Brock sat back, realising it hadn’t worked. The spark ignited by dangerous had faded. He waited in silence while Wylie’s lawyer took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and began to strip off the cellophane. Brock shrugged and made to get up from his seat. Then Wylie spoke for the first time. ‘No smoking please, Russell,’ he admonished the solicitor with a wheeze. Then he leaned forward to Brock and muttered,‘What happened to the mad woman?’
‘Did you know her?’
Wylie looked annoyed at this, but answered,‘I saw her around. Well?’
‘We think Stan Dodworth killed her.’
Wylie pursed his fat lips as if in doubt, and Brock decided to tell him what had not been released to the press.‘Her body was mutilated. Electric shocks.’
Wylie drew back, startled.
Brock went on, ‘You’ll be judged by the people you mixed with, Wylie. And there’s a rumour that you and Abbott had another friend in the square, apart from Dodworth.’
Wylie looked scornful but didn’t reply.
‘Where’s Stan Dodworth?’
‘No idea.’
‘Where’s Tracey Rudd?’
Wylie’s eyes narrowed as if in calculation. Finally he muttered,‘Why don’t you ask the judge?’
Brock was hardly sure he’d heard correctly, but before he could say anything more Wylie was on his feet, turning to the door behind him and slapping it with his pudgy fist.
Kathy was shown into Fergus Tait’s office, but no sooner had she sat down in front of his desk than his phone rang.
‘Oh, excuse me, they’re going mad, I’d better take it,’ he said, and launched into an animated conversation with someone about the latest developments.‘Your spies are quite right,’ he said.‘The No Trace project will be entered for the Turner, and believe me, nothing else will come near it. Have you heard about today’s banner? You must see it, a knockout, an absolute stunner. Every day it’s becoming more spectacular…’
While he talked, Kathy examined the artworks on the walls-a large abstract painting, some blurry photographs which might have been stills from a video and, in pride of place on the wall behind Tait’s director’s chair, a small pyramid of cans bearing labels of frolicking puppies, mounted in a glass case.
Tait finally hung up.‘Sorry, Kathy, Channel Four. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘I’m just trying to establish if there’s anything missing from Mrs Zielinski’s house, and in particular her paintings. I understand you may have bought some things from her, and I wondered if you could tell me what they were, for the purposes of elimination.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, that’s easy. There was only the one, a small study by Francis Bacon. I can find the receipt, if you like. As a matter of fact, I sold it not long ago, to someone you know.’
‘Really?’ Kathy thought he must have made a mistake.
‘Yes, Sir Jack Beaufort, old Reg’s sitter.’
‘But… how did you know that I’ve met him?’
Tait chuckled, pleased at her confusion. ‘Because he told me so, just the other night. He’s a regular here at the restaurant. We always have a chat.’
‘Ah, I see. Did he know that the painting came from Betty?’
Tait thought about that. ‘I’m not sure. She certainly knew who I sold it to-I told her.’
The phone began to ring again and Kathy got to her feet. On her way out she looked in to the gallery, where four of Rudd’s team were hanging the eleventh banner. They were watched closely by the hollow-eyed artist in his cube, like a Grand Prix champion watching his pit-stop crew in action. The new addition featured a twice life-size crimson image of Betty’s corpse taken from the email attachment, the stark figure shocking in its contorted death pose, like a Gothic crucifixion. A cluster of press photographers was standing in front of it, mouths open.
Looking at the whole sequence of eleven hangings, Kathy could see elements tying them together that she hadn’t recognised before. There was a thin meandering line, for instance, which began, unnoticed, in the top of the first banner, and then was continued in the next, gradually working its way across all eleven like the random trail of a worm or a spider. And there was also a sense of progression in the colour which she hadn’t noticed. The first one had been entirely colourless, formed in shades of grey and black. Then the next had had a hint of blue, and after that, with each successive day, the colours had become stronger, as if the banners were coming alive.
Looking at the artist, an opposite process seemed to have been taking place, with the colour and substance leaching from him, leaving him each day leaner and more wraithlike. To Kathy it looked as if all his vitality were being transferred into his artwork.
While she was watching him, he suddenly turned his attention from his team to her, meeting her gaze. He gave her a little smile as if they shared some private knowledge, then turned away again.
Through the large restaurant windows she could see the waiters putting a final polish on the cutlery before the first diners arrived. She crossed the street to Mahmed’s Cafe, not sure what kind of reception she might get. Sonia was there, of course, along with a young girl she introduced as her niece. She was formal but not unfriendly, and after she took Kathy’s order for a black coffee she sent the girl to the kitchen and leaned confidentially over the counter.
‘Have you caught the fiend?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I know you can’t talk about it, but you must believe that Yasher had nothing to do with this. He may have some shady friends, I dare say, but he’d never get mixed up in this sort of thing. It’s beyond belief.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I am right. You know we’ve offered to cater for the funeral-no cost.’
‘That’s generous of you.’
‘Ach, it’s nothing. We’re part of the community too, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘At a time like this we must work together. We are all connected.’
Kathy reflected on how true this was as she sat down with her coffee. Everyone in Northcote Square was connected to everyone else. Gabriel Rudd knew the sculptor Stan Dodworth, who knew Patrick Abbott, who had probably abducted Tracey Rudd; Betty Zielinski had been the model of Reg Gilbey, whose client Sir Jack Beaufort knew Fergus Tait, who had sold him a painting belonging to Betty Zielinski… And the police, too, had been drawn into this web, for, according to DI Reeves, Beaufort was involved in some kind of inquiry into their future. She distrusted coincidences but she knew that real life was full of them, the appearance of false patterns when random events fall together. But sometimes the patterns wererealand meant something. Somewhereinthis, she felt, there was a pattern that would make sense of Tracey’s disappearance and Betty’s death. They just hadn’t discovered it yet.
An enormous blood-red sun trembled on the western horizon like a tumour. It cast a baleful light over the City, gilding the flank of the Nat West Tower and turning the dome of St Paul’s a petal-pink. Brock gazed out through the glass balcony doors at the sunset for a moment longer, then turned back to examine the paintings. Each had its place, glowing beneath its own concealed spotlight, and Lady Beaufort had been particular about switching all the lights on before Brock entered the room, as if preparing her children for a visitor.
‘My husband receives so many deputations from Scotland Yard these days,’she had said proudly.‘I wasn’t able to contact him, I’m afraid, but I know he won’t be long. He always lets me know if he’s going to be delayed. I’m so sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.’