No Trace

by Barry Maitland

  ‘DS Kolla? It’s Tom Reeves. I’m next door as it happens, with the judge, completing the session with Mr Gilbey that was interrupted yesterday. He wonders if you’d care to pop over for a cup of coffee in, say, half an hour?’

  ‘Reg Gilbey?’

  ‘No, Sir Jack Beaufort.’

  ‘Oh . . . well, yes.’

  She replaced the phone, astonished. For a moment she wondered if she should contact Brock, then decided against it.

  Brock took his seat in the same prison interview room as before. Wylie and his solicitor came in, and he looked at them carefully as they took their seats, trying to interpret their moods. Unlike the lawyer, who seemed preoccupied and agitated,Wylie looked casual, sitting back in his chair, arms folded. But he was paler than the previous time, hair lank, eyes puffy, as if he wasn’t sleeping so well, and there was the trace of what might have been a bruise on the side of his head.

  The solicitor glanced anxiously at his watch and said, ‘I was reluctant to agree to this meeting, Chief Inspector, given that my client will be released today, but he felt we should hear you out. You’ve read his statement, I take it? I really don’t think there’s anything we can add.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Brock said. ‘I thought I should give Mr Wylie one last opportunity before we proceed to court.’

  The lawyer frowned. ‘To court? If you’re thinking of pressing some lesser charge in the Magistrates’ Court . . .’

  ‘Magistrates’ Court?’ Brock looked at him as if he’d made some kind of legal gaffe.‘Murder and abduction have to be tried in the Crown Court, you know that.’

  Now the lawyer was incredulous. ‘Haven’t you spoken to the Crown Prosecution Service? There’s no possibility of you proceeding to committal on those charges.’

  ‘Perhaps you misunderstood them. We’re not talking about committal, we’re talking about a notice of transfer to take the case directly to trial at the Crown Court without committal proceedings taking place. As you would know, we’re entitled to do that where violence against children is involved and where, as in this case, a child victim is at risk from your client.’ Brock gave him a patient smile. ‘Maybe you’d like to explain the legal processes to Mr Wylie.’

  ‘But . . .’ The solicitor was perplexed but also wary. He knew Brock was no fool. He scanned his face and saw only confidence. ‘You have no evidence. The CPS knows that. You can’t go to trial.’

  ‘Well, things are continuously developing, as you well know. Evidence is often buried in shifting sand.’ He guessed the metaphor would register. Any lawyer representing Wylie would be painfully conscious of it. ‘Mr Wylie’s and Mr Abbott’s email records, for instance . . .’ He deliberately wasn’t looking at Wylie as he said it, but he saw an involuntary twitch at the edge of his vision.‘They were lost along with their computers, of course . . .’

  The solicitor glanced at his client, whose face was blank, then back at Brock. ‘So?’

  ‘But fortunately we can do something about that.’

  ‘How?’Wylie couldn’t help blurting out the question.

  Brock turned to look at him as if for the first time. ‘Microsoft keep servers in California which store information on all their email accounts around the world, including a copy of every email that passes through them.’

  ‘You’re joking,’Wylie said in disbelief.

  His solicitor, who had obviously come across this before, said, ‘You’ll need a US court order. Have they agreed to release them to you?’

  ‘It’s in train. That’s why there’s been a delay in our proceeding. I’m afraid there’s no question of bail, though.’ Again he picked up a signal from Wylie, a clenching of fingers. ‘As I said, we’re convinced that the victim’s welfare would be prejudiced.’

  ‘You bastard.’ Wylie stared at Brock, his face white, breathing becoming more laboured.

  ‘I’d like some time alone with my client,’ the solicitor said, fingering his watch again. ‘Two or three minutes?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ Brock said. He got to his feet and knocked on the locked door.

  Outside, he asked the prison officer to let him use a vacant interview room to make a confidential phone call. He got through to Virginia Ashe and explained what he was doing. She listened without interruption but with several sharp intakes of breath. When he had finished she made her points in the quick, decisive manner of hers.

  ‘One, a notice of transfer has to be served on the court by the Director of Public Prosecutions.’

  ‘You act for him.You can do it.’

  ‘Not on something like this. I’d need approval, which I certainly won’t get on the basis of what we currently know. Two, to be valid it must be served before the magistrates begin committal proceedings. Now you’ve disclosed your tactic, Wylie’s legal representatives will press for those to begin.’

  ‘You’re the lawyer, Virginia. That’s your field.’

  She sighed. ‘Three, since you’ve disclosed your subpoena for the emails, they will also fight to block their release. Do you know that they contain anything incriminating?’

  ‘I didn’t before, but I do now. It was written all over Wylie’s face.’

  ‘That’s not evidence.’

  ‘Microsoft refer requests from foreign police services to the FBI for approval. It’ll be up to them. If there’s the faintest hint of violence against children, I’m sure they’ll be sympathetic.’

  ‘But why did you warn Wylie of all this?’

  ‘I want to panic him, Virginia. I want him to react before he knows for sure how we stand.’

  ‘His solicitor will be straight onto us. My boss practically promised that Wylie could expect to be out of goal today.’

  ‘That’s why I’m ringing you now. I want you to stall them. Talk to Wylie’s brief about shifting ground—the poor bloke looks as if he’s balancing on a pile of shale. Just play for time. I think gaol is beginning to get to Mr Wylie.’

  ‘I do hope you know what you’re doing, Brock.’

  ‘Of course I do, Virginia,’ he said, sounding as confident as he could.

  As he finished the call his mobile rang. It was Bren, his voice sounding unnatural, tight.

  ‘Chief? We’ve just heard from the hospital. Lee passed away less than an hour ago.’ Then he repeated himself as if he still couldn’t come to terms with it. ‘She’s dead. She never regained consciousness.’

  After thirty minutes Kathy rang the bell on Reg Gilbey’s front door. It was opened by Tom Reeves.‘Hi.’ He grinned at her, winked and nodded back with his head to indicate that they could be overheard. ‘Come on in.’

  Sir Jack Beaufort was waiting for her in Reg’s dining room, sitting on one side of a polished pine dining table. The chair opposite him had been pulled out in preparation for her, and Kathy had the unnerving impression of a courtroom, the judge behind the bench and the witness —or was she the accused?—facing the court for interrogation.

  Beaufort rose to his feet and offered his hand across the table, shaking hers briefly and indicating the vacant chair. ‘Coffee, Sergeant?’ he asked curtly.

  ‘Thanks. Black, no sugar, please.’

  ‘I know,’ Reeves said, and left the room.

  ‘He likes you,’ Beaufort said. ‘He speaks highly of you. That’s what persuaded me to speak to you.’ He cleared his throat, as if offering Kathy a chance to say something, but she remained silent. His gaze was steady and unblinking, and despite herself she felt intimidated.

  ‘You look uncomfortable,’ he said softly. ‘Please don’t be. I’m not a monster, you know. My colleagues used to call me “Jocular Jack” behind my back, on account of my sense of humour in court.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Reg Gilbey told me about your interview with him yesterday. He was quite upset about it.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘We often forget, don’t we, in our line of work, how distressing our ways can seem to the lay public when they experience for the firs
t time what is commonplace to us?’

  ‘I assure you that we complied with the rules laid down in PACE.’

  Beaufort waved his hand dismissively.‘I never doubted it. But still, just the idea of being questioned like a criminal would be enough to throw someone like Reg into confusion.’

  ‘He didn’t seem confused to me.’

  ‘He’s desperately worried that he may have given the impression that he felt guilty, or had something to hide, about the encounter with the Rudd child that he described to you. As he said, I was there that afternoon, and I can assure you that there was absolutely nothing untoward about it. The little girl was perfectly happy and Reg behaved impeccably towards her. That’s really what I wanted to tell you. Ah, Tom, well done. Biscuits too!’

  Reeves came in with a tray, put it on the table between them and left again. Beaufort fussed over the milk and sugar, humming softly to himself as if content to have completed his business. Kathy watched him, pretty certain that he had not.

  ‘Don’t you find police work very stressful, Sergeant?’ he asked conversationally.

  ‘It can be, yes.’

  ‘Especially a case like this. The thought of that missing child, the demands on you to come up with a result . . . I imagine the pressure must be almost overwhelming for the person leading the team, the senior investigating officer.’

  Brock, Kathy thought, that’s what this is about.

  ‘You’re SIO’s getting on a bit, too, for such a role, isn’t he?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. The important thing is his experience. That’s what gives him the edge. It’s what gives Special Operations the edge.’

  Beaufort smiled.‘Very loyal, as you should be. But I must confess I’m not convinced. I’m pretty experienced too, at judging men and their patterns of behaviour under stress, and it’s my humble opinion that your chief, and perhaps SO1 also, has been overstressed for too long. I would say that he is in the process of having a breakdown.’ He held up his hand as Kathy started to protest. ‘I know, it’s none of my business, and I hope it won’t go beyond these four walls. I’m just expressing a personal opinion, and perhaps offering a little insight for you to think about, because I know that, deserved or not, the team tends to be identified with the actions of its leader. Did you know that DCI Brock called at my house recently and behaved in a quite threatening way to my wife and myself?’

  Kathy felt a jangle of anxiety.

  ‘Of course, I know of his tremendous professional reputation,’ Beaufort went on, ‘and I imagine it was an action out of character, born of desperation, no doubt.’

  He sipped fastidiously at his coffee and nibbled the corner of a biscuit.‘These are stale. Reg isn’t a great one for housekeeping.Why he never married I can’t imagine. Hm.’ He laid the biscuit and cup to one side.‘There is one other thing that bothers me, Sergeant, and I don’t mind if you do pass this on to DCI Brock, if you feel it relevant. The man Wylie you’ve arrested is known to me. He is an extremely devious and evil character, and I am quite sure he will try to exploit any weakness he perceives in those against him, including offering false information. I should hate to imagine that DCI Brock’s opinion of Reg Gilbey, or of me for that matter, would be influenced by a character like that. Have committal proceedings begun?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Really?’ He frowned.‘There’s no doubt, I take it, about his guilt?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Then the sooner he’s put away the better.Well now,’ he brushed his fingers together and rose to his feet, ‘it’s been most pleasant talking to you, Sergeant. I’m obliged to you for giving me your time. Now I’d better return to the master upstairs.You’ve seen the portrait, haven’t you? What do you think of it?’

  ‘It’s very strong.’

  Beaufort seemed pleased with the reply.

  ‘Did you ever see Tracey again,’ Kathy asked, ‘after that day she called here?’

  ‘I believe I may have seen her in the square.’ His voice had become cool. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘We ask everyone who may have seen her. Did you notice anyone watching her?’

  ‘Ah, I see. No, I’m afraid I can’t recall anything. I wasn’t really looking, you see.’

  ‘When would this have been?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Two or three weeks before she disappeared? Now, if you’ll excuse me, Tom will see you out.’

  While he went back upstairs to the studio, Kathy looked in on Tom Reeves in the kitchen. He put down the book he was reading and closed the door quietly behind her. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘All right. I think I got the message.’

  ‘Am I allowed to ask what it was?’

  ‘Lay off Reg Gilbey and beware of my boss. The same message you gave me.’

  ‘Not at his bidding.’

  ‘He happened to mention that he saw Tracey Rudd a couple of times before she disappeared. Do you remember that?’

  ‘No, I’m pretty sure I never saw her. Maybe he bumped into her at the gallery.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, I assume Rudd took his kid down there, and the judge calls in now and again.’

  ‘Yes, the owner mentioned he has dinner in the restaurant.’

  ‘And he checks out the exhibitions. He looked in there this morning, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘What, with all those school kids?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Reeves laughed. ‘He had some bone to pick with the owner. Seemed rather annoyed.’

  ‘Do you know what about?’

  ‘No idea.Why, are you spying on him?’

  ‘Of course not. How’s old Reg today?’

  ‘He didn’t seem too bad. From the bottles I found in his waste bin I’d say he had a boozy night and it must have restored his spirits. He was ready to get back to work this morning, at any rate.’

  ‘I’d better get going.’

  ‘Okay. You may not be seeing me much longer.’

  ‘Oh.You moving on?’

  ‘Yeah. This job’s okay for overtime, but it’s dead boring really.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Back to CID for a spell. Listen, you didn’t think I was telling you that stuff because the judge told me to, did you?

  I mean, he did ask me to pump you about the case, but I said you wouldn’t tell me anything anyway.’

  ‘What did he want to know?’

  ‘Oh, who your suspects were for the old lady’s murder, and what the pathologist had to say about Dodworth’s death.’

  ‘Just out of idle curiosity, do you think?’

  ‘No, he seemed more insistent than that. I assumed he was wanting to reassure Reg.’

  ‘Hm.Well, I’d better go.’

  ‘Listen, if I can help at all . . .’ He suddenly seemed embarrassed, and shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

  Kathy smiled at him, realising she’d be sorry not to bump into him again. ‘Thanks. I don’t suppose you’ve come across anyone called L. Sterne, have you, Tom?’

  ‘Lawrence Sterne,’ he said immediately. ‘Wrote Tristram Shandy.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Oh, eighteenth century.’

  Like Henry Fuseli, Kathy thought. But that couldn’t be it.

  ‘Why? Looking for something to read? Try this.’ He handed her the book he’d been reading. She took it and saw from the cover that it was a crime thriller.

  ‘It’s good. I’ve just finished it. I was checking some of the early clues I’d missed.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll try it, when I get some time. Better write your name in it, so I don’t steal it.’

  He grinned and wrote. Afterwards she saw he’d put his phone number as well as his name.

  Brock looked up as the guard tapped on the door. ‘Prisoner’s ready to see you again, sir.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He followed the man down the corridor and waited while he unlocked the door to the interview room. Wylie was sitting alone, looking sullen and thoughtful.

 
; ‘Where’s your lawyer?’ Brock asked. It was only on hearing the tightness in his own voice that he realised how much the news of Lee’s death had shaken him. He looked down at the pale blob of Wylie’s face and felt an overwhelming urge to bury his fist in it. Instead, he was obliged to wheedle and cajole and talk to this monster as if his needs and thoughts were really worthy of consideration.

  ‘I sent Russell out to get some air. He needs to relax more. Sit down, I want to talk to you, off the record.’

  Brock knew that he ought to stop this, walk out and calm down, but instead he took the seat. ‘I’m listening.’

  Wylie waved towards the tape recorder. ‘I want that kept off.’

  Brock nodded.

  ‘The emails won’t help you with the girls. They contain personal stuff, to do with business, that I don’t want getting out. That’s number one. Number two: I got slapped around last night; they told me it was just the beginning. I know who ordered it. I want out of here. I want the charges dropped or I want bail.’

  Brock watched him become more agitated as he spoke, fidgeting with his fingers, tapping his foot beneath the table.

  ‘And in return?’

  Wylie leaned across the table and whispered, barely moving his lips, ‘I’ll give you the judge.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘He took the girl, the third one, Tracey.’

  Brock remained motionless, but inside his chest he felt his heart hammering unnaturally fast. ‘Go on.’

  Wylie shook his head. ‘That’s all I’ll say. I’ve got pictures.’

  ‘Who hit you?’

  ‘I got bumped. It was a warning from him, of course. Christ, he killed the old woman, and now this other bloke.’