No Trace (28 page)

‘Of course you will. We just . . .’ She seemed lost for words. ‘The poor man. He was always polite when we met him, but very quiet. I felt Tracey didn’t . . . No, I shouldn’t say that.’

‘Go on,’ Kathy coaxed.

‘Tracey seemed very nervous around him. Maybe it was his manner. His appearance too, all dressed in black, his head shaved like a convict. But he wouldn’t have killed himself because of Tracey, would he?’

She appeared to need reassurance on this. Kathy said, ‘We’ve got no evidence of that, Bev.’

‘I see, yes. Thank you, dear. I am sorry to have bothered you.’

‘If we get any firm news about Tracey, I will phone you, I promise.’

Kathy rang off and saw that the sparrow had gone.

The laboratory liaison officer had encouraging news. The frozen dinner packet that Kathy had spotted in Reg Gilbey’s dustbin had once contained a meal very close to, perhaps identical with, that found in Stan’s stomach.

‘Perhaps?’ Brock pressed.

‘They’re doing chemical tests for additives, but even if they’re identical, it won’t prove that his food came from that particular packet. But we will be able to trace the shop where the packet came from.’

‘Fingerprints? DNA?’

‘No, we couldn’t find either in the rubbish, I’m afraid. But there was a pear, half eaten, in the same plastic bag as the meal packet. They’ve made a cast of the teeth marks and the forensic odontologist over at London Hospital Medical College is preparing a mould to test against Dodworth’s teeth. The trouble is, the pear was bitten into about forty-eight hours ago, and the flesh has lost some of its crispness. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to make a certain match.’

‘Was there anything else in the bag containing the meal packet and the pear that we can definitely link to Reg Gilbey?’

The LO handed Brock the list of items: the plastic food tray from the meal, food scrapings, banana peel, stale bread, a wad of plastic film, a screwed-up paper bag, two crumpled beer cans. Brock shook his head, disappointed. ‘He’ll be able to claim anyone could have dropped it into his bin.’

‘Fraid so.’

‘Still, it should be enough for a search warrant.’

The timing was bad, no doubt about it. Bren’s knock on the door was answered by DI Tom Reeves, whose eyebrows rose at the sight of all those police officers. Kathy realised what his presence meant, but she didn’t have a chance to warn Bren as he and two others charged on up the stairs. After the others filed past Reeves, who held the door open for them like an ironic butler, Kathy said, ‘I take it the judge is upstairs.’

At that moment there came a roar of anger from above, and Reeves said, ‘Yes, I think we can assume that. Mind telling me what’s going on?’

‘We found some stuff in Reg’s dustbin that links him to Dodworth, the bloke we were looking for who was found hanged this morning.’

Reeves looked puzzled. ‘Meaning what, precisely?’

‘That’s what we’re here to find out.’

‘I take it your guvnor knows about this raid?’

‘Of course.’

‘I mean, he ordered it, right?’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Kathy, a little bit of advice? Beaufort was steaming mad when I drove him over here. You know how shook up old Reg was after the woman next door was found. He’s been refusing to get on with the judge’s portrait, says his hands are shaking too much. Then this business in the gallery. It was all we could do to get him going today. But that wasn’t the only thing making the judge see red. He was also mad about you lot, and especially your guvnor.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he thinks he’s stuffing up this whole case . . .’

‘No!’

‘. . . and because of that stunt your guvnor pulled last week.’ He saw the incomprehension on Kathy’s face. ‘You don’t know about that? DCI Brock paid the judge a visit at his home last week and tried to intimidate him and his missus.’

‘Oh come on, Tom, that’s bullshit.Why would Brock do that?’

‘Because he knows what Beaufort’s got in store for SO1, and he’s trying to use this case to get at him. That’s why you’re here now.’

‘No, it’s just an accident we came when you and the judge were here.’

‘That’s not the point, Kathy. By the time you’re finished with Reg he won’t be painting for weeks, and Sir Jack’s moment of fame at the National Portrait Gallery will be stuffed. Listen, believe me or not, but do yourself a favour—get yourself off this case and distance yourself from Brock. He’s finished.’

Kathy sat in the back seat with Reg Gilbey for the trip back to Shoreditch station. He looked stunned, hands trembling, and Kathy could believe Reeves’s predictions about the effect on his painting.

‘Don’t worry, Reg,’ she whispered. ‘It won’t take long, then you can get back and have a drop of Teachers.’

He shot her a panic-stricken look, his jaw clamped so tightly shut it looked as if his teeth might crack. Kathy wondered if they’d be taking a cast of them too.

When they got to the station Reg was led away to an interview room. Brock met Kathy at the door. ‘Any problems?’

‘Only that Sir Jack Beaufort was there, having a sitting for his portrait. He was mad with Bren for interrupting.’

Kathy knew every shade of expression on Brock’s face, and recognised the neutral screen that seemed to slip across his eyes.

‘Mm. Oh well.’

‘His minder had a word with me. Apparently Sir Jack isn’t happy with us. He told me that you paid the judge a visit last week.’

‘Did he now? Well, let’s get on, shall we? I think I’ll do this with one of the Hackney lads, Kathy. You might like to observe, and tell us what you think.’

He left her standing in the corridor, puzzled. She turned back to the room with the monitors for recording the interviews and took a seat.

The Hackney detective was grim-faced as he led the questioning, while Brock was distant in his manner, as if he didn’t much care what Reg had to say. The detective began with a formal caution. It was hard to tell if the painter understood; he looked as if he were about to be hauled away to the scaffold.

‘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.’

‘What did he say, exactly?’

‘I don’t really remember. I think he said it was very lifelike.’

‘Was she pleased at being praised?’

‘Yes, of course. She was proud of it.’

‘So she smiled and flashed her big blue eyes.’

‘You make it sound indecent.’