‘But there was no blindfold in the film.’
‘Exactly. When he was finished he posed her for us to find, with a blindfold. Why? What does a blindfold mean to you?’
‘I don’t know, blind man’s bluff, three blind mice, blind justice, love is blind, blind leading the blind…’
‘What about in the world of art? Can you recall a blindfolded figure?’
‘No… no, I can’t.’
Brock straightened, his mouth tight with frustration. ‘And you’ve no idea where he might be now?’
‘None at all.’
Out in the gallery, Bren confirmed that a search was under way for the source of the email.‘And they’ve got the other artist, Poppy Wilkes, waiting for us at the station.’
Brock nodded.‘You finish up here, Bren. Kathy and I’ll talk to her.’
Poppy said she hadn’t heard the news about Betty. She had woken late after a restless, dream-filled night, seen the drizzle falling outside her window and stayed in her room, trying to work up an idea for a new version of the cherub sculpture. Then a woman police officer came knocking on her door, asking if she’d attend another interview, and she’d been taken directly to Shoreditch police station, where she’d been provided with a cup of tea while she waited. She seemed to sense their subdued mood as soon as Brock and Kathy walked in.
‘Is it bad news?’ she said, clutching her cardigan tightly at the front.‘You’ve found Tracey, haven’t you?’
‘No,’ Kathy said, taking the lead while Brock sat off to one side.‘It’s not Tracey, Poppy. Can you tell us when you last saw Betty?’
‘Betty? I saw her in the square yesterday afternoon, I think. Yes. She seemed okay. Why, is something wrong?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Betty was found dead this morning. We believe she was murdered some time during the night.’
Both Yasher and Tait had described themselves as being ‘devastated’, meaning sympathetically upset, but in Poppy’s case it didn’t seem like an exaggeration. Her eyes, wide with shock, stared down unseeing at the table in front of her, and she seemed to withdraw into a state of paralysis.
‘Poppy? Poppy?’
She finally registered Kathy’s voice. ‘Tell me,’ she whispered.‘Tell me what happened.’
As Kathy told her everything, little shocks registered in her eyes with each new dreadful detail; the basement room, the hanging, the abuse of the body.
‘Oh,’ she said finally, then closed her eyes, gave a little gasp as if she herself were giving up the last breath in her lungs, and seemed about to pass out.
Kathy reached forward and touched her hand.‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised, taking a sip of water. ‘I haven’t been eating lately.’
That seemed true, Kathy thought. Even in the few days since she’d last seen her in the square, Poppy seemed to have lost weight and taken on an anaemic pallor. ‘Would you like something now? I could get food sent up, a sandwich, or something hot…’
But Poppy shook her head, the thought of food making her gag.‘Do you know who did it?’ she gasped.
‘We’re not certain. I’d like to show you a picture, Poppy. It’s disturbing, so maybe we should wait for a bit.’
‘It’s all right. Show me.’
Kathy passed her the picture of Betty hanging in the basement room. She regarded it unblinking, for a full minute, then said flatly,‘You think Stan did it, don’t you?’
‘What do you think?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
Then an odd change came over Poppy. She suddenly seemed to notice the recording machine on the side table, its red light glowing, and then the eye of the camera suspended in the far corner of the room. She became agitated.
‘Why do you say that?’ Kathy asked.
‘What? I don’t know, maybe he did. I don’t know anything.’ She wiped the cold sweat on her face. ‘I don’t feel good. I want to go now. I think I may be sick.’
‘I’ll take you to the loo.’ Kathy got to her feet and took hold of Poppy’s arm, while Brock spoke to the machine again, halting the interview.
The toilets were empty, and Kathy was intrigued to see that Poppy checked this before she went to a washbasin and splashed water over her face.
Kathy moved close to her shoulder and spoke quietly. ‘You had a reason for saying that Stan didn’t do it, Poppy. What was it?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t want to talk to you. I want someone else to see me out.’
‘I want to help you, Poppy. You believe that, don’t you?’
‘But what if you can’t?’ She saw the disbelief on Kathy’s face and blurted out, ‘Betty knew something. Stan told me… the people who took Tracey, he told me, they have a friend, in the square. Someone who looks after them.’ Then her body froze as the door to the toilets swung open and a uniformed woman came in. Poppy rushed abruptly past her and out into the corridor, Kathy on her heels. The main stairs lay ahead, and Poppy was down them and out into the front lobby before she caught up with her.
‘Poppy!’
But Poppy didn’t stop until they were out on the street and Kathy had hold of her arm.
‘Let me go!’ she yelled in a real state of panic, and a passer-by stared at the two of them.‘Leave me alone or I’ll fucking scream!’
‘Poppy, for God’s sake, talk to me!’
She glared wild-eyed at Kathy. ‘Don’t you see? It’s a warning to Stan, not by Stan!’ Then she turned and ran off through the rain.
18
Kathy took the tube to Piccadilly Circus and began walking west down Piccadilly. The rain had eased to an irregular spit and umbrellas were being folded away. She passed the arched entrance to the forecourt of the Royal Academy where a large group was waiting to get into a new exhibition, then she turned into Burlington Arcade. The little shops lining the arcade were stuffed with luxury items-jewellery, clothing, travel paraphernalia and curious little accessories that might have been essential to the ladies and gentlemen of another age-and Kathy couldn’t help thinking that, as desirable objects went, they could hardly be more different from the pieces that Stan Dodworth had to offer.
At the north end of the arcade she continued into Cork Street, lined with commercial art galleries. She spotted the sign for Adrian Schropp’s and pushed the door into a brightly lit space displaying large hazy landscapes, painted, so the publicity said, by a well-known Norwegian artist. A young woman at the front desk pointed the way to stairs leading down to a basement, crammed with paintings in tall racks, at the back of which Kathy found the owner’s office.
‘Mr Schropp?’ She tapped on the door, and a large man with plump pink features emerged with outstretched hand.
‘Do come in. Grab a pew.’ They settled themselves. His accent was an odd mixture of upper-class English and German. ‘Vell, you seem to have your hands full over in Northcote Square, by all accounts. After you phoned I listened to the news on the radio. My goodness! Poor Mrs Zielinski!’ Adrian Schropp’s jowls trembled indignantly.
‘Yes. As I said, Mr Gilbey thought you might be able to help me make sure that all of her artworks are accounted for.’
Schropp leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘You think theft vas the motive? My God, the violence they use now!’ He shuddered.
‘Not necessarily, it’s just something we have to check. It seems her paintings were her only valuables.’
He nodded vigorously. ‘Mm, mm, that vas my impression, too. I called in at her house several times during visits to Reg, vhen she vanted to sell something. Some of the furniture may be worth something, but so bulky! I tried to check my records…’ He indicated papers pulled from the drawers of a filing cabinet.‘I’m not sure if I’ve found them all, but I can probably remember, anyvay. Do you vant to know vhat vas there or vhat I bought?’
‘Both, if you can. I have a list of what’s left there now, and Reg told me what he could remember.’ She handed over the typed lists and he considered them.