‘Yes, you do that. Forget about the case.’
But she found she couldn’t, and the pain in her leg and shoulder only made her feel more restless. She closed her eyes but couldn’t relax, and picked up the book again. A thought came to her, and she turned to the index at the back, running her eye down the names. And there she found ‘Sterne, L.’, the name on the email address that had sent the pictures of Betty’s body. She turned to the entry and found that it was on the page following the engraving of the hanged figures. The text read:
In the same year, 1767, a philosophical tract of baffling obscurity entitled Remarks on the Writings and Conduct of J.J. Rousseau was published anonymously in London. At first it was attributed to Lawrence Sterne, author of Tristram Shandy, but before long the real author was discovered to be ‘one Fuseli, an Engraver’.
She lay her head back, trying to understand. It was as if the Fuseli book were a road map to the murders.What else might it contain? Then she had another idea. At the back of the book was an appendix with a comprehensive listing of every painting and drawing Fuseli was known to have done. It ran to thirty-four pages. She turned to the first page and began to work through it.
Morris Munns had been the acknowledged genius of the laboratory’s Photography Unit for longer than anyone could remember. A stocky, balding cockney with thick-lensed glasses, he had helped Brock many times before, on one occasion conjuring an attacker’s boot print from the deep bruising on a woman’s body three months after the event.
‘I made it a priority as soon as I realised what it was, of course,’ he said, spreading the four photographs on the table between them. ‘That little girl . . . the worst sort of case.Who took these, do we know?’
‘They’ve come to us from the solicitor of the chief suspect, Robert Wylie.’
‘Who you think also took the photographs we found in the flat, right?’
‘That’s right. One of the questions I have is whether they’ve been taken with the same camera.’
‘Yes, I thought you’d ask that. These are all digital pictures, as were the ones in the flat.We have that camera, of course, which is lucky, because it has a small scratch on the optical zoom lens, that we’ve been able to relate to a faint distortion in the digital images. We reckon we can prove to a jury’s satisfaction that that camera took the pictures you found in the flat.’
‘And these?’
Morris pointed to the first three, with Tracey in the street and on Beaufort’s knee, and Beaufort touching the naked child.‘I can make out the same effect on these three, yes, but not on the other one. They’re also different in other ways. These three have been enhanced, I’d say, but I’m fairly sure they’re genuine images, integral with their background. The shadows, the reflected light—I couldn’t swear to it in court, but I’d say they’re not fakes. But this one . . .’ He picked up the remaining picture with disgust.‘Pure phoney, and not very good at that. The faces have been pasted onto a scene taken with another camera altogether. It’s a con.’
‘Thank you, Morris, that’s helpful.’
‘There’s something else. I don’t know if you’ve been able to identify the location of numbers two and three, have you? The girl on the old bloke’s knee?’
‘No, the backgrounds are out of focus.’
‘Deliberately made to be, I’d say. Anyway, I’ve had a go at sharpening it up for you.’ He produced new versions, in which the shadowy grid of lines in the background emerged as the frame of a large industrial window. Brock immediately recognised the big windows in the artists’ workshops at The Pie Factory.
‘Ah.’
‘Mean something?’
‘Yes, I think it does.You’ve been a great help, as always.’ Brock gathered up the pictures.
‘So the old bloke’s involved, too, is he?’
‘Maybe. But it’s hard to know what’s fake and what’s real these days, isn’t it?’
‘Picture number three is the clincher, I reckon, with the girl naked. I’d swear it’s real.Who is he, anyway?’
‘I’ll tell you one day, Morris, but at the moment you don’t want to know. Has anyone else seen these?’
‘No, I dealt with it myself, like you said in your note.’
‘Thanks. Let’s keep it that way.’
When he got back to his car Brock called the solicitor, Russell Clifford, and made arrangements to meet him and his client. Wylie would be brought under escort to Shoreditch police station where the interview would be recorded and filmed. Then he called Bren.
Bren stared at the photographs in disbelief, then looked at Brock. There was a question written all over his face, but he wasn’t going to put it into words.
‘I’m sorry, Bren,’ Brock said. ‘I had to do this on my own. There are ramifications . . .’
‘The review of Special Operations, you mean?’
‘You know about that?’
‘I’ve heard rumours. Beaufort is involved.’
‘Yes,and I’ve been specifically ordered to leave him alone.’
‘But you can’t ignore evidence like this!’
‘No, of course not, provided it’s genuine. Morris Munns has had a look, and thinks these three may be genuine, and this one a fabrication. But he can’t swear to it. They could all be fakes. This may just be a ploy by Wylie to stop us looking at his emails.’
‘That’s what he wants to trade?’
Brock watched Bren turn this over, visibly uncomfortable as he weighed the options. ‘Maybe . . . maybe you should cover your back. Get clearance from higher up. Talk to Sharpe.’
‘If I do that without firm evidence, he’ll stop me. It’s just too difficult for them at this moment. Look, I’ve got Wylie being brought here for interview in half an hour. I want to get something solid out of him. I wouldn’t mind some help, but I’ll understand if you don’t want to be involved at this stage.’
‘Come off it, Brock, you know I’m in. How do you want to play it?’
They talked it through until the word came that Wylie and his solicitor had arrived. Bren got to his feet and Brock said, ‘Let them wait for a while.’
Twenty minutes later Bren opened the door to the interview room and walked in alone. The two men seated at the table interrupted their argument and looked up at him in surprise.
‘Mr Wylie?’ Bren said, and gave a yawn. ‘I’m DI Gurney, and you are . . .?’
‘Russell Clifford, Mr Wylie’s legal representative. Is DCI Brock coming? We’ve been waiting now for . . .’
‘Sorry about that. There’s a lot going on. DCI Brock may not be able to make it.’
‘But he called me!’ Clifford complained. ‘He arranged this.’
‘Did he? Well, he’s very busy at the moment, another murder in the area. Most of us have been up half the night.’
‘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, ot
herwise 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 statement, 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 judg
e,’ 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 attaché 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.
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