We’ll find something.’
‘So Deanne was wrong,’ Kathy said. ‘She said art was the highest value, beating everything else, but Tait has proved that in the end, money trumps art.’
‘Sir?’ A woman had put her head round the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I’m monitoring Gabriel Rudd’s website and something’s just come up. I thought you might be interested.’
They followed her to her computer and saw the message in bold letters:
URGENT ALL FRIENDS OF GABE RUDD WHO ARE ABLE ARE ASKED TO COME IMMEDIATELY TO THE GALLERY ENTRANCE IN NORTHCOTE SQUARE. WE HAVE IMPORTANT NEW INFORMATION REGARDING GABE’S DEATH
‘They don’t say what the information is,’the woman said.
Brock read the message again. ‘It’s possible that one of Rudd’s computer operators overheard some of my conversation with Tait.’
‘Blimey. You think they’re organising a protest or something?’
‘Or a lynching. Is the camera operating in the square?’
They went to the monitor and saw that already a small crowd hadgatheredatthegalleryentrance. Itwaslitupbythe headlights of cars circling the square, and knots of people were hurrying in from all directions. It was impossible to gauge the mood.
‘That was quick,’ Bren said. ‘Do you think we should send a patrol car down?’
‘Better inform the duty inspector,’ Brock answered, but then Kathy pointed to a figure standing in the gallery doorway.
‘Is that Tait? Can we get in closer?’
Bren worked the control panel and the camera zoomed in. It was Tait, they saw. He was waving, but not in panic, more as a celebrity might to his fans.
‘He looks full of himself,’ Bren said. ‘Maybe it was he who put the notice on the web, trying to get his spoke in before we do.’
‘Yes, you could be right.’
‘What time’s your flight, Brock?’ Kathy asked. ‘Shouldn’t we be on our way? Don’t worry about this. We can handle it.’
‘I’m not leaving, Kathy. I’m going to stay.’
They looked stunned for a moment, then both began to protest, speaking at once, but he held up his hand and said,‘I’ll drive Suzanne to the airport, then I’ll be back.’He turned and walked quickly away before they could say any more. Kathy wanted to go after him, but Bren persuaded her to leave it.
‘Let them sort it out,’he said.‘We could have a riot on our hands here.’
He pointed at the camera monitor, where it seemed that half of Northcote Square was now filled with people, a crowd seething like a single organism, amorphous and unsettled.
Brock returned a couple of hours later, looking sombre.
He found Bren at the monitor.
‘What’s happening?’
‘It’s still a bit confused. Kathy’s gone to the square to try to get a better idea.’
‘What does she say?’
‘It seems you were right about Gabe’s computer girls. They’ve summoned the crowd.’
‘What for? What are they telling them?’
‘Well… pretty much what you told us. That the police know Gabe was murdered by Fergus Tait and not the Nolans, but they can’t prove it. Tait came out to try to calm them down and protest his innocence but apparently that didn’t go down too well and now he’s back inside again, holed up in his office. We’re sending a couple of cars down.’
35
Kathy had worked her way down West Terrace towards the gallery entrance, but there the crush was so dense that she was halted about thirty yards away. The people around her were all young, finishing their day’s work when the messages started coming in. They had poured off the commuter trains and buses, out of the nearby tube stations and pubs, and made their way to Northcote Square. At first it had just been a bit of a lark, and everyone was cheerful and intrigued, the atmosphere rather chaotic. But Kathy had sensed a gradual change. As the stories about Fergus Tait began to circulate, the laughter died away and the mood became sombre. Kathy realised that they really had seen Gabe as a star, a tragic hero. The crowd was also becoming organised, although it was difficult to see exactly how this was happening. Messages would filter through about the aims of the gathering and how they should behave, but it wasn’t clear where they were coming from- the group closest to the gallery entrance, Kathy assumed, yet it seemed that people were receiving text-messaged instructions from all over London. An enterprising TV news crew had managed to set up a camera at the top of the scaffolding on Yasher’s construction site, and was now broadcasting live.
‘So what are they after?’ Bren asked over the phone.
‘They’re describing it as a vigil,’Kathy replied.‘It seems peaceful enough at the moment, but I think we should be careful about sending in the storm-troopers. There’s so many people here now that a panic would cause a disaster.’
After four uniformed officers were stopped, politely but firmly, at the edge of the crowd now occupying streets all around Northcote Square, the Borough Commander agreed with his Head of Operations that a softly- softly approach should be adopted. Ambulances, a fire tender and a number of unmarked police vehicles were standing by, and uniformed police were attempting to turn new arrivals away. A call was made to the Public Order Operational Command Unit and an expert was on his way from ‘Riot City’, the Public Order Training Centre at Hounslow Heath.
Despite the alarming growth in numbers, the crowd remained calm, almost motionless, and the police were somewhat reassured by a second notice on Rudd’s website, which announced the formation of the ‘Vigil for Gabe’, a non-violent demonstration of support for the dead artist. Its aims were to honour his memory and seek justice for his murder.
‘There really was no need for you to interrupt your holiday, Brock,’ the Borough Commander said. ‘The best thing we can do is pray for rain.’
Brock got Kathy on the phone.‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asked. He thought he had spotted her on the monitor, one pale head among thousands. It made him think of a sea of wild flowers, swayed by the wind.
‘A bit cold, otherwise fine. I wish I’d brought my big coat and some thick socks. What’s the forecast?’
‘Heavy frost.’
‘There’s a rumour that coffee is on its way. I get the impression that they’re planning on a long wait.’
‘For what?’
‘Nobody’s sure. Brock, what about Suzanne?’
There was silence for a moment, then,‘She’s gone on.’
There was nothing Kathy could find to say.
Dawn seeped like icewater into the sky. Kathy thought she’d never felt so cold or stiff. All around her people were groaning and stretching and rubbing frozen body parts.
Strangers had huddled together in dark clumps to share their warmth, and she had found herself against the garden railings with half a dozen young women from the post office. There had been movement throughout the night, with some leaving and others taking their places, but the overall numbers didn’t seem to have diminished. At one point she’d been tempted to seek shelter with Reg Gilbey, whose lights had been on for most of the night. She saw his windows illuminated now, and then his front door opened and the old man himself appeared, precariously balancing a tray of paper cups from which steam rose into the morning air. The same thing was happening all around the square- from the building site, from Mahmed’s Cafe and The Daughters of Albion-but not from The Pie Factory, which was shrouded in darkness.
Kathy’s mobile rang, Brock’s voice.‘Still with us?’
