‘There really was no need for you to interrupt your holiday, Brock,’ the Borough Commander said. ‘The best thing we can do is pray for rain.’
Brock got Kathy on the phone.‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asked. He thought he had spotted her on the monitor, one pale head among thousands. It made him think of a sea of wild flowers, swayed by the wind.
‘A bit cold, otherwise fine. I wish I’d brought my big coat and some thick socks.What’s the forecast?’
‘Heavy frost.’
‘There’s a rumour that coffee is on its way. I get the impression that they’re planning on a long wait.’
‘For what?’
‘Nobody’s sure. Brock, what about Suzanne?’
There was silence for a moment, then, ‘She’s gone on.’
There was nothing Kathy could find to say.
Dawn seeped like icewater into the sky. Kathy thought she’d never felt so cold or stiff. All around her people were groaning and stretching and rubbing frozen body parts. Strangers had huddled together in dark clumps to share their warmth, and she had found herself against the garden railings with half a dozen young women from the post office. There had been movement throughout the night, with some leaving and others taking their places, but the overall numbers didn’t seem to have diminished. At one point she’d been tempted to seek shelter with Reg Gilbey, whose lights had been on for most of the night. She saw his windows illuminated now, and then his front door opened and the old man himself appeared, precariously balancing a tray of paper cups from which steam rose into the morning air. The same thing was happening all around the square— from the building site, from Mahmed’s Café and The Daughters of Albion—but not from The Pie Factory, which was shrouded in darkness.
Kathy’s mobile rang, Brock’s voice. ‘Still with us?’
‘Just about.’ The phone was freezing against her cheek. She stood up and gave a wave towards the parapet where she knew the camera was mounted.
‘Your chums have been busy during the night.’
‘Have they?’
‘They’ve put more information on the web, and we’ve been monitoring thousands of messages of support from all around the world. They’ve announced that they want a complete and voluntary confession from Tait, and apparently you’re all going to stay there until he gives it. They’ve established a liaison committee with the Hackney police and they assure us they intend their actions to be non-violent. They’ve also proclaimed that Vigil for Gabe is an artwork, somewhere between a happening and an installation, and any interference from the authorities will be regarded as cultural vandalism. A number of impressive names and organisations from the art world support their position, and they plan to submit an application to the Arts Council for funding, and to the Tate for the next Turner Prize, in conjunction with No Trace.’
‘Tricky.’
‘Yes. And I’m ordering you to return to the Shoreditch canteen for debriefing over a hot breakfast.’
‘If you insist.’
They’d been busy in other ways, too. While Kathy was in the canteen a call came through for Brock from Fergus Tait, his first contact since the occupation of Northcote Square had begun. ‘They’ve cut off my bloody electricity and phone lines. I’m freezing in here.You’ve got to come and get me out.’
‘I’ll pass on your request, Mr Tait, but you’ve got to appreciate that it’s a very difficult situation.We don’t want to provoke a riot.’
‘I don’t care what you provoke, they’re going to kill me.’
‘We’ve had no indication of that. Have they threatened you?’
‘They won’t let me leave! They’ve even locked off the restaurant and kitchens—I’ve got no food and I’m bloody starving.’
‘Why don’t you just give them what they want?’
‘Don’t be bloody stupid.’
‘Better not waste your phone battery, Mr Tait. Goodbye.’
The Pie Factory Siege, as the press named it, continued through that day and on into its second night. There was another call from Tait as dusk fell. His voice was rambling and confused, and it appeared he had finished the last dregs of the liquor cabinet in his office. He was very hungry, he said, and he was frightened they would come for him in the night. He was burning paper for light and heat, and Brock warned him to be careful of causing a fire. Did he have water? The mains had been turned off, he said, but there was still a trickle coming through the tap in the toilet. He refused to discuss a confession. ‘I didn’t go through all that to have the rewards snatched from me now,’ he barked angrily, and hung up.
Soon afterwards Bren answered a phone call for Brock. ‘Someone saying he’s a concerned citizen. Won’t give a name, but it sounds to me like a Turkish Cypriot trying to imitate Tony Soprano. He’s offering to solve the impasse by going in and persuading Mr Tait to confess.’ Brock took the phone and thanked the anonymous caller, but declined his kind offer.
A crisis meeting of combined authorities was held later that evening. There were fears about public health and safety issues, traffic disruption and public order, as well as bad publicity. The fire brigade was especially concerned about the risks of a conflagration in the old buildings, with their stores of flammable liquids in the workshops and kitchens. And then there was the problem of Fergus Tait. If he could be extracted, the whole situation would be defused—but how could this be done? The spokespersons for Vigil were adamant that no police or other authorities would be allowed through, and several plainclothes officers had been caught and ejected before they could reach The Pie Factory. Plans were prepared for a helicopter-borne rescue from the air, but the crowd had anticipated them and people now covered the roof, like a human blanket smothering Tait.
Tait called Brock again at dawn on the third day, sounding exhausted and disoriented. He wanted to speak to Brock face to face, he said. Brock agreed to see what he could do. The liaison committee was consulted, and after some debate it was agreed that Brock could go in alone, without food. If he was taken hostage, they said, that was too bad.
A car dropped him at the edge of the crowd, which parted before him as he approached. It was an eerie experience, walking through the muffled streets in the dim grey light, as if a whole quarter of the city had been taken over by an army of silent ghosts. He reached the gallery entrance of The Pie Factory, feeling hundreds of eyes on him as one of the crowd came forward and unlocked the glass door.
‘He’s in the gallery,’ the man said. ‘We can see him through the window.’
‘Thanks.’
Brock stepped into the gloom of the interior, hearing the lock snap behind him. ‘Tait?’ he called, but there was no reply.When he got to the doorway to the gallery he saw the pale figure sprawled beneath Gabe’s final, sixteenth banner, his back propped against the wall, chin down on his chest.
For a moment he thought Yasher Fikrit must have got to him after all, but then the head lifted and Tait said, ‘Ah, Mr Brock, you made it. Do come in.’ His attempt at jauntiness was betrayed by his voice, as frail as an old man’s. Brock went over and lowered himself to sit beside him.
‘Did you bring anything to eat?’ Tait asked querulously. ‘Anything hot? I’m so bloody cold.’
‘I’m afraid not. They wouldn’t allow it.’
‘Bloody Nazis!’ he spat, then the fight faded out of him again. ‘It’s very lonely in here, you know. You’ve no idea. After three nights in here, you know what lonely means.’
It had only been two, but Brock didn’t correct him.
‘It used to be full of life, this place. Full of people, my friends, people who liked and needed me. But then I got greedy and destroyed it all. Now it’s just full of ghosts . . .’ He waved a hand up at the banners, then at the faces through the window. ‘I’ve become an exhibit in my own gallery, a still life. Nature morte is the French term. Very appropriate, don’t you think? Dead nature, that’s what I am now.’
He stared for a moment at the faces outside. ‘They’ll never go aw
ay, will they? Doesn’t matter where I go or what I do, they’ll be there, peering in through the windows, staring across the aisle of the aeroplane, saying, “There he is. There’s the man who killed Gabriel Rudd.” The waiter who serves my meal, the man who drives my taxi, the barber who cuts my hair, they’ll all look at me in that same way. There’ll be no peace, no forgiveness. Unless I confess. Maybe then.’
‘Yes, Fergus. Maybe then.’
‘I’ll give them what they want, Mr Brock. Just set it up, will you? I don’t want to stay here any longer.’
Brock helped him to his feet, and Tait made one final attempt at bravado. ‘You never know, there may be scope for an art dealer in gaol. There could be a big market for prison art, don’t you think?’
36
The whole of the previous forty-eight hours now seemed like a surreal dream, Brock thought, a piece of Dadaist experimental theatre. The bar was filled with coppers from the Major Enquiry Team, drinking and joking with a particular intensity, as if to reassure themselves that the world hadn’t gone completely mad and there were still a few normal folk around.
Emboldened by her Scotch, Kathy said, ‘Have you tried calling her?’
He frowned, looking at his watch. ‘It’s probably the middle of the night over there.’
‘You should tell her what’s happened. She’ll understand.’
‘Hmm.’ He bit his lip, not at all sure about that. He still got a lump in his throat when he remembered the way she’d disappeared through the passengers-only gate, without a backward look. It was a memory he’d replayed many times over the past couple of days and nights.
‘Anyway,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘Deanne’s hypothesis proved right after all; art triumphed over mammon.’
‘That’s true.’ She turned as the door of the bar opened, and smiled as she recognised Tom Reeves. He caught sight of her and grinned back, and she thought how nice he looked, dark hair swept back, face flushed with colour from the cold.
‘Do you remember Tom?’ she said to Brock, who looked up in surprise.
‘Oh, yes, of course. How are you, Tom?’
‘Great. Congratulations, sir. Fantastic result.’
His enthusiasm was genuine, Kathy saw, probably enhanced by wonder at Brock’s durability.
‘What will you have to drink?’
‘Let me,’ Brock said, and went over to the bar.
‘You must be exhausted,’ Tom said to Kathy, scrutinising her face as if for signs of damage.‘Are you hungry?’
‘Ravenous. Is this our date, then?’
He nodded.
‘Well, I should warn you, I spent last night lying on a pavement and I didn’t get much sleep. I may just flake out.’
‘That’s fine, but I warn you, that excuse only works once,’ he said, and Kathy laughed, suddenly happy to be alive.
Brock returned, catching the flush on Kathy’s cheek. ‘Well, don’t think me rude,’ he said,‘but I’ll be pushing off. Have a good night.’
He picked up the brown paper parcel and made for the door, looking forward to a long bath and a warm bed, and, in the morning, hanging a second picture on his living room wall, next to the Schwitters. It was a present from a little girl now reunited with her grandparents, against whom, Brock felt confident, Virginia Ashe would shortly agree to drop further proceedings.
No Trace Page 36