Barry Maitland: No trace

‘No controlled drugs, but lots of medication-antidepressants, anti-inflammatories, beta-blockers, sleeping pills, vitamins. We haven’t touched his computers at this stage. He has four of them in the house. Are you going to access his emails?’

‘Yes, though I imagine Tracey was a bit young to be talking to predators on the web.’

‘Don’t be too sure. Oh, one little thing. His alarm clock was set for six-fifteen, yet he didn’t ring us till seven-ohsix.’

‘Could have gone back to sleep.’

‘Yes, or done a bit of cleaning before we arrived.’

‘You’ll take that suit he’s wearing, will you? Check what those stains are on the legs.’

Kathy had one question.‘Does he dye his hair?’

The woman laughed.‘I asked him that. He said it went white almost overnight when his wife died.’

‘How did she die, do we know?’

‘He told me-suicide.’

‘That’s right,’ Brock said. ‘Those drawings of horses’ heads on the wall, they’re studies for an artwork he did after it happened. The Night-Mare, it was called, inspired by his wife’s suicide. I remember it won a big prize a few years ago and got a lot of press coverage.’

‘What about Dead Puppies?’ Kathy asked.

Brock shook his head.‘You’d better ask him to explain that one himself.’

The SOCO said, ‘Oh, was that him? Did he do Dead Puppies?’

There was a call from an officer at the back door.‘Sir? DCI Brock? Someone to see you, sir.’

The visitor was dressed like a young businessman, neat tie, smart suit, but even before he offered identification Brock had caught something in the way he looked around him at the crime-scene activity, familiar but detached, that had him pegged for a cop, and probably not regular CID.

‘Special Branch?’ Brock read his card, wondering what this could be about.‘What can I do for you?’

‘A quiet word, sir?’

Brock took him upstairs to the living area and led him to the front window, at the far end from Gabriel Rudd, who was now joined by Kathy.

‘I’m on protection duties, sir,’ the Special Branch inspector said quietly to Brock. ‘We-my charge and I- have been coming here to Northcote Square regularly now for eight months. We were following the news reports of your case on the radio on the way over. When we arrived and saw the crowds I thought I should let you know.’

‘Really?’ Brock was mystified. ‘Can I ask who it is you’re minding?’

The inspector leaned close to Brock and lowered his voice further.‘Sir Jack Beaufort, sir.’

‘The judge? Why does he come here?’

The other man allowed himself a little smile. ‘He’s having his portrait painted. The artist’s name is Gilbey, Reg Gilbey. Have you come across him?’

‘No.’

‘Well, he’s apparently held in very high regard. The only problem is that he’s bloody slow. Some days he works away there for a couple of hours and at the end of it I can’t see any difference at all.’

‘Where’s his studio?’

‘Number fifteen West Terrace.’ The inspector pointed. ‘The one on the corner, with the bay window.’

It was the end house on West Terrace, Brock saw, at the corner of the square opposite the playground of the primary school and next door to the house of Betty Zielinski. The bay window was a distinctive feature, projecting out from the first floor on the corner like an observation post, and crowned by a slate-roofed turret.

‘That’s where he paints, the room with the bay.’

‘Why the protection?’

‘The judge has had death threats.’

Brock could believe it. He knew Beaufort’s reputation for tough sentencing and had seen him in action in the criminal courts, imperious and acerbic. ‘Do you come at the same time each week?’

‘No, we try to vary it. At first it was once a week, but more recently it’s twice or three times, often first thing in the morning to keep his day clear.’

‘Well, thanks for the advice. Of course, we’ll be talking to Mr Gilbey.’

‘The door-knockers have already been. He had nothing to tell them.’

‘All the same…’ Brock was thinking of Betty Zielinski’s scream.

The inspector looked thoughtful.‘Did the little girl go to the school on the corner, by any chance?’

‘Yes, she did. Why?’

‘Only that I know he watches them in the playground from his bay window.’

‘Gilbey? You’ve seen him?’

‘Yes, you get a good all-round view from up there.’

‘What’s he like, this Gilbey?’

‘In his seventies, I’d guess, dresses like a tramp, says very little.’ He shrugged and checked his watch. ‘Never know, he may have seen someone watching the place. Anyway, I should be getting back.’

They shook hands and Brock said,‘You’d better give me a number I can reach you on. My sergeant, DS Kolla, will be staying around here for a while. I’ll give you her number.’

After the man had gone, Brock stood at the window for a moment contemplating the square. He felt as if he were on the stage at a public spectacle, with the mob down below and a judge in the royal box, observing his moves. He turned to speak to Kathy.

‘I’m going over to Shoreditch station,’ he said, and saw that Rudd was dressed now in sweater and jeans. The man blew his nose noisily with a large red handkerchief and Brock noticed moisture glistening around his eyes.‘Everything all right?’

Kathy nodded. Everyone was different, she thought; it was important to remember that. You barged into someone’s home and bombarded them with questions, and expected certain reactions. If they didn’t come, you began to make suppositions. But everyone was different. It had taken Rudd all this time to show real feeling about his daughter’s disappearance. Kathy’s question about the unlocked window had started the tears, quite suddenly. It was all his fault, he had blurted, not checking to see that the window was secure. And then his shoulders had shuddered and he’d folded his arms over his head and begun to sob. She had caught some words: ‘… couldn’t live with it, not again…’

She had assumed he was referring to the death of his wife, and for the first time she felt a real surge of pity for him. His stunt at the window, his careless manner and eccentric appearance, which had appeared silly and pretentious, now seemed only vulnerable and sad, and when he had finally pulled himself together and made some weak joke about something in his eye, his early behaviour seemed brave even, a show of defiance against fate.

Brock’s voice, detached and sceptical, interrupted her thoughts. ‘Stay close to him for a while, Kathy. Get him talking,’ he said.‘Something doesn’t feel right here. He says he’s preparing for an exhibition but there’s no sign of any work. The place is empty. Then there’s the medication. Maybe he’s suffering from depression.’

When Brock had gone Gabe started telling Kathy about Tracey, what a happy and loving little thing she was, so sensible and responsible. Already, at six years old, she was looking after her own clothes, keeping her room so neat, always ready ahead of time-unlike her father, who left everything to the last minute.

‘She gets that from her mother,’ he said, rubbing his eyes.‘Jane was always organised, until…’

‘That must’ve been terrible for you both, when she died.’

‘Trace was only one. She doesn’t remember. I’m not sure if she knows even now what actually happened. I’ve never told her. She accepts that her mother’s gone to heaven, but she’s never asked how she got there.’

‘How did it happen?’

Gabe lifted his eyes to watch her reaction as he told her.‘She jumped off a bridge into the Regent’s Canal, not half a mile from here.’