‘Did he really say that? That’s rather good.’ Gabe smiled to himself, turning the phrase over in his mind.
‘He meant it, too. And he also got seriously mad with Betty. I don’t know why she couldn’t stand him, but she did everything she could to get up his nose. She used to call him “the monster next door”.’
‘Yes, granted…’ Gabe frowned, more serious now as he considered it.‘But still, old Reg? Anyway, how could he have tracked Stan down when nobody else could find him?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he was hiding him all this time.’She turned to Kathy.‘Did you lot search Reg’s house after Stan disappeared?’
‘No, we had no reason to. But were they friends?’
‘Not friends, no, but they did drink together sometimes in The Daughters of Albion. After he’d had a few Reg’d tease Stan, call him “my friend, Auguste” after Rodin, or “my old mate, Benvenuto”-as in Cellini, you know-or one of the other great sculptors. Stan would just take the joke and say “all right, Pablo” and let Reg buy him another drink. I used to wonder about it.’
‘Look,’ Kathy said,‘this really is just guesswork, isn’t it? You don’t have anything solid against Reg Gilbey, do you?’
‘Maybe not,’ Poppy conceded, ‘but I still say Gabe’s in danger.’
‘Okay, I don’t rule that out, or that you could be too, Poppy, come to that. Look at it another way. If Betty’s and Stan’s deaths are related to Tracey’s abduction, could it be because they knew something that the abductor is trying to hide?’
‘But you’ve caught him, haven’t you?’
‘We don’t have any direct proof that the man we arrested, Robert Wylie, took Tracey.’
‘And maybe there are others you haven’t caught yet,’ Gabe said, voice flat and forlorn. Poppy instinctively put out a hand to clutch his arm.
‘That’s right,’Kathy said.‘You told me, Poppy, that Stan had hinted to you that the people who took Tracey had a friend in the square, do you remember?’
Poppy nodded.
‘Is there anything else that Stan or Betty said to either of you that could help us? I want you to think back over your conversations with them, especially in the last couple of months. Do it carefully, remembering each time, and writing down as much as you can remember. Will you do that? It could be important.’
Poppy nodded but Gabe looked doubtful.
‘Yes, we will,’ Poppy said. ‘Won’t we, Gabe?’ She got a half-hearted nod. ‘And in return, will you give us protection? I’ve tried to persuade Gabe to leave London, but he says he has to stay for the work.’
‘You know I do, babe,’ he murmured.‘This is the most important thing I’ve ever done.’
‘I’ll talk to my boss and see what can be arranged,’ Kathy said. ‘There is one other thing. It may not mean anything… Do you have a book about Henry Fuseli’s work here, Gabe?’
He looked startled.‘What do you know about him?’
‘Only that you used one of his paintings as inspiration for The Night-Mare.’
‘You have been doing your homework, haven’t you, Sergeant Kolla?’
There was something about the playful way he said this, almost flirtatious, that registered in Poppy’s eyes. ‘I’ll get it,’ she said sharply, and got to her feet. She pulled a thick volume from the bookshelves and brought it to Kathy, letting it drop on her lap. It wasn’t the same book that Kathy had been looking at the previous night but if anything it seemed more comprehensive. She turned the pages of the early chapters until she found the picture, and was aware of Gabe’s eyes on her all the time.
‘There…’ She handed the open book across to him. ‘You see the two figures in the background, Justice and Liberty? Both have their hands tied behind their backs, and one is blindfolded. Like Betty and Stan.’
Gabe took a long look, then gave a low whistle. ‘I’d forgotten this one. How did you find it?’ He stared at Kathy.
‘Just looking for clues.’
‘Well, I’m amazed, Kathy, really,’ Gabe said. ‘That’s inspired, it really is. But I always knew you were the bright one, didn’t I? Do you remember, that first time we met? I told you the others were hopeless.’The respect and interest in Gabe’s voice, together with what now looked like jealousy on Poppy’s face, caught Kathy unawares, and she felt an embarrassing blush grow in her cheek.
‘But how could this have anything to do with what happened?’ Poppy’s voice cut in.‘I mean, it’s odd I suppose, but so what?’
‘Don’t be dumb, love.’ Now it was Poppy’s pale face that flushed at Gabe’s words. ‘You think someone might have arranged things as a message to me, Kathy?’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’
‘Assuming that I’d be bright enough to remember my own sources, which it so happens I wasn’t. Well, that is intriguing, isn’t it? In fact it’s bloody scary when you think about it, because frankly, I’m the only one around who’s quoting from Fuseli. I should have spotted it straight away. I do thank you, Kathy. I really do.’
Kathy shrugged, avoiding his eyes. He was playing some game with Poppy, she felt sure, deliberately provoking her, and doing it very successfully.
But he was stroking the page of the book now, his thoughts moving on. ‘I’ll have to use this, Kathy, for the work, the next banner, you know that, don’t you? And I will acknowledge you-not like the last time, but discreetly, so you aren’t embarrassed. And when it’s hanging in the big hall in Tate Modern, you’ll be able to point it out to your friends. “See?” you’ll say, “I helped make the first friggin’ masterpiece of the twenty-first century.”’
He laughed, and Poppy, unable to take any more of this, got to her feet and stomped off to the kitchen bench, where she began noisily loading the dishwasher.
21
Brock agreed to Kathy’s suggestion to place an armed police officer in Gabriel Rudd’s house, at least for a day or two, and Fergus Tait put out a press and web statement saying that, in view of the dangerous events that had occurred in Northcote Square, he had insisted that the artist go into hiding at an undisclosed location where he could continue his work undisturbed. Poppy remained with him in the house.
Dr Mehta was in his office when Brock and Kathy arrived at the mortuary. While Kathy chatted to the photographer outside, the pathologist explained to Brock his tactics for survival in a work environment where everyone else was so much younger than he was.
‘The vital thing is to give absolutely no indication that you were around in the sixties and seventies, Brock, otherwise you’re finished. So when someone asks about something that happened then, you simply look blank, as if to say,“How should I know?”’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, Sundeep.’
‘You do that, old chap. Even the early eighties is prehistory to some of the kids I work with now.’
Like the man himself in life, Stan Dodworth’s remains were remarkable for having little to say. They bore no wounds or bruises, no signs of constraint apart from the single rope mark to the throat.
‘I’d say it was a straightforward hanging suicide,’ Dr Mehta concluded from his external examination, ‘apart from two things. One, the cord tied around his wrists, almost certainly after death. And two, the dirt on his hands.’
‘What about it?’
‘There isn’t any!’ Mehta gave his comic magician’s smile.
‘How do you mean?’ Brock asked patiently, well used to Mehta’s ways.
‘Just look at the rope he was hanged by. It’s filthy, encrusted with a grey dust that I’ll bet this month’s salary is cement or plaster from a building site. It’s come off on his neck and on his scalp, but there’s none on his hands. I’ve taken swabs, but, unless somebody washed his hands afterwards, I’d say he never carried that rope, or rigged up the noose. I think someone else did that, and placed it around his neck.’