‘Detective Chief Inspector David Brock.’
‘Well then, Detective Chief Inspector, would you mind if I leave you here on your own until Jack returns? I happen to be watching on the television the very last episode of a particularly engaging program, which I’ve been following for some years.’
‘Please go ahead. I’ll be fine.’
She had cocked her head just like her husband did, except that in her case the gesture was whimsical rather than interrogative. She was of the same narrow build as him, the same lined features and grizzled grey hair, but at half the scale, so that they seemed liked brother and sister.
The pictures were very good. If there was any criticism to be made of the collection it was that it lacked consistency. Thinking of the spare harshness of the man, Brock had expected some parallel in the paintings, all abstract expressionist, perhaps, or all of a certain period. But the paintings were of every style and philosophy, from Stanley Spencer to Roberto Matta, Bernard Buffet to Gilbert and George, as if the judge had been so greedy for the delights of twentieth-century art that he just hadn’t been able to resist anything.
The paintings dominated the room, and the furniture seemed cowed by comparison. Brock knew the apartment building had not been long completed, and this was its most expensive unit, the rooftop penthouse, and the sofas and chairs had the air of refugees from some cosier suburban mansion.
‘What are you doing here?’ The voice cut into Brock’s thoughts.
He turned to face the man, standing taut in the doorway, staring at him.
‘I’m sorry, I phoned earlier and your wife suggested this time. She’s watching a TV program.’
‘I’m not sure this is appropriate. If you’ve come to talk to me about the report…’
‘No, no. I’m here in connection with the Tracey Rudd and Betty Zielinski inquiries.’
‘I know nothing whatever about that.’
‘This was hers, wasn’t it?’ Brock pointed to the Bacon painting.‘Betty Zielinski’s?’
Beaufort seemed startled, and a new caution entered his voice.‘I believe that’s true. I bought it from a dealer, Fergus Tait.’ Then Beaufort’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Did Tait tell you this?’
‘Did you ever talk to Mrs Zielinski about the painting?’
‘No. I fail to see…’
‘I’m interested in everything to do with Betty Zielinski, sir-who she knew, what she knew.’ He paused, letting that register, then added, ‘It would seem quite natural, inevitable even, that you would speak to the former owner of your painting when you’ve been visiting the house next door to her several times a week for the last eight months.’
‘I didn’t know the former owner lived next door to Reg Gilbey until today.’
‘Well, she knew you had it.’
‘Really?’ His face set hard as if to an obtuse counsel whose claims didn’t merit his consideration.
‘So there’s nothing you can tell me about Betty Zielinski that might assist my inquiries?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What about Stan Dodworth?’
‘Who?’
‘You don’t know him? Stan Dodworth?’
‘I think I recall the name…’
‘He’s one of Fergus Tait’s artists.’
‘Then I may have seen his work. Remind me.’
‘Body Parts.’
‘Oh yes, I remember. It was of no interest to me.’
Brock turned away, eyes scanning the walls as if searching for some clue. ‘So you wouldn’t have any idea where he is now?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. Why? What’s he done?’
‘He’s disappeared.’ Brock continued his contemplation of the paintings.
‘And that has something to do with the crimes?’
Brock didn’t answer.
Beaufort said, ‘Have you any idea who killed Betty Zielinski?’
Brock said, ‘Buffet went terribly out of fashion, didn’t he? After being so popular. Do you think he’s coming back?’
‘If he is,’ Sir Jack said acidly,‘then it’s more than can be said of you, Chief Inspector. If you ever want to speak to me again, please make an appointment through my secretary to see me at my office, not at my home. Goodbye.’
As Brock strolled through the front door he heard the faint cry of Beaufort’s wife, ‘Is that you, Jack? There’s someone waiting to see you in the living room. I can’t remember his name.’
The phone was ringing when Brock opened his front door that night, and kept ringing until he climbed the stairs to the living room and picked it up.
‘Hello?’
‘Why don’t you have an answering machine?’
‘Must have switched it off. Who is this?’
‘You know damn well who it is! Your mobile was switched off too.’
‘Yes, sorry, sir.’ Commander Sharpe audibly controlled his irritation with a hissing intake of breath.‘Well, mine wasn’t, and I’ve just had the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, Special Operations, on the phone. His wasn’t either, and he’d just had the Assistant Commissioner on his phone, who’d just had a call from the Deputy Commissioner on his. Tell me there’s been some terrible misunderstanding, Brock. Tell me you didn’t go to the home of Sir Jack Beaufort this evening.’
‘I did.’
Silence, then a wondering voice. ‘Why? Whatever possessed you?’
‘We’ve been interviewing everyone who bought paintings from Betty Zielinski. He was one among several.’
‘You behaved in a threatening manner.’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘His wife was extremely upset.’
‘Rubbish. Did he say that?’
‘Just listen. If it weren’t that he insisted otherwise, you’d have been suspended from this inquiry faster than a duck’s fart. Dear God, I always thought you were reasonably intelligent! What on earth did you hope to achieve? Were you so desperate to retire? You have just done more than any single individual to end our chances of survival. Congratulations.’
The line clicked dead.
Almost immediately it began to ring again. This time it was Suzanne’s voice. ‘David? Thank goodness, I haven’t been able to get through.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. I’m at the travel agent. Look, there are two seats left on a flight leaving two weeks tomorrow-the evening of Friday the seventh. They may be the last available.’
‘Take them,’ he said.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, we’re going.’
19
The first school parties arrived at The Pie Factory the following morning, Friday the twenty-fourth of October. As she came through the square after the morning briefing, Kathy saw the three coaches parked on West Terrace and the children in uniform forming queues at the entrance to the gallery. What surprised her were the distances they had come; judging by the company addresses on the coaches, they were from Birmingham, Bristol and Leicester. Curious, she followed one of the lines into the gallery. These were senior students, she saw, in wellorganised study groups, with notebooks, cameras and sketchpads. The teachers were handing out study notes and question-and-answer sheets, and were carrying files of reference material. As they reached the gallery foyer, Kathy saw that Fergus Tait had set an entrance fee, which was new, and had lavish catalogues for sale, as well as No Trace and ‘Gabriel’ T-shirts that were selling fast.
The cluster of girls in front of Kathy were clearly excited by their first glimpse of the artist through the front window, and were talking about him in pop-star terms, text-messaging their friends with the news. When they got inside the girls hurried over to join the ranks of teenagers around the glass cube gawping in at Rudd, who ignored them, head down over his computer screen. Some of the girls were flirtatiously trying to attract his attention, while the boys hung back, smirking and muttering comments. One was on his knees, tapping the glass and calling, ‘Dave, Dave.’ Then teachers appeared, briskly separating the mob into manageable groups and leading them away.