Barry Maitland: No trace

‘Blockages in our personnel profile,’ Sharpe nodded, as if regretting a medical problem. ‘I’ll see what I can do. She’ll probably have to move to another unit, though.’

‘No.’

‘No? Oh, very well. Leave it with me. There’s another matter. You probably know that at least one well-known reporter has got wind of you interviewing Beaufort at Shoreditch-somebody at the station probably tipped him off. They sniff scandal, Brock, and they’re going to be after you, very soon, and we’d like to avoid that. Sir Jack has had the good sense to go abroad. And I was recently reminded- no, reprimanded-by Human Resources, or whatever they call themselves this week, that I’ve allowed you to accumulate an intolerable amount of untaken leave.’ Sharpe aimed his most piercing look at Brock.‘Time for a holiday,’ he said firmly.

‘Yes,’ Brock said.‘I’ve been thinking that myself.’

Sharpe, who had clearly been anticipating resistance, looked surprised.‘Good. When?’

‘Tomorrow, actually.’

‘Better still! Somewhere far away, I hope?’

‘Australia.’

Sharpe leapt to his feet and shook Brock’s hand as if to seal the matter before Brock could change his mind.

He drove down to Battle that evening and spent the night with Suzanne. The house seemed unnaturally still without the children, making Brock feel slightly self-conscious, as if they were starting a new relationship. He saw how much work Suzanne had put into preparing for the trip-new clothes, gifts for her family, the house readied, bags packed, documents assembled, arrangements for the stopover in Singapore, detailed instructions for her assistant on running the shop-while he had done nothing, barely having checked that his passport was current.

The next morning they drove up to London to collect Brock’s things in preparation for their departure that evening. As they went through his house he realised how disorganised it was. Despite his protests, Suzanne helped with the piles of washing, ironing and clearing up, vetting his packing. ‘It’s spring there remember, David,’ she said, and somehow the words brought home to him what a step they were taking.

They broke off for a last English pub lunch at The Bishop’s Mitre in the high street, and as he supped his pint he was aware of Suzanne scrutinising him gravely with her intelligent grey eyes.‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘You’re still thinking about work, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘They’re a bit like me, aren’t they, the Nolans?’ she said. ‘Stepping in to protect their grandchildren. You’ve thought of that haven’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you’re still not absolutely sure that they did those murders.’

‘No.’

‘I could, if I had to.’

He looked at her and smiled.‘No, not like that. And the point is, they didn’t have to.’

‘Oh well,’ she put her hand on his,‘they’ll still be here when we get back, won’t they?’

‘That’s true.’

‘It feels odd, the prospect of seeing Emily again,’ Suzanne said.‘I mean, I’m very fond of her, and we were close when we were children, but she was the classic older sister, always in charge, always manipulating things to suit herself. It was a relief to get out from under her shadow. We’ll have to watch she doesn’t completely take over when we get there. She’s probably organised every minute.’

When they got back to the house Suzanne decided to lie down for an hour while Brock finished clearing up. There was a pile of documents relating to the case that he planned to drop off at Shoreditch on the way to the airport, and as he gathered them up he came again upon the photograph of Tracey’s first birthday party. It was this that had really convinced him about the Nolans’ guilt. Here was everyone, all the victims, gathered together in a single moment captured by-who else but the murderer? There was a psychological aptness, a completeness about it that had seemed irresistible, crowned by the defiance of that final act of pinning it to the wall of Gabe’s studio.

But what disturbed Brock was how poorly the Nolans had lived up to the vicious bravado of that gesture. Their defence had been naive and unprepared, without cunning or manipulation. That word reminded Brock of Suzanne’s description of her sister, pulling strings in the background. He put the photograph aside and saw another picture beneath it, a print of the Fuseli etching that Kathy had copied to him. In the background were the two figures hanging from the gibbet, and in the foreground the two philosophers, one riding on the back of crouching humanity. Visual clues, if you could only decipher them; the case had been full of them.

When Suzanne saw him later that afternoon she found him keyed-up and distracted, ramming the last of his papers into a briefcase, and she put it down to the imminent journey. She felt the same way herself; things would settle down once they were on the move.

‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’ she asked.

‘We should go,’he said.‘I want to make a call on the way.’

It was growing dark when they loaded the last bag, locked Brock’s house and set off towards Shoreditch where he’d arranged for Kathy to drive them to the airport and bring back his car.

He crossed the river on London Bridge and continued north along Bishopsgate and Shoreditch Street before turning off into a maze of narrow lanes and emerging into Northcote Square. He parked outside the glass doors of The Pie Factory and said,‘Won’t be a minute.’

Fergus Tait was standing talking to the girls of ‘Gabe’s Team’. They all turned to Brock as he came in.

‘Can I have a word?’ he said.

‘Of course, Chief Inspector,’ Tait beamed through his big glasses.

‘In private.’

‘Follow me.’

The women watched them curiously as Tait led him away to his office.

Tait waved to a seat, eyeing Brock’s clothes, the light windcheater and cotton drills, the polo shirt.‘You look as if you’re off-duty, Mr Brock.’

‘I’m just leaving on holiday, actually.’

‘Somewhere warm by the look of it.’

‘Yes. I’m on the way to the airport, but I thought I’d stop by. There was something I wanted to tell you.’

‘Can I offer you a drink? I find I always need one before a flight. Whisky?’

‘Thanks.’

Tait poured two glasses and handed one to Brock. ‘Cheers. Is it about the case? Your people have kept me pretty well informed, I think. I must say I was as staggered as everyone else when they told me about the Nolans.’ He shook his head to emphasise his amazement.‘What a shock.’

‘But not bad for business, I suppose?’

Tait grinned. ‘By no means. If I told you what one of these was worth now…’ He indicated the puppy cans in the glass case behind him.‘Well, let’s just say that it’s a good bit more than the price of your holiday, wherever you’re going, first class. But you know, I was talking about this to one of our customers in the restaurant last night, and they pointed out that a few years ago the Nolans would probably have got away with it. It was the science that caught them, was it not? The DNA and the laboratory analysis. No offence to you, of course, Chief Inspector, but police work is science now, isn’t it?’

‘Actually that’s what I came to tell you, that the science was wrong. I don’t believe the Nolans did kill Betty and Stan and Gabe.’

‘What?’ The affable smile vanished from Tait’s face. ‘You’ve got new evidence?’

‘No, not a thing. Just a feeling.’

‘Well… I don’t follow.’

‘It’s a matter of interpretation and feel. Art rather than science. The science may say the Nolans are guilty, but the art says they’re not.’