‘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?’
‘That’s different, a pattern of shapes, light and shade.’
‘That’s probably what Renoir said.’
‘Maybe he did, I wouldn’t know. But if you’re trying to suggest I’m a pervert, you’re wrong.’
‘Did she ever come to your house?’
Kathy caught a flicker of perturbation in Reg’s eye that would never have registered on the monitor. He hesitated, and to Kathy’s mind it seemed as if he was calculating the odds of getting away with something.
‘Betty brought her up to my studio once. She wanted to show the girl that portrait I did of her as a young woman.’
‘Did she stay long?’
‘A while… She liked the smell and the feel of the oil paint I was using. Her father and those other so-called artist friends of his don’t use oil paint any more. I gave her a brush and a small canvas to muck about on. A self-portrait, looking in the mirror, all blonde hair and blue eyes.’
Of course, Kathy thought, the little painting Betty had shown her. And now it occurred to her that she hadn’t noticed it in Betty’s house after her death.
‘Did she come again?’
‘Em, yes… she came one other time. That’s all.’
‘And was Betty there?’
Reg held Kathy’s eye so steadily that she was certain he was about to lie.‘Yes.’
Kathy reached for her mug of tea, letting Reg study the puzzled look on her face. ‘You couldn’t be getting mixed up about that, could you, Reg? About Betty being there?’
‘She was there,’ he insisted, pressing his thumb nail so hard into a finger that the flesh went white.
Lying but also telling the truth, Kathy thought. ‘For part of the time,’ she prompted.
He looked startled. ‘Ah… you may be right. I’m not sure.’
‘When was this?’
‘A couple of months ago. Look, you’re barking up the wrong tree. It was all perfectly straightforward and innocent.’
‘Then there’s no need to be secretive, is there? I need to know all about that visit, Reg.’
‘I’m not sure I can remember.’ He was speaking more slowly, trying to give himself time.
‘Yes you can,’ Kathy said briskly.‘It was a weekday?’
‘Um…yes.’
‘Afternoon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, come on, there was a knock at the door…’
Reg was staring at Kathy as if she must be reading his mind.‘She was standing on the doorstep.’
‘Alone.’
‘Yes. She wanted to finish her self-portrait.’
‘So you took her upstairs…’
‘To the studio, yes. She sat down in front of the mirror and got on with her painting. It was a warm afternoon. The window was open, sun shining on the trees of the gardens…’
‘She’d want your advice,’Kathy cut in gently.‘She’d want you to hold her hand, show her how to put the paint on.’
‘No! She was quite confident, didn’t need my help. I got on with my own work. We hardly exchanged a word.’ Gilbey came to a stop.
‘Go on, what happened then?’
‘There was another ring at the front door. It was Sir Jack, for a sitting. His driver had dropped him off and gone to find a parking space. I took him upstairs and introduced him to Tracey, and he admired her painting.’