his eyes narrowed, gazing more thoughtfully at Brock.‘I did drive past there after he fell, out of curiosity.’
‘Were you ever there before?’
‘No, I certainly was not. You’re fishing, Chief Inspector, without a hook. I can’t see the point.’
Brock produced another photograph.
‘Ah.’ The judge gave a grim smile.‘We finally get to the point. Robert John Wylie.’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘I’m sure you know more about him than I do. You’ve had him in custody for over a week now, haven’t you? What has he been saying about me?’
‘I’d like to hear your version.’
‘He appeared before me five or six years ago with three other men on a variety of charges. Unfortunately the crown case against him was weak and I was forced to dismiss it.’
‘Had you ever met him before then?’
Beaufort and Brock stared at each other in silence for a moment. Then the judge said,‘He’s told you so, has he? Yes, I see that he has. Very well.’He cleared his throat with the air of a boxer easing a muscle before the next round.‘Two years before he appeared in my court, I had occasion to do some business with Mr Wylie. I bought something from him.’
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