No Trace

by Barry Maitland

  They sat at a plywood table on stools like chrome tractor seats. A Macintosh computer and printer stood at the far end of the table, and Brock reached for an image that lay beside the machines and handed it to Kathy. It was of a pretty little girl with curly blonde hair, clutching a furry teddy bear.

  ‘Mr Rudd had pictures of Tracey ready for us when we arrived, Kathy.When’s her birthday, Mr Rudd?’

  ‘Gabe, everyone calls me Gabe. She turned six in August, the tenth.’

  ‘And you live here on your own, just the two of you?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He blinked and rubbed his eyes, giving a little groan. It was the first sign of emotion that Kathy had seen, as if the TV downstairs had held reality in check.

  ‘You said Tracey’s mother’s passed away. How long ago was that?’

  ‘Jane died five years ago, when Trace was one.’

  ‘That must have been difficult for you, bringing up a little girl on your own.’

  He shrugged, dropped his eyes, sighed. ‘Yeah, but well, you just have to cope, don’t you?’

  ‘What about close relatives, grandparents?’

  ‘Yeah, Jane’s parents, they . . . try to help.’

  ‘I believe you said that Tracey stayed with them over the weekend, and they brought her back home yesterday about five in the afternoon, is that right?’

  He nodded. Kathy thought she sensed some reserve at the mention of the grandparents.

  ‘Have you called them this morning, Gabe?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Maybe I should do that now, before they see it on TV. Can you give me their names and a number?’

  He wrote on a pad.

  ‘Anyone else? What about your parents?’

  He shook his head. ‘We don’t keep in touch.’

  Kathy moved away to the area beneath the gallery, where there was a sink and a microwave. She used her mobile phone to ring the number Rudd had given her. A man’s voice, elderly and gruff, answered.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Nolan, please.’

  ‘This is Len Nolan speaking.Who’s that?’

  Kathy explained who she was and where she was calling from.

  ‘What’s happened?’ The voice had hardened immediately, ready for the worst.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that your granddaughter Tracey is missing, Mr Nolan. We’re doing everything possible to locate her, and at this stage . . .’

  ‘Where’s her father?’ the voice barked.‘Where’s Gabriel?’

  ‘He’s here, Mr Nolan, helping us find her. He wanted you informed.’

  ‘What’s his story?’

  ‘It appears she went missing some time during the night.You haven’t heard from her, have you?’

  ‘We dropped her there yesterday afternoon, just before five. We haven’t heard anything since . . .’ Kathy heard a woman’s voice in the background, then a muffled conversation.‘We’re on our way,’ Len Nolan said.

  ‘It might be better if you waited at home for now, where we can reach you.’

  ‘We’re coming,’ he said firmly.‘I’ll give you our mobile number so you can call us if there’s any news.’

  When Kathy returned to the table she found Gabriel Rudd explaining something technical about his picture of Tracey.‘. . . to enhance the blue of the eyes, you see.’

  ‘But they are that colour?’ Brock asked.

  Rudd considered.‘Pretty much, but I wanted to get the right balance with the flesh tones.’

  He held the picture at arm’s length, squinting at it. His mood had shifted, and again Kathy had the impression that a screen had been thrown up between him and the reality of what was happening.

  Brock raised an eyebrow at her and she said, ‘They haven’t heard from Tracey. They insist on coming over here.’

  Rudd winced. ‘Oh no. I couldn’t face them, not now.’

  They lived in the outer western suburbs, apparently. Brock checked his watch and said,‘All right, we’ll look after them when they arrive. Let’s go over last night again, Gabe, step by step.’

  Rudd ran a hand through his white hair, trying to collect his thoughts. ‘There’s not a lot to tell. Trace was tired when she got home. They always get her overexcited and give her too much to eat when she goes over there, and when she gets home she flakes out. She watched some TV and I gave her a bowl of cereal later, and afterwards she went to bed. I turned her light off about eight.’

  ‘Apart from being tired, how did she seem?’

  ‘Fine . . . normal. They’d taken her to the park near where they live, and she’d got her dress a bit muddy. She wanted me to put it in the wash.’

  ‘Think back over your conversation. Did she mention anything that might help us? A stranger in the park?’

  They worked slowly through everything Rudd could recall about his last hours with his daughter.

  ‘So when did you last see her, exactly?’

  ‘I put her light out at eight.’

  ‘But after that, did you look in?’

  ‘Oh . . . yes, of course. About ten, when I went to bed.’

  ‘And are you certain she was there then?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Your bedroom’s on the ground floor too,isn’t it,but at the front,facing the square. You heard nothing during the night?’

  ‘Nothing, not a thing. I woke up just before seven, got up to wake Trace for school, and found she wasn’t in her room. I looked everywhere and couldn’t find her. Her bedroom window was open. So then I phoned nine-nine-nine. I mean, with those two other cases . . .’

  ‘Had you discussed those cases with Tracey?’

  Rudd screwed his nose in thought. ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Do you think she knew about them?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Do you normally sleep soundly, Gabe?’

  ‘No, not always.’

  ‘Did you have much to drink last night?’

  He looked vague. ‘Yes, a bit. That might be why . . . Look, couldn’t I be doing something? I mean, talking to the press, or something? Making an appeal for information?’

  ‘Not yet.Where does Tracey go to school?’

  ‘Right here in the square, Pitzhanger Primary.’

  ‘Is she happy there?’

  ‘Seems okay.’

  ‘So there was nothing she was worried about happening today, a test or something?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t think they have tests.’

  The questions went on, without much result, Kathy felt, except a growing sense that the man didn’t seem very knowledgeable about or interested in the details of his daughter’s life. Rudd himself was becoming monosyllabic, and finally Brock snapped his notebook shut and straightened his back with a grunt. Kathy recognised the moment. Rudd looked up, thinking the interview over, but she knew better.

  ‘I know your name of course, Gabe. You’re famous,’ Brock said.

  Rudd shrugged carelessly.

  ‘One of my colleagues downstairs was telling me that there are more artists to the square mile in this neighbourhood than anywhere else in Europe, and you’re one of the stars. I think I’ve seen you on TV,“Parkinson”, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And you’ve exhibited at Tate Modern, yes?’

  Rudd nodded. ‘Couple of times.’

  ‘And the Saatchi?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He sounded bored and mildly irritated by Brock’s interest.

  ‘I thought so. I recognised the horses’ heads downstairs. That’s one of your favourite themes, isn’t it?’

  ‘It used to be. I’ve moved on.’

  ‘Dead Puppies, that was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Of course, that was the thing on TV. Have you got an exhibition coming up?’

  ‘I’m planning a show at The Pie Factory, the gallery across the square.’

  Brock gazed idly round the room at the blank walls. ‘Now that’s
famous too, isn’t it, The Pie Factory? What’s the name of the man who runs it?’

  ‘Fergus Tait. He’s my dealer.’

  ‘Tait, yes of course. And he has a restaurant, too doesn’t he?’

  Rudd said, ‘The Tait Gallery.’

  Brock chuckled. ‘The restaurant is called The Tait Gallery, and the art gallery is called The Pie Factory. He’s a bit of a comedian, Mr Tait, eh?’

  ‘He likes a laugh.’

  ‘But sharp as a tack, no doubt. That was him on the TV downstairs just now, wasn’t it? Talking to the media about Tracey. He was quick off the mark, wasn’t he? How did that come about?’

  Rudd’s pale face coloured a little, his expression becoming stubborn. ‘Fergus is more than just my dealer. He’s a close personal friend, and I phoned him as soon as I’d called the police. I needed to talk to someone.’

  ‘I suppose he handles your publicity and promotion, does he?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, from now on, Gabe, you let us handle it as far as Tracey’s concerned. All right?’

  Rudd shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  ‘And please make sure that Mr Tait understands that too, will you? Tracey’s life may depend upon it. Understood?’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Good. Now is it possible that Tracey’s disappearance could have something to do with your career or reputation? Have you had any unusual correspondence recently? Any odd phone calls or visitors?’

  ‘No more than usual.Weird messages are often sent to the gallery or my website.’

  ‘We’ll need to check all those. There’s also the possibility that Tracey’s been taken for money, a ransom.’

  ‘Is that what happened with the other girls?’

  ‘No, but it’s always possible that this is different. Just to be sure, we’ll set up some special equipment on your phone, and I’ll ask you to stay close to it for the next twenty-four hours. There’ll be a police officer on the premises for all that time.Well, I think we can go back downstairs now.’

  The horde on the floor below had vanished. Rudd went to the kitchen area to put on some coffee. ‘I don’t understand why they had to search the house,’ he grumbled as he spooned out the powder.

  ‘We always do, in cases like this,’ Kathy said. ‘You wouldn’t believe the number of times a missing child has turned up asleep in a closet or beneath the stairs where they’d gone to play a game with their dolls.’ Or bundled up in the freezer, or beneath the floorboards, Kathy thought. There’s no place like home.

  ‘I just feel so helpless,’ Rudd said. ‘I should be doing something.’

  ‘Waiting is the worst of it,’ Brock replied. ‘But the best thing you can do is stay here with DS Kolla.’

  At that moment there was a commotion from the floor below,a man calling out in protest, a woman’s scream drowning him out, then footsteps crashing up the wooden stairs. A woman’s head and shoulders burst into view, thick black hair streaked with grey, a black cloak flapping from her shoulders.

  ‘The chief inspector!’ she cried, looking wildly about. ‘I must see him!’

  Brock stepped forward, waving back the copper who had followed her.

  ‘The scream!’ she gasped. ‘I heard the scream!’

  Brock tried to calm her, but this only made her more agitated.

  ‘You must listen!’ she cried. ‘I heard her, the missing child, last night!’

  Then she noticed Gabriel Rudd for the first time and flew at him. He flinched, standing rigid as she grasped him, babbling,‘Poor boy! Poor boy! But I understand, you know I understand. My little girl, my own darling.’

  Seeing the look of disgust on Rudd’s face, Kathy stepped forward and, putting a firm arm around the woman’s shoulders, drew her away. ‘Let’s sit down,’ she said, ‘and tell me everything. First your name.’

  ‘Betty Zielinski, and I have vital information.’

  She was a neighbour, she said, a long-time resident of Northcote Square, living at 14 West Terrace. She leaped to her feet and made them follow her to the window, where she showed them her place, a narrow brick-fronted terrace house almost at this end of the block and barely fifty yards away. They could see the builders working on the roofs of the buildings beyond. The jam of people and vehicles hadn’t cleared from the square below, and faces turned up to look at them as they stood at the window.

  ‘At five minutes past two last night I was woken by a scream,’ the woman went on, her voice now dropping to a dramatic hush.‘A piercing scream. The scream of a female child.’

  ‘I see.Where’s your bedroom, Ms Zielinski?’

  ‘At the back, on the first floor.’

  ‘At the back?’ Brock sounded doubtful.

  ‘Yes . . . don’t you see? He must have taken her away down the lane that runs behind our terrace. That way he wouldn’t be seen in the square.’

  ‘Are you quite certain about the time?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I checked the alarm clock beside my bed. Five minutes past two.’

  Kathy steered her back to a seat and asked her if she lived alone.

  ‘I live with my family.’

  ‘Did they hear anything?’

  ‘I’m sure they must have.’

  ‘What are their names?’

  Betty Zielinski looked doubtfully at Kathy’s hand poised over her notebook. ‘You want all of their names?’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘Oh, hundreds and hundreds.’

  Kathy looked into the big, wondering eyes and said, ‘Maybe it would be best if I call and talk to them myself.’

  ‘That would be a very good idea.’

  They thanked her and she seemed satisfied as Kathy led her back towards the stairs. At the top she turned back to Gabriel Rudd and said, ‘She knew, my dear. She told me. She was so brave.’

  Rudd looked incredulous. ‘Eh?’

  ‘What did she tell you?’ Brock said.

  The woman turned her wild eyes to him. ‘Secrets. Special children have the second sight, you know. And Tracey was a very special child.’ Then she took to the stairs, her cloak flapping in her wake.

  ‘Batty Betty,’ Rudd said, shaking his head. He slumped in a chair, seeming unnerved by the visit.‘That’s what they call her in the square.What she told you was rubbish. She has no family, she lives alone. The school kids in the playground call names after her and she complains to the teachers. Mad as a hatter.’

  Kathy could imagine it, the children squealing with excitement at the mad lady in the black cloak, looking like a bat.

  ‘You don’t believe she heard something?’ Brock asked.

  ‘She probably dreamed it,’ he said dismissively, and Brock, remembering his own awakening that morning, was inclined to agree. All the same, he had noticed how closely Rudd had listened to the woman, especially when she mentioned the scream.

  ‘Did Tracey ever visit Ms Zielinski’s house?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘You didn’t mention that before. You said she goes to the café on the corner, but you didn’t mention Zielinski. I think we’ll check her house, just to be on the safe side.’

  As Brock pulled out his phone Rudd got to his feet and wandered over to the window overlooking the square. He gazed down, then took something from his pocket and, opening the window latch, leaned out—too far out. Alarmed, Kathy hurried across to him. ‘What are you doing?’

  He stepped back and closed the window again. In his hand he held a small silver camera, and he was smiling. ‘Taking pictures of them taking pictures of me taking pictures of them . . . Don’t worry, I wasn’t doing an Yves Klein.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The artist of the void,’ Rudd said carelessly, and strolled away.

  3

  ‘The window wasn’t locked.’

  Brock and Kathy had left Rudd to drink his coffee and watch TV while they went downstairs to check the progress of the SOCO team in Tracey’s room. The crime scene manager, a middle-aged woman w
ith a cheerful smile, gave them a verbal report. As with the other two abductions, there were signs of forced entry to the girl’s bedroom window. However, in this case, unlike the other two where force had been quite crudely applied, these traces were minimal. Scratches on the window latch suggested a tool with a sharp edge had been used to unfasten it from the outside, but a separate security lock was untouched, and appeared not to have been engaged.

  ‘Not locked?’ Brock said.

  ‘That’s right. It was latched but not locked.’

  She’d noticed other differences between this and the earlier cases. With them, the girls’ bedrooms had been visible from adjoining streets and there was some evidence that the abductor, having targeted his victim, had watched her house to identify her room. In this case, though, the window looked onto a back courtyard which was screened from the rear laneway by a garage and wall, so it would have been much more difficult for the intruder to have observed the window. The woman also pointed out that the other two cases were much closer to each other than to Northcote Square, and the girls were both older than Tracey by several years.

  ‘So he’s spreading his territory and becoming more organised,’ Brock suggested. She conceded this possibility, but obviously remained unconvinced.

  ‘Your profiler will have his own ideas,’ she said. ‘But I attended both the previous scenes and this one is noticeably neater and free of visible traces. There’s no sign of disturbance in the room and no marks on the window surrounds.’

  ‘How about the rest of the house?’ Brock asked.

  ‘Clean, very clean. Mr Rudd said he has a cleaner who comes on Friday mornings, and it doesn’t look as if the place has had much use since then.You’re aware that he put the washing machine on before we arrived?’