‘He had a breakdown a few years back. He was a bit violent with someone who was harassing him and got himself arrested. The cops beat him up and put him into an asylum.’
If only it was that easy, Kathy thought, and followed Poppy.
‘Hi, Stan. This is Kathy. She’s interested in your stuff.’
Stan eyed her suspiciously.
‘Yes,’ Kathy lied. ‘I was wondering how you get all those effects, of the veins and tendons and everything.’
Stan looked at his feet and grunted.
‘He uses sandblasting and stuff, don’t you, Stan?’ Poppy prompted, but Stan remained silent.
‘Where do you get your inspiration?’ Kathy tried.
He slowly looked up to meet her eyes and said,‘Death,’ then turned and walked away.
‘He doesn’t have Gabe’s gift for self-promotion, does he?’ Kathy said, and immediately felt a chill in Poppy’s look, as if any criticism of Gabriel Rudd wasn’t allowed.
‘Stan’s all right,’ Poppy said.‘He’s very serious about his work. It’s very truthful. That’s what we’re all about, truthfulness.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes. Stan, Gabe, me, we’re all after the same thing, the truth, even when it hurts-especially when it hurts. You’ll see it tomorrow in Gabe’s show. You are coming, aren’t you? We’re setting it up in the morning.’
‘Okay, yes. Although I feel I should learn a bit more about all of this.’
‘There’s lots of books. Fergus commissioned one on us. It’s available at the desk outside.’
‘Fine. Incidentally, is it just a coincidence that those faces on your cherubs look like Tracey?’
‘No, she modelled for me. She has such an innocent face, just what I was after.’
Kathy picked up a copy of Art of The Pie Factory on her way out.
Later that evening, on her way back to Shoreditch station, Kathy noticed posters stuck on walls and taped to lamp posts calling for information about the missing Tracey Rudd, and at the same time advertising the No Trace exhibition. There was an image of Tracey on the posters, a poignant little sketch by her father, and each poster had been individually signed and numbered by Rudd.
Inside the police station the mood was flat, exhausted, and she mentally compared it to the buzz she’d left at Rudd’s studio. Everyone here seemed drained, one officer actually asleep on folded arms on his desk. She asked if Brock was around and was told that he was in a meeting and should be back shortly. Anxious not to miss him, she went to wait in the corner where he had set up his work space. His desk was piled with reports, maps, memos and notes, his computer plastered with handwritten messages stuck to the screen so that he wouldn’t miss them. As she sat down to wait, Kathy noticed a thick report lying next to her elbow. What attracted her attention was the end of a letter stuck between the pages. She recognised Suzanne Chambers’ handwriting. Brock’s friend Suzanne had taken care of her once when Kathy had been recovering from the violent end to a particularly harrowing case, and for this she would always be grateful. Suzanne lived with her two grandchildren fifty miles away in Battle, near the Sussex coast, but Kathy assumed she and Brock spoke regularly on the phone, and she wondered why Suzanne should need to write. Perhaps they’ve gone away somewhere, she thought. She leaned forward and twisted her head to read the address, but saw that it was that of the antique shop Suzanne owned on the high street.
Kathy looked back over her shoulder around the office. There was no sign of Brock and no one was paying any attention to her. She reached over and tugged the letter an inch further out of the report, and read:
Dear David,
I have to put this in writing, because I haven’t been able to find the words…
A chill grew inside her as she re-read the line. ‘Oh no,’ she murmured. ‘They’re splitting up.’ She checked the room again, then tugged the bottom corner of the letter free of the report so that the final line on the page was revealed: my future and ours. Before I had no choices, but now
Kathy took a deep breath, still not understanding. She decided there was nothing for it, and was reaching forward again when she heard Brock’s voice behind her.‘That’s not soon enough. Tell them to try harder,’ he was calling to someone in the corridor. She slipped the letter back into the report and turned to face him.‘Hi,’ she said and he gave a weary smile in return.
He listened to her patiently as she asked for a more active role in the investigation, then scratched at his beard before replying. ‘I know how you feel, Kathy. This is a frustrating time for all of us. The reason I’ve kept you there is that the other two crime scenes are cold, but Northcote Square is different. It’s in the news every day- Rudd’s making sure of that. I’m hoping there may still be something to be got from it.’
He saw Kathy’s puzzled look and went on. ‘The man we’re looking for is watching those broadcasts too. Have you thought that he may be tempted to pay another visit? Enjoy the circus he’s created?’
She hadn’t thought of that, although she realised she should have.
‘We’re monitoring the square with cameras, but that’s not the same as a good pair of eyes on the ground. You may spot something. Stick it out till the end of the week, okay? Then we’ll see. And in the meantime, talk to Bren. See if he’s come up with anything that strikes a chord with you.’
She nodded, chastened, and he added,‘Missing children are the worst thing, Kathy. I know. We mustn’t let it get to us.’ They were silent for a moment, he thinking of the pictures of the girls that Kathy had pinned beside her desk both here at Shoreditch and in her regular office at Queen Anne’s Gate, and she wondering if he was making false assumptions about her vulnerability.
‘I’ll talk to Bren,’ she said, and turned away.
She found him, shoulders bowed, poring over a printed list, highlighting names with a green marker. A steady man, quietly spoken, he usually exuded confidence but now looked defeated.
‘Hi, Bren.’
He lifted his head. ‘Hi, Kathy. Got any goodies for us? We could do with something.’
‘No progress?’
‘Nothing to speak of.’He passed a hand over his eyes and yawned. He had three girls of his own, Kathy knew, and he had thrown himself into this case as if it were a personal quest.‘This is driving me crazy, Kathy. It really is.’He handed her an envelope with her name on it.‘We’ve all had one,’ he said as she unsealed it to find an invitation to the opening of No Trace.‘Load of rubbish.’
‘Brock suggested I sit down with you sometime and go through what you’ve turned up.’
‘Good idea, I could do with a fresh brain. Tomorrow morning? Eightish?’
‘I’ll be here.’
She thought about Brock as she sat in the bright capsule of the underground train on the way back to Finchley Central, and about Gabriel Rudd, both running their teams, keeping them fed with ideas, dogged by the possibility of failure. She reached her station and tramped through the dark streets to her block of flats, where she took the lift to the twelfth floor. She was thankful now for the silence and peace of her flat, although at other times she dreaded the first sense of emptiness, of Leon gone. She microwaved a meal and sat by the window, the curtains open, looking out over the city. Brock’s dilemma was a bit like Gabe’s, she thought, a visual or conceptual one. How to recognise a good idea when a less good one might deflect the whole project and soak up crucial time and resources?
She took the book she’d bought at the gallery out of its paper bag. The cover was perfectly white, with the title spelled out in letters cut from newspapers, as in a ransom note. Inside, Fergus Tait’s introduction to his vision of The Pie Factory read like an overenthusiastic advertisement for a new cosmetic, Kathy thought, but at least it was intelligible. When she reached the main text, written by a professor of media arts, she floundered. The first sentence ran:
In the high art lite world in which the barely mediated procedures of Post-Minimalist convention reprise Modernist discourse in terms of docusoap myth, and what passes for British culture privileges a new ontological realm of narrative trite, the artistic production of The Pie Factory, the latest Britart powerhouse of London’s Shoreditch/Hoxton (ShoHo) district, offers a stunning new avatar of the memorialising tendencies of the avant- garde.
She tried it again, a word at a time, but that didn’t help, so she just looked at the pictures and resolved to try the web. s she walked from the tube to the police station the next morning, Kathy noticed that the posters she’d seen everywhere the previous night had disappeared. She mentioned this to the desk sergeant who said, didn’t she know that those things were valuable? Apparently they were changing hands in the local pubs and market and on
