did she?’
Poppy arched an eyebrow, wary.‘Yeah, she did actually. There wasn’t a problem with that. She was quite happy about it, and Gabe was always around.’
‘Where did this happen, these modelling sessions?’
‘Modelling sessions? Christ, you make it sound like… At Gabe’s place.’
‘Mostly, or always?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Did she ever come here, to this building?’
‘Yes, she came here. She liked to see what we were doing.’
‘Did she model for you here? Take her clothes off?’
‘No! Well, maybe once.’ Poppy turned to leave.
‘Do you know where I can find Stan Dodworth, Poppy?’
‘No, I don’t. I haven’t seen him today.’
The interview with Gabriel Rudd was more formal, conducted in a room at the Shoreditch police station. Rudd seemed fascinated by the whole process, peering up at the video camera, stroking the table he was invited to sit at, as if making mental notes for his work.
Brock, indicating Kathy at his side, said,‘You know DS Kolla, of course.’
Rudd gave a smug little smile and said, ‘Oh yes, we’ve been practically living together the past week. Although I didn’t realise until last night that she was an art critic. You two work closely together, do you?’
Again that supercilious smirk and a quick turn of the eyes to avoid Brock’s sharp stare. Brock could understand Kathy’s hesitation in summing him up. Rudd seemed to have developed the knack of appearing simultaneously aggressive and vulnerable, smart and gauche-though whether it was a case of cunning wrapped in innocence or the other way around, Brock wasn’t too sure.
‘We’re going to record this interview, Mr Rudd, and I’m going to begin by cautioning you. You don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if…’
Rudd grinned.‘You really do say that, do you? Like on TV.’
Brock completed the caution and added,‘It’s necessary because we need to be crystal clear on one or two things. You’ve been following the news, have you?’
‘Oh, yeah, yeah.’ Rudd’s amusement abruptly evap orated.‘It really doesn’t bother me.’ The two police stared at him in surprise. ‘Oh, look, she’s a spiteful bitch. Everyone knows she hates me.’
There was a moment of confusion before they realised that the ‘news’ he thought they were talking about was the first review of his exhibition, published in one of the morning papers. With a show of reluctance he pulled a folded page of newsprint out of the pocket of his leather jacket and tossed it across the table as if it soiled his fingers to touch it. Brock picked it up and quickly scanned the piece.
Those remaining admirers of Gabriel Rudd’s work who crowded to the opening of his new show at The Pie Factory last night must have been sadly disappointed. Not so much No Trace as No Hope. Hurriedly cobbled together, weak in concept, unimaginatively presented and short of ideas, it would have looked pretentious in a first-year art school exhibition. As a contender for the next Turner Prize, as some had anticipated, it doesn’t rate a mention.
Brock handed the paper to Kathy and glanced at Rudd. His face was very pale, lips pressed tight, and he looked as if it did bother him a great deal.
‘Actually, I was referring to news reports today of new developments in our investigations, Mr Rudd. That’s why we wanted to speak to you.’
As Brock began to explain, Rudd looked first perplexed and then agitated.‘You arrested someone, is that what you’re saying?’ he interrupted.
‘There’ll be a press statement later today, but I can tell you that we believe we have found two men responsible for the abductions of Aimee and Lee. One of the men is under arrest, and the other died while trying to escape. We’ve found Lee alive, but it seems probable that Aimee was murdered some weeks ago.’
‘My God!’ Rudd sat stunned, eyes unfocused. ‘Aimee… she was the first, wasn’t she? But Lee is alive? So Trace must be too, yes?’
‘I’m afraid we haven’t been able to find any sign of Tracey so far. We’re following up a number of leads, but at present there’s nothing to connect her disappearance to these two men.’
‘What? But that’s impossible, surely? It must be them. Or… you mean there may be others? A ring? A network? Oh my God…’
‘We’re considering every possibility.’ Brock opened a folder on the table in front of him and took out the two photographs that had just been delivered. ‘Have you ever seen this man?’ He slid the first picture across the table, and added, ‘I’m showing Mr Rudd a photograph of Robert Wylie.’
Rudd showed no sign of recognition, nor with the second picture, of Abbott.
‘Is that them?’ He stared at the pictures with fascination, and when Brock made to put them away again he said, ‘No! Wait, just so I’m sure,’ and went on staring. ‘Which one died?’
Brock pointed to Abbott.
‘How? Did you shoot him?’
‘He fell from a building. Have you ever visited the Newman estate in Bethnal Green?’
‘No, no. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it. Is that where they lived?’
‘We’re still gathering information. What we now have to do is review every aspect of Tracey’s case in the light of this new development. And I need you to help us by going back over what happened the night that Tracey disappeared. I want you to try to remember every detail you can, from the time Mr and Mrs Nolan returned Tracey to you on Sunday afternoon.’
Rudd met Brock’s stare, eyes wide and innocent. ‘Oh, right. Well. .. if you think that’ll help.’
He began to repeat the story he had told them before, almost word for word, while the two detectives listened impassively. When he finished, Brock turned to Kathy and said,‘How would you rate that story, DS Kolla?’
Kathy gazed at Rudd and said,‘Well, to be honest, as an art critic, I’d have to say that it seems hurriedly cobbled together, weak in concept, unimaginatively presented and short of ideas.’
Rudd’s pale face flushed pink. His mouth opened, but before he could speak Kathy went on, ‘You didn’t go to bed at ten that night, Gabe.’
Brock leaned forward and said, ‘We know about your evening with Poppy Wilkes and Stan Dodworth; we know about your meeting with Yasher Fikret. Now I’m going to give you one last chance to tell us the truth before I arrest you for obstruction.’
The pink leached from Rudd’s face, leaving it almost as white as his hair.‘Yasher? You know about Yasher?’
‘From the beginning, Mr Rudd. Let’s have it.’
Haltingly, the bravado gone, Rudd described much the same sequence of events that Poppy had related to Kathy- supplemented, at Brock’s insistence, with an impressive list of everything he’d smoked, drunk and taken during the course of the weekend.
‘Why didn’t you tell us this at the beginning?’Kathy said.
‘I panicked. I knew I’d be in trouble. I’d left Trace alone for most of the night, and somebody had snatched her. Her grandparents would have murdered me. This was exactly the kind of thing they’d said would happen. They’d have tried for custody again. Christ, I might have gone to gaol, I don’t know.’
‘Hmm.’ Brock, sceptical, scraped his beard with the end of his ballpoint. ‘Bad things do seem to happen to the people around you, don’t they? Whether by neglect or something worse.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your wife, Tracey’s mother-did she die because you weren’t around at the critical time? And was that just another unfortunate coincidence?’
‘Jane had been depressed for months. They gave her the wrong drugs. You should read the coroner’s…’
‘Yes, I’ve read his report. No suicide note, no cry for help to her parents. She just walked out one night, leaving her toddler behind, and jumped in the canal. And you were out drinking with your mates that night too, weren’t you? The parallels are striking.’
Rudd sagged, a hank of white hair flopping over his eyes. ‘You think I don’t know that?’he said softly.‘I’m not
