‘Incidentally, he knows someone you met recently. Special Branch, Tom Reeves.’ Nicole raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘Oh yes. I’ve bumped into him a few times,’ Kathy said vaguely.
‘Interesting?’ Nicole persisted.
‘I’m too ill to answer that.’
Nicole laughed. ‘Only, he rang you this morning on your mobile. I answered it in case it was Brock. I hope that’s okay.’
Kathy felt a small buzz of pleasure. ‘That’s fine. What did he want?’
‘Didn’t say. He seemed concerned about you. He left a number.’
‘Thanks. Did Lloyd tell you anything about him?’
‘He’s single, that’s the main thing. Lloyd said he seems a nice bloke, but he doesn’t know him well. A bit of a dark horse. You know what Special Branch are like. Someone else rang your phone.’ She checked her note on a piece of paper.‘Adrian Schropp.’
For a moment Kathy couldn’t place the name, then she remembered the West End art dealer.
‘He didn’t leave a message either. Both Brock and DI Gurney phoned me as well, just to check how you were.’
‘Did they say whether they’ve found a woman called Poppy Wilkes yet, by any chance?’
‘They didn’t say. There was a report about her on the news this morning. Police are appealing blah, blah, blah. We’re nothing if not appealing. How’s the toast?’
‘Good. I’m really hungry.’
‘I’d make you some more, but that’s all there is. And it seems that was the only solid food you had in your flat.’
‘Sorry. I wasn’t expecting visitors.’
‘I can see that. I might pop out and buy a few things.’
‘There’s money in my bag, wherever that is.’
While Nicole was out, Kathy washed her face and brushed her teeth. Looking at herself in the bathroom mirror she understood the concern she’d seen in her friend’s face. She looked drained, the way her car battery sounded on cold mornings. Coupled with the empty fridge and generally unkempt state of her flat, it didn’t need a detective to draw conclusions.
She had a drink of water and began using her phone, starting with Shoreditch, where she was put through to Bren. He was relieved to hear from her and sounded just a bit too sympathetic for her liking, as if she’d been relegated to the ranks of the fragile and infirm. They hadn’t found Poppy yet; her face was in all the papers.
She got the answering service on DI Reeves’s phone and left a quick message, then tried Adrian Schropp’s number. The strange mixture of German consonants and plummy public-school vowels answered, sounding oddly evasive.
‘I’m sorry, Sergeant Kolla, I rang you in error, really. It vas nothing.’
Kathy looked at Nicole’s note, with his name, number and the time of the call, two hours before, and the comment, Information for you.‘I understand you have some information, Mr Schropp. What’s it concerning?’
‘As I say, an error. I saw the picture of that girl in the paper this morning, Poppy Vilkes, and thought I knew her. But I vas wrong. So sorry to bother you.’ He hung up abruptly, leaving Kathy puzzled.
Nicole came back with four heavy carrier bags, and set about filling Kathy’s shelves and refrigerator. ‘We’ll have a proper breakfast, bacon and eggs, and I’ve bought you some cutlets for your dinner, and salad and fruit…’ Kathy watched, feeling guilty, guessing what was coming.
As they finished the bacon and eggs, Nicole said casually, ‘You’ve been feeling low, haven’t you, since you split up with Leon?’
‘I’m not depressed.’
‘Aren’t you?’ Nicole looked pointedly around the room, then at Kathy.‘When did you last get your hair done?’
‘I had an appointment the day this case started, and I had to cancel. I haven’t had time since.’
‘You mean you haven’t made time since. You can’t just live through your work, Kathy. That’s a trap.’
‘I think about Leon sometimes, but mostly I think about that little girl we found, with the black leg.’
‘What?’
Kathy explained, Nicole looking horrified. ‘And I imagine Tracey going the same way while we’ve been trying to find her, the gangrene spreading…’ She was suddenly startled to find her eyes filling with tears. Hell, she thought, maybe I am depressed.
Nicole put a hand on hers.‘You must find it lonely on your own up here, don’t you?’
‘Sometimes.’ Kathy used her other hand to wipe her eyes.‘But not as lonely as living with someone whose mind is taken up with someone else. That’s much worse, isn’t it?’
‘Look, I think you should go to your GP. There’s lots of things they can give you now, to get you over a hump.’
‘Thanks. Maybe I will.’ She glanced at the time. ‘I’m worried about you being away from work. I’m really fine now, if you want to get back.’
‘Well, perhaps I should, if you’re sure. I bought you the paper and a couple of magazines. Go back to bed and have a real rest today. I’ll look in on the way home tonight.’
She was talking as if to an invalid, Kathy thought. She gave a suitably limp smile of thanks and saw Nicole to the door, then went to her bedroom and started getting dressed. Before leaving she spent a bit more time on her make-up than she’d been accustomed to lately, trying to manufacture a glow of health in her cheeks.
Adrian Schropp was talking to his assistant at the desk in the front room of the Cork Street gallery. On the walls around them the large, misty Norwegian landscapes glowed beneath the lights as if some revelation were about to emerge. Kathy hoped that it might serve as an inspiration to the fog in her own head.
Schropp looked up and tried to hide his surprise. ‘Vy, Sergeant Kolla, how nice. Have you changed your mind about buying a fjord? Better hurry, they’ve nearly all gone.’
‘Yes, I see the red spots. But it was your phone call I wanted to speak to you about, Mr Schropp.’
‘But I thought I explained…’ The dealer glanced at his assistant and said, ‘Give me five minutes, darling.’ He crooked a finger at Kathy and led her through to the rear gallery and a couple of seats set beside a coffee table piled with art magazines and catalogues.
‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, as I said, it vas all a mistake. You’ve vasted your time.’
‘Any information about Poppy Wilkes may be vital at this time, Mr Schropp. Please tell me what you had in mind and let me be the judge.’
Schropp sighed, looking uncomfortable. ‘It really is important, is it?’
‘Please.’
‘Vell…’ he began reluctantly,‘I recognised her face in the paper this morning. She came in here several years ago, vith an odd story. She’d been told she vas related to a painter who had done a portrait of Mick Jagger, years ago. She’d recently visited the National Portrait Gallery and had seen such a portrait there. The people there told her that the painting had been acquired through the Adrian Schropp Gallery, and that ve might be able to put her in touch vith the artist. I pointed out that there might be other portraits of the singer, but she vas convinced it vas this one. I saw no harm in it, and told her vhere the artist lived.’ He hesitated.‘It vas Reg Gilbey. Vhen I saw the girl’s picture this morning, I thought, that if Reg is her relative he may know vhere she has gone, to some other relative maybe, so I tried to ring him. Vhen I got no reply I rang you instead. Then I thought maybe that vas a stupid thing to do. Maybe the whole thing vas a mistake, and anyvay, it’s up to Reg to get in touch vith you. I vouldn’t like the old boy to think I vas informing on him.’
‘You’re quite right to tell me this, Mr Schropp. Reg may not have seen the papers.’
‘Exactly!’ Schropp seemed relieved. ‘He’s been rather vague lately. I think vhat’s been happening in Northcote Square has affected him deeply.’
‘Do you know of any relatives of his?’
He scratched an ear.‘I recall a couple of old dears who came to an opening once-sisters or cousins-but I don’t know vhere they lived. You’d have to speak to Reg.’
The crowds were as dense in the square as before, and the floral tributes outside Gabriel Rudd’s house had grown to a small meadow, extending out across Urma Street, which had now been closed to traffic because of the risk of accidents. People were moving among the flowers, taking photographs and stooping to read the messages. Although it was midday, the sky was so darkly overcast that the lights in the buildings shone almost as brightly as at night. From the street Kathy saw a light in the bay window of Reg Gilbey’s studio. She pushed her way through the throng to the iron gate, went up the steps to his front door and rang the bell, hammering the brass lion-head knocker at the same time. There was no response. She returned to the street and went round the corner. Across the way, children in the school playground were pressed against the railings, pointing and waving to the crowds. She turned down the lane behind West Terrace and opened the gate into Gilbey’s backyard. His kitchen door was unlocked, and she went inside. The house was silent, a faint smell of burnt cheese and cigarette smoke hanging in the air.