No Trace Page 22

  Virginia Ashe called, ‘Roxy!’ across the room, and from behind the bar an attractive dark-haired woman with bright lipstick looked her way. ‘Yes, he will!’ the solicitor cried, and the woman nodded and waved acknowledgement.

  ‘Wylie’s made a statement,’ Ashe said, ‘through his solicitor.’

  Brock’s fist clenched. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘An hour ago. They phoned me from the office and gave me the gist. I’ll have to give you a proper assessment, but I thought I should speak to you straight away. There’ll be a copy of his statement waiting for you at Queen Anne’s Gate—oh, wonderful!’

  Roxy had appeared at their side with two glasses of cognac. ‘She said you’d be needing this,’ she murmured to Brock. ‘Cheers, darlings.’

  They lifted their glasses and Brock let the burn subside in his throat before speaking. ‘Go on, Virginia.’

  ‘He claims that he knows nothing about the abductions of Aimee and Lee, and had no idea that Abbott was using his wife’s flat, although he had given Abbott a key to keep an eye on it for him.’

  ‘What?’ Brock was incredulous.

  ‘Yes, I know. He claims he hadn’t been there for several months. He was living in his office on an industrial estate, because of some dispute over the tenancy of the flat with the wife, though he admits he was paying the rent. He provides her current name and whereabouts. Apparently she’s living with another man in the Midlands.’

  ‘What was he doing in the flat when we caught him then?’

  ‘He claims he went there because Abbott had phoned him earlier in the day and asked to meet him that evening for a drink.’

  ‘Yes, we traced that call. Abbott made it soon after my people visited him the first time.’

  ‘When he got to the estate he discovered that Abbott was dead. He went to his flat and found all that stuff inside, and claims he was as surprised as the police when you discovered Lee in the cupboard.’

  ‘Rubbish. Why did he wait ten days to tell us this?’

  ‘His statement doesn’t explain that. No doubt they’ll come up with something. Why did he?’

  ‘Because the last person who could disprove it was found hanged last night.’ Brock told her what had happened.

  ‘My God. He was murdered?’

  ‘Maybe, or assisted suicide.’ Brock stared at his glass, surprised to see it empty. He had anticipated a number of possible strategies from Wylie to mitigate his guilt, but not outright denial. ‘They must be confident they can pull it off.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t think I like this, Brock. There were no photographs of him with the girls, were there?’

  ‘No, he was the photographer.’

  ‘And the camera and computer equipment were stolen property and can’t be linked to him.’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘And no change to Lee?’

  ‘No, still in a coma. But we know she recognised him in that flat. Her eyes were only open for a few seconds, but she was terrified when she saw Wylie.’

  ‘Yes, but that will work against us. If she regains consciousness and identifies him, they’ll claim she’s confusing the memory of having seen him that night.’

  They were both silent for a time, thinking, then Virginia said, ‘No, I don’t like this. Why did they send his statement to us, and not to the police? It was my boss who phoned me about it. He told me to be very careful to get this one right. What did he mean? When I asked him, he made some lame remark about just doing my usual excellent job.’

  Brock didn’t reply. Finally he said, ‘Have you come across a judge called Sir Jack Beaufort?’

  ‘Jugular Jack? Yes, of course. Appeared before him a few times in my youth. Why?’

  ‘Any rumours?’

  ‘Only that he’s got a savage tongue. What kind of rumours?’

  ‘No, nothing, Virginia. Forget I mentioned it. So, where do we go from here?’

  ‘You get us some hard evidence to pin Wylie down. Otherwise . . .’ she shrugged,‘. . . we’re just not going to be able to proceed against him.’

  Their food arrived, the best pub food in London, but Brock didn’t taste a thing.

  When he returned to Shoreditch he found the copy of Wylie’s statement waiting for him. He summoned Bren urgently and sat down to study it. Bren was stunned by Brock’s account of his meeting with the Crown Prosecutor.

  ‘That’s impossible! We found him in the flat, with the victim.’

  Brock handed him Wylie’s statement and watched his face fall as he read it.

  ‘He can’t get away with this. It’s preposterous!’

  ‘Virginia Ashe thinks he can.’

  ‘His fingerprints were everywhere.’

  ‘He says he had a good look around before we found him. He’s thought it through, Bren. It does kind of fit with the evidence we have. We’ll have to speak to his wife, of course, but presumably he’s confident about what she’ll say. What have we really got to tie Abbott and Wylie together, in that flat?’

  ‘You think Dodworth saw them together?’

  ‘That would explain the timing of this, wouldn’t it?’

  Bren pondered. ‘We found the shop that supplied the batteries in the camera. The assistant thinks he might recognise Wylie.’

  ‘That would help,’ Brock said, but they both knew it was thin. ‘There is one other avenue. Wylie claimed that Abbott must have destroyed his own hard drive in the microwave, but the smell of burnt plastic in the flat was fresh, and Wylie’s own computer is missing, supposedly stolen.’

  ‘Emails,’ Bren said.‘Yes, we thought of that, but it didn’t seem a priority to find out.’

  ‘Until now . . .’ Brock said.

  Kathy was sitting in the central gardens of Northcote Square eating a sandwich bought from Sonia Fikret, whose mood had been markedly less accommodating than before, no doubt to indicate that the family’s patience was running out over the continual police harassment at the building site. Kathy finished the sandwich and shook the crumbs from the paper bag. Immediately a sparrow swooped down to the gravel at her feet and began pecking.

  ‘Ah, you miss Betty,’ Kathy said. The gardens seemed bereft without her, the last of the leaves suddenly fallen as if in grief and the birds all gone except for this one scruffy little sparrow.

  Her phone warbled in the pocket of her coat and she wasn’t surprised to hear the voice of Bev Nolan. She sounded older, a quaver in her voice.

  ‘Kathy? I am sorry to bother you. I know you must be so busy. Do you have a moment?’

  ‘Of course, Bev. How can I help?’

  ‘I suppose I shouldn’t ask, but we’ve just been so upset about these terrible things happening in Northcote Square. We only just heard on the news about Stan Dodworth. They mentioned suicide, is that right? I mean, did he leave a note? Did it have anything to do with little Tracey? Could he have . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s not much I can tell you at the moment, Bev.We haven’t found a confession, if that’s what you were thinking, and we don’t know if it has anything to do with Tracey, but you can be sure that we will get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘Of course you will. We just . . .’ She seemed lost for words. ‘The poor man. He was always polite when we met him, but very quiet. I felt Tracey didn’t . . . No, I shouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Go on,’ Kathy coaxed.

  ‘Tracey seemed very nervous around him. Maybe it was his manner. His appearance too, all dressed in black, his head shaved like a convict. But he wouldn’t have killed himself because of Tracey, would he?’

  She appeared to need reassurance on this. Kathy said, ‘We’ve got no evidence of that, Bev.’

  ‘I see, yes. Thank you, dear. I am sorry to have bothered you.’

  ‘If we get any firm news about Tracey, I will phone you, I promise.’

  Kathy rang off and saw that the sparrow had gone.

  The laboratory liaison officer had encouraging news. The frozen dinner packet that Kathy had spotted in Reg Gil
bey’s dustbin had once contained a meal very close to, perhaps identical with, that found in Stan’s stomach.

  ‘Perhaps?’ Brock pressed.

  ‘They’re doing chemical tests for additives, but even if they’re identical, it won’t prove that his food came from that particular packet. But we will be able to trace the shop where the packet came from.’

  ‘Fingerprints? DNA?’

  ‘No, we couldn’t find either in the rubbish, I’m afraid. But there was a pear, half eaten, in the same plastic bag as the meal packet. They’ve made a cast of the teeth marks and the forensic odontologist over at London Hospital Medical College is preparing a mould to test against Dodworth’s teeth. The trouble is, the pear was bitten into about forty-eight hours ago, and the flesh has lost some of its crispness. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to make a certain match.’

  ‘Was there anything else in the bag containing the meal packet and the pear that we can definitely link to Reg Gilbey?’

  The LO handed Brock the list of items: the plastic food tray from the meal, food scrapings, banana peel, stale bread, a wad of plastic film, a screwed-up paper bag, two crumpled beer cans. Brock shook his head, disappointed. ‘He’ll be able to claim anyone could have dropped it into his bin.’

  ‘Fraid so.’

  ‘Still, it should be enough for a search warrant.’

  The timing was bad, no doubt about it. Bren’s knock on the door was answered by DI Tom Reeves, whose eyebrows rose at the sight of all those police officers. Kathy realised what his presence meant, but she didn’t have a chance to warn Bren as he and two others charged on up the stairs. After the others filed past Reeves, who held the door open for them like an ironic butler, Kathy said, ‘I take it the judge is upstairs.’

  At that moment there came a roar of anger from above, and Reeves said, ‘Yes, I think we can assume that. Mind telling me what’s going on?’

  ‘We found some stuff in Reg’s dustbin that links him to Dodworth, the bloke we were looking for who was found hanged this morning.’

  Reeves looked puzzled. ‘Meaning what, precisely?’

  ‘That’s what we’re here to find out.’

  ‘I take it your guvnor knows about this raid?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I mean, he ordered it, right?’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Kathy, a little bit of advice? Beaufort was steaming mad when I drove him over here. You know how shook up old Reg was after the woman next door was found. He’s been refusing to get on with the judge’s portrait, says his hands are shaking too much. Then this business in the gallery. It was all we could do to get him going today. But that wasn’t the only thing making the judge see red. He was also mad about you lot, and especially your guvnor.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he thinks he’s stuffing up this whole case . . .’

  ‘No!’

  ‘. . . and because of that stunt your guvnor pulled last week.’ He saw the incomprehension on Kathy’s face. ‘You don’t know about that? DCI Brock paid the judge a visit at his home last week and tried to intimidate him and his missus.’

  ‘Oh come on, Tom, that’s bullshit.Why would Brock do that?’

  ‘Because he knows what Beaufort’s got in store for SO1, and he’s trying to use this case to get at him. That’s why you’re here now.’

  ‘No, it’s just an accident we came when you and the judge were here.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Kathy. By the time you’re finished with Reg he won’t be painting for weeks, and Sir Jack’s moment of fame at the National Portrait Gallery will be stuffed. Listen, believe me or not, but do yourself a favour—get yourself off this case and distance yourself from Brock. He’s finished.’

  Kathy sat in the back seat with Reg Gilbey for the trip back to Shoreditch station. He looked stunned, hands trembling, and Kathy could believe Reeves’s predictions about the effect on his painting.

  ‘Don’t worry, Reg,’ she whispered. ‘It won’t take long, then you can get back and have a drop of Teachers.’

  He shot her a panic-stricken look, his jaw clamped so tightly shut it looked as if his teeth might crack. Kathy wondered if they’d be taking a cast of them too.

  When they got to the station Reg was led away to an interview room. Brock met Kathy at the door. ‘Any problems?’

  ‘Only that Sir Jack Beaufort was there, having a sitting for his portrait. He was mad with Bren for interrupting.’

  Kathy knew every shade of expression on Brock’s face, and recognised the neutral screen that seemed to slip across his eyes.

  ‘Mm. Oh well.’

  ‘His minder had a word with me. Apparently Sir Jack isn’t happy with us. He told me that you paid the judge a visit last week.’

  ‘Did he now? Well, let’s get on, shall we? I think I’ll do this with one of the Hackney lads, Kathy. You might like to observe, and tell us what you think.’

  He left her standing in the corridor, puzzled. She turned back to the room with the monitors for recording the interviews and took a seat.

  The Hackney detective was grim-faced as he led the questioning, while Brock was distant in his manner, as if he didn’t much care what Reg had to say. The detective began with a formal caution. It was hard to tell if the painter understood; he looked as if he were about to be hauled away to the scaffold.

  ‘Do you like fruit, Mr Gilbey?’

  The absurdity of the question startled Reg out of his paralysis. The stare he gave the detective seemed to harden into focus. ‘What?’

  ‘Simple question. Do you like fruit?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Apples, oranges, pears? When was the last time you had a piece of fruit?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Perfectly. It’s not a trick question. When was the last time you ate an apple or a pear, say?’

  Reg turned to look at Brock, searching his face for some acknowledgement of the madness of this, but Brock just stared impassively back.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not this week . . . Not last week. Why?’

  ‘We found a half-eaten pear in your dustbin.’

  Kathy could see the bewilderment grow on the painter’s face. This is Kafka, it said, this is Lewis Carroll.‘Is that an offence now, then?’

  ‘Who ate it?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. It wasn’t me.’ A bit of colour was returning to his cheeks, some spirit to his voice.‘Why, was it a police pear? Was it an undercover pear?’

  Brock’s voice broke in sharply. ‘When did you last see Stan Dodworth, Mr Gilbey?’

  ‘Stan?’ Reg was bewildered again, trying to follow this jump.‘Stan? Not since he disappeared. The week before last . . .’ His voice trailed off as he saw Brock shaking his head.

  ‘No. Think very carefully before you answer.When did you last see Stan Dodworth? It was last night, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Last night? No, no.Who says so?’

  Brock suddenly reached into his briefcase and produced the frozen meal packet inside a plastic pouch. ‘You recognise this, don’t you?’

  To Kathy, watching Reg’s image on the screen, it didn’t look as if he did.

  ‘No.’

  ‘This was the last meal Stan Dodworth ate before he died last night. It was found in your backyard, in your dustbin, in the same plastic bag as the pear.’

  Enlightenment seemed to come at last to Reg Gilbey. ‘Ahhh . . .’ he sighed, and sat back in his chair. ‘You think . . . But you see, you’ve got it all wrong. I’ve never seen that before in my life, nor the pear. Someone must have put the bag in my bin, mustn’t they?’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘To get rid of it, I suppose.’

  ‘But why in your bin? No suggestions? Then we’ll go back to the beginning and start again.Where did you buy the pear?’

  Kathy watched Brock grind away at Gilbey for another forty minutes without result. As the time passed, and Reg
realised that Brock genuinely didn’t believe him, his confidence seemed to drain away again. He became querulous and indignant, then more and more subdued, just shaking his head as he finally seemed to run out of words altogether.

  It was at that point that Bren came into the room where Kathy was sitting. ‘How’s it going?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing. How about you?’

  ‘No, we haven’t found any sign of Dodworth in Gilbey’s house. They’re still collecting fibre samples, but there was nothing obvious. I’d better let the old man know.’

  In the break that followed, Kathy continued watching the screen as Gilbey accepted a mug of tea and lifted it with both trembling hands to his mouth. She got up and found Brock and Bren, deep in conversation. ‘Can I have a go?’ she said.

  They looked at her in surprise, then Brock shrugged and said, ‘Be my guest, Kathy. Give him ten minutes to think about things first, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She got herself a mug of tea and after a while took it in to the interview room with her, together with a uniformed woman officer, who remained by the door.

  ‘I suppose you’re going to be nice to me, are you?’ Gilbey said.

  ‘If I can.’

  He heaved a deep sigh. ‘That boss of yours isn’t very nice, is he? I thought he seemed a decent bloke when I met him before.’

  ‘Tracey’s been missing for two weeks, Reg. DCI Brock’ll do whatever’s necessary to get her back.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know . . . It’s just not very pleasant to be on the receiving end. It’s not like on TV. I feel . . . gutted.’ Another deep sigh. ‘No chance of a smoke, I suppose?’

  ‘I think this is a smoke-free workplace, Reg.’

  ‘Gawd help us.Well, he’s wrong about me hiding Stan.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Anyone could have put that bag in my bin. Maybe the builders. Stan might have been hiding in one of their buildings.’

  ‘We looked.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you did. I feel bad about Tracey too, you know.’

  ‘She was a very pretty little girl, wasn’t she?’

  Reg looked wary. ‘True.’

  ‘Did you paint her at all?’

  ‘I’m not Renoir. Pretty little girls aren’t what I paint.’

  ‘But you did paint the children in the playground, didn’t you?’