‘Three days before Tracey disappeared.’
‘If you say so. Tait sent over a complimentary bottle of wine, which I accepted. He wanted something, of course— to show me some new pieces in the gallery and hopefully persuade me to invest in them. So I let him take me around, and we met Dodworth, who just glared and looked suitably tortured. Tait saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere, so he suggested I’d be interested in something another of his artists was completing in the workshops. We went through and there was no one there, just this extraordinarily lifelike sculpture of a naked child—Tracey Rudd. The artist was a woman—Wilkes, I think, is her name.We were examining it when Tait’s secretary came in and said he had a call from New York or somewhere, and he asked me to take a seat and wait for him to return. I continued to look at the sculpture. It was quite uncanny, extremely disturbing in its realism, and, alone in that room, I found it impossible to resist touching it. There was a soft down of blonde hair on the skin of the arms, I recall. God knows how she did it. Anyway, that’s what I’m doing in that photograph there, the naked child kneeling on the table. It’s a statue, not the real thing, though you couldn’t tell.’
‘Poppy Wilkes’s statues are always at the wrong scale,’ Brock objected, ‘very large or very small.’
‘Not this one. That’s what made it so unnerving. It was the little girl, exactly true to life. Tait jokingly called it “pornographic realism”, and he was right. You felt intrusive, even unclean, just looking at it, so I left the damn thing alone and went and sat down as Tait had suggested. Then the most extraordinary thing happened. The child herself appeared in the doorway. I found I had to look back at the statue just to make sure it was still there. The girl was wearing a sort of dressing gown, as you see there, and she was hesitant, as if she had to do something and felt awkward about it. I said hello, and she suddenly rushed forward, hopped on my knee and planted a kiss on my cheek. I was dumbfounded. Then she jumped down again and rushed away. I hadn’t the faintest idea what it was all about. I never understood it until now.Wylie must have put her up to it somehow.’
Brock let the silence hang for a moment, remembering Sundeep Mehta’s joke about the man who met a frog in the street. ‘Why didn’t you mention this before when I asked you?’
Beaufort sighed. ‘Embarrassed, I suppose. How could I explain it, without sounding guilty? Impossible not to say either too much or too little. I opted for too little.’
‘As you say, Sir Jack—an unreliable witness. So what about this last photograph?’
The judge screwed his nose in disgust at the image of the man and the child on the bed. ‘I have no idea how he did that, but it certainly isn’t me. That’s all I can tell you.’ He gave a sudden start, then a shiver.
‘Are you cold?’ Brock asked, although the room was quite warm.
‘No . . . I just had that feeling, you know, of someone walking over my grave. I’ve been rather naive, haven’t I? I assumed just now that Wylie was behind all this, but perhaps he wasn’t, at least, not on his own.’
‘Abbott, do you mean?’
‘No, I was thinking of someone else—Fergus Tait. Perhaps it was he who persuaded that child to come in to see me after he left for his alleged phone call.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know—to persuade me to buy his damned artworks, I suppose. I’ve heard his business is in financial trouble. Perhaps Wylie suggested that I might be interested in the girl.’
Brock looked sceptical. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’
‘No, I can’t think of anything else. You don’t believe me, do you? Am I a suspect?’
‘I’d like you to provide a DNA sample and fingerprints,’ Brock said, and switched off the tape. Then he leaned forward and said softly, ‘Give me the name of your friend, Sir Jack. The one you paid eight hundred pounds to protect. I need corroboration, otherwise I’ll have no choice but to go on with this.’
‘Sorry.’ The judge looked bleak. ‘Can’t do that, I’m afraid.’
27
‘You think he’s been set up?’ Bren spoke to Brock at his side, the two of them standing at the window looking down on the street where Sir Jack Beaufort was getting into the car that had just pulled up for him.
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s innocent. I think Wylie knew there was a kernel of truth in what he was saying about Beaufort —enough to stop the judge making a fuss when Wylie tried to blackmail him. I don’t know. He certainly seems genuinely afraid of Beaufort now.’
‘We could have another go at Wylie.’
‘I don’t think he’ll give us much more. No word on his emails?’
‘Not yet. They expect a decision soon.’ Bren checked his watch. ‘But that isn’t going to help us find Rudd’s killer. Fifteen hours have gone by, and we still don’t have a lead. I’ve got a meeting with squad leaders shortly, and we’re going to have to make a decision about where to put our resources.’
‘What’s your thinking?’
‘The three killings—Zielinski, Dodworth and Rudd— are connected.’
‘Agreed.’
‘But the killer isn’t necessarily Tracey’s abductor. That’s most likely Wylie and Abbott.’
‘Go on.’
‘I think we’ve been mesmerised by the square for too long. I think we should be looking much further afield. I think we’ve got a serial killer attracted to Northcote Square by the publicity of Tracey’s abduction.’
Brock nodded. ‘Makes sense.’ But he didn’t sound convinced.
‘I had some help,’ Bren confessed. ‘I spoke to our profiler. He’s very excited by Rudd’s murder and he’s working flat out on a new profile—he hopes to be able to talk to us later this afternoon. The serial killer from outside is his idea. He thinks he could be coming from anywhere, maybe Europe or the States. Well, we know Rudd’s publicity and website have turned this into an international spectacle.’
The phone on the desk behind them rang and Brock turned to pick it up. The operator said, ‘I’ve got DS Kolla on line two, sir.Will you take it?’
‘Of course.’ Brock punched the button and said,‘Kathy! How are you feeling? Tucked up in bed?’
‘I’m all right. No, I needed some air. Listen, do we know where Poppy is?’
‘She’s in the hospital, isn’t she?’
‘No, she left there this morning, apparently. I’ve phoned The Pie Factory, and they haven’t seen her.’
‘Hang on, I’ll check with Bren.’ But Bren didn’t know and said he’d have to contact the local command unit who were supposed to be looking after her.
‘Is it important, Kathy?’ Brock asked.
‘I think it may be. I’m going to the gallery now just to be sure she isn’t there.Will you let me know if you find her?’
‘Of course. I want to speak to Fergus Tait myself. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.’
He rang off and watched Bren’s face grow darker as he spoke to someone on the other phone. He rang off and turned to Brock. ‘There’s been a cock-up. The doctors discharged Poppy Wilkes at midday, and her escort brought her here to be interviewed about last night. She said she was hungry and he took her down to the canteen.While he was at the counter she walked out. No one’s seen her since.’
‘I want her found, Bren. Check taxis, bus routes, the tube station. I’m going to Northcote Square. Send a squad down there as well.’
There were crowds in the square. At the north end a small hill of flowers, bunches in cellophane, was growing against the railings of 53 Urma Street, and tourists were taking pictures of the policeman on duty in the doorway. On West Terrace a smaller group clustered around a forlorn posy of violets tied to the railings outside number fourteen, and then the crowd swelled again towards Lazarus Street and The Pie Factory in the south. There were black T-shirts everywhere, emblazoned with a stark white graphic of Gabriel Rudd’s face, curls rampant, which managed to evoke the iconic images of both Jimi Hendrix and Che Guevara.
The mood was of subdued excitement, everyone conscious of the significance of this moment, which would undoubtedly figure in every future art history book.
Kathy eased her way around a TV camera crew unpacking their gear and saw Brock turn the corner into the square, then stop and stare at all the activity. They met up at the gallery entrance, pushing their way through the melee at the door and squeezing into the hall past the crush at the T-shirt counter. They heard Fergus Tait’s voice coming from the side gallery and, looking past the reporters and photographers, saw him presenting a eulogy to Gabriel Rudd, complete with a PowerPoint display projected onto a screen.
They waited for him to finish, and he finally emerged, face flushed and triumphant. He saw the two police, motionless in the seething crowd.
‘Ah, officers, how are you? Can it wait? I’m rather busy at the moment, as you see.’
‘No, I’m afraid it can’t,’ Brock said. ‘Maybe it’d be quieter at the station.’
‘Oh no!’ Tait said in alarm. ‘I have to be here. I simply must.’
‘Let’s talk in your office then, and see where we go from there.’
Tait led the way, closing the door behind them.
‘So how can I help you?’
Brock began by asking him if he had any information that would help them solve Rudd’s murder.
‘Absolutely not. I had no idea about it until I was woken by a phone call from a reporter I know at six this morning, and it’s been absolute bedlam ever since. I haven’t even been able to get away to see poor Poppy in the hospital yet. How is she?’
‘She was discharged at midday, and hasn’t been seen since. We were hoping you might be able to help us find her.’
‘Disappeared! Dear Lord, not another!’
‘There’s no need for alarm at this stage.We just want to speak to her.’
‘Well, I haven’t seen her, but let me ask my staff.’ He rang two internal numbers and drew a blank. ‘No, no one’s seen her here.’
‘We’ll check her room for ourselves, if you don’t mind. What about her family?’
‘I do have a number somewhere . . .’ He flicked through a filofax on his desk. ‘Yes, a brother—home and office numbers. Shall I try them?’
Brock nodded, but again Tait was unsuccessful; the brother hadn’t heard from Poppy in weeks. ‘That about exhausts my sources, I’m afraid, Chief Inspector, so if I can get on now . . .’
‘I’ve got some other questions for you. Sir Jack Beaufort . . .’ Brock paused, catching the sudden wariness that came over Tait, who touched his big satin tie —gold today—and cleared his throat. ‘Yes, what about him?’
‘You tried to interest him in buying a nude sculpture of Tracey, didn’t you?’
Tait looked nervous. ‘Em, may I ask who told you that?’
‘He did.’
‘Ah, well, I do recall showing him one of Poppy’s pieces, but it wasn’t Tracey, as such.’
‘He said it was startlingly lifelike. Apparently you described it as pornographic realism, is that right?’
Tait flushed scarlet. ‘Oh now, if I did it would just have been my little joke.’ He laughed uncomfortably.
‘What did Dodworth tell you about Sir Jack?’
‘Only. . . that he might be susceptible to that sort of piece.’
‘Susceptible? That sounds like some kind of entrapment. What do you mean?’
‘Not at all. I’m a businessman, Chief Inspector. I try to match the goods that I have for sale to the customers who come to me.’
‘And the goods you had for sale included the little girl herself, yes?’
‘What?’
‘She was there that day.You sent her in to see Beaufort.’
‘I most certainly did not,’ Tait said, blustering with indignation. ‘If she was there I wasn’t aware of it, and I’m beginning to resent the drift of your questions. I’ll have to ask you to go now.’
As they were leaving, Brock said, ‘Sir Jack suggested that, with Gabriel Rudd dead, his prices would probably have doubled overnight.Was he right?’
‘No, no,’ Tait said, still ruffled. ‘Not doubled— quadrupled. And nobody would have been more pleased than Gabe himself, poor fellow.’
‘Where’s that sculpture of his daughter now?’
‘It was one of Poppy’s, an early version of her cupids. She destroyed it because the true scale made it too . . . literal, I think that was her word. It was certainly unnerving.’
They reached the entrance hall. Through the glass wall to the main gallery they saw Gabe’s banners above the heads of the crowd. The final, sixteenth one was in place, Kathy noticed—blank except for the spray of Gabe’s own blood.
‘They let you have that?’ she asked, and Tait gave a grim smile.
‘Art takes priority,’ he said. ‘We have to respect Gabe’s intentions.Who knows, he may have given his life for this.’
‘What’s the point of that meandering line at the top of each one? What does it mean?’
‘I don’t know. It’s like a little creature crawling from one to the next, leaving a wandering trail. It reminds me of that phrase of Paul Klee’s, “I took my line for a walk”. Gabe wouldn’t explain it to me. He said every work of art had to have its unsolved mystery.’
Kathy frowned. She didn’t like unsolved mysteries.
She managed to grab a late lunch of a sandwich and some painkillers in the station canteen before the team assembled for an expert briefing. The first specialist was the forensic psychologist, clearly keyed up. They had gathered in one of the larger meeting rooms, and the whole wall behind the speaker was covered by a huge map of Greater London.
The fascinating thing about this case, the profiler explained, was the way in which it inverted the usual pattern of serial crimes. The usual pattern was demonstrated by the abduction of the three girls, in which Abbott/Wylie had begun at locations within a safe distance of their home base, their comfort zone. Had they not been caught, they would have gradually worked further out into the surrounding city as their confidence grew, and, using the profiler’s ‘A4 rule’ and its more sophisticated computer derivatives, the psychologist would eventually have been able to infer their starting point and lead the police to the Newman estate.
But in the case of the Zielinski/Dodworth/Rudd killings, the opposite had happened. The victims all lived in the same immediate area, and there was no way of inferring the killer’s home base from these three deaths. Instead of picking victims at random points within the comfort zone, he was choosing them because of their association with this particular place and its current celebrity. Celebrity was the key. The effect of Gabriel Rudd’s celebrity, enhanced by all the information about him in the media and on the web, was to draw a violent stalker to him. The traditional pattern was turned inside out. This type of celebrity stalking had been seen before, of course, but here it was taking a very sophisticated form.The murderer had done extensive research into his primary target, Gabriel Rudd, discovered his obsession with Henry Fuseli, and then used Fuseli’s work to create a kind of ongoing drama, culminating in the tableau of Fuseli’s masterwork, which DS Kolla had witnessed. The visual clues which DS Kolla had picked up (he gave her a quick little smile, which embarrassed Kathy) demonstrated just how elaborate was his thinking.
Kathy wasn’t feeling at all well, her head and shoulder throbbing. She looked away to avoid further eye contact and focused on the London map behind him. It was colour coded—red for development, blue for water, green for open space, black for main roads—and with the preponderance of red it looked like an enormous chaotic bloodstain, as if the room had been the scene of a chainsaw massacre. Through the blood the pale blue ribbons of the Thames and other waterways looked like writhing snakes.
Kathy dragged her mind back to the briefing. She felt light-headed and wondered if perhaps she had returned to work too soon. The forensic psychologist was suggesting different ways in which the killer might be tracked down. He had probably done this before, perha
ps not quite as ambitious or elaborate, but along the same lines—a celebrity group or family, perhaps, or a series of victims connected by some common celebrity activity like sport or the media. And he could have come from anywhere.
There was an uncomfortable silence, then Brock asked if the killer was likely to strike again in Northcote Square, and in particular whether Poppy Wilkes might be at risk. The psychologist thought not; Rudd had been the focus of the whole thing, he felt sure, and any further killing would be superfluous. Bren asked how they might recognise the perpetrator and the psychologist offered a sketch: craving attention yet shrinking from the spotlight, so an unhappy, neglected childhood relationship with his mother, and perhaps a physical blemish or handicap of some kind of which he is acutely conscious; very intelligent and organised but excited by violence, so perhaps a substantial academic and work history coupled with disruptive incidents.
Kathy said, ‘You keep saying “he”. Is there any reason to suppose it’s a man?’
‘No indeed, nor that there’s only one individual involved. I was just using the singular male pronoun for convenience.’
There was something wrong with all this, Kathy knew, and it took her a moment to realise that she hadn’t told them what she’d learned at the Soane Museum. Her head felt fuzzy, and before she could speak the psychologist had handed over to the laboratory reporting officer, RO in the jargon, the scientist with overall responsibility for managing the forensic examinations at the laboratory. He was describing progress on the crime-scene analysis, pinning up a series of photographs and computer-generated diagrams plotting bloodstains at the scene. From these he described the sequence of events that had occurred in the studio.
‘We believe there was an initial struggle—the noises that DS Kolla and PC McLeod heard—during which Rudd received a blow to the head that probably incapacitated him. We believe that it was only after the assailant attacked PC McLeod that he returned to strike the fatal blow to Rudd’s throat. One of the reasons for this is here . . .’ He pointed to a photograph of a bloody shoeprint crossed by a splatter of bloodstains. ‘The spray came after the footprint, so Rudd was still alive and pumping arterial blood as the killer made his escape to the door.’
No Trace Page 29