leaching from him, leaving him each day leaner and more wraithlike. To Kathy it looked as if all his vitality were being transferred into his artwork.
While she was watching him, he suddenly turned his attention from his team to her, meeting her gaze. He gave her a little smile as if they shared some private knowledge, then turned away again.
Through the large restaurant windows she could see the waiters putting a final polish on the cutlery before the first diners arrived. She crossed the street to Mahmed’s Cafe, not sure what kind of reception she might get. Sonia was there, of course, along with a young girl she introduced as her niece. She was formal but not unfriendly, and after she took Kathy’s order for a black coffee she sent the girl to the kitchen and leaned confidentially over the counter.
‘Have you caught the fiend?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I know you can’t talk about it, but you must believe that Yasher had nothing to do with this. He may have some shady friends, I dare say, but he’d never get mixed up in this sort of thing. It’s beyond belief.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I am right. You know we’ve offered to cater for the funeral-no cost.’
‘That’s generous of you.’
‘Ach, it’s nothing. We’re part of the community too, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘At a time like this we must work together. We are all connected.’
Kathy reflected on how true this was as she sat down with her coffee. Everyone in Northcote Square was connected to everyone else. Gabriel Rudd knew the sculptor Stan Dodworth, who knew Patrick Abbott, who had probably abducted Tracey Rudd; Betty Zielinski had been the model of Reg Gilbey, whose client Sir Jack Beaufort knew Fergus Tait, who had sold him a painting belonging to Betty Zielinski… And the police, too, had been drawn into this web, for, according to DI Reeves, Beaufort was involved in some kind of inquiry into their future. She distrusted coincidences but she knew that real life was full of them, the appearance of false patterns when random events fall together. But sometimes the patterns wererealand meant something. Somewhereinthis, she felt, there was a pattern that would make sense of Tracey’s disappearance and Betty’s death. They just hadn’t discovered it yet.
An enormous blood-red sun trembled on the western horizon like a tumour. It cast a baleful light over the City, gilding the flank of the Nat West Tower and turning the dome of St Paul’s a petal-pink. Brock gazed out through the glass balcony doors at the sunset for a moment longer, then turned back to examine the paintings. Each had its place, glowing beneath its own concealed spotlight, and Lady Beaufort had been particular about switching all the lights on before Brock entered the room, as if preparing her children for a visitor.
‘My husband receives so many deputations from Scotland Yard these days,’she had said proudly.‘I wasn’t able to contact him, I’m afraid, but I know he won’t be long. He always lets me know if he’s going to be delayed. I’m so sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Detective Chief Inspector David Brock.’
‘Well then, Detective Chief Inspector, would you mind if I leave you here on your own until Jack returns? I happen to be watching on the television the very last episode of a particularly engaging program, which I’ve been following for some years.’
‘Please go ahead. I’ll be fine.’
She had cocked her head just like her husband did, except that in her case the gesture was whimsical rather than interrogative. She was of the same narrow build as him, the same lined features and grizzled grey hair, but at half the scale, so that they seemed liked brother and sister.
The pictures were very good. If there was any criticism to be made of the collection it was that it lacked consistency. Thinking of the spare harshness of the man, Brock had expected some parallel in the paintings, all abstract expressionist, perhaps, or all of a certain period. But the paintings were of every style and philosophy, from Stanley Spencer to Roberto Matta, Bernard Buffet to Gilbert and George, as if the judge had been so greedy for the delights of twentieth-century art that he just hadn’t been able to resist anything.
The paintings dominated the room, and the furniture seemed cowed by comparison. Brock knew the apartment building had not been long completed, and this was its most expensive unit, the rooftop penthouse, and the sofas and chairs had the air of refugees from some cosier suburban mansion.
‘What are you doing here?’ The voice cut into Brock’s thoughts.
He turned to face the man, standing taut in the doorway, staring at him.
‘I’m sorry, I phoned earlier and your wife suggested this time. She’s watching a TV program.’
‘I’m not sure this is appropriate. If you’ve come to talk to me about the report…’
‘No, no. I’m here in connection with the Tracey Rudd and Betty Zielinski inquiries.’
‘I know nothing whatever about that.’
‘This was hers, wasn’t it?’ Brock pointed to the Bacon painting.‘Betty Zielinski’s?’
Beaufort seemed startled, and a new caution entered his voice.‘I believe that’s true. I bought it from a dealer, Fergus Tait.’ Then Beaufort’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Did Tait tell you this?’
‘Did you ever talk to Mrs Zielinski about the painting?’
‘No. I fail to see…’
‘I’m interested in everything to do with Betty Zielinski, sir-who she knew, what she knew.’ He paused, letting that register, then added, ‘It would seem quite natural, inevitable even, that you would speak to the former owner of your painting when you’ve been visiting the house next door to her several times a week for the last eight months.’
‘I didn’t know the former owner lived next door to Reg Gilbey until today.’
‘Well, she knew you had it.’
‘Really?’ His face set hard as if to an obtuse counsel whose claims didn’t merit his consideration.
‘So there’s nothing you can tell me about Betty Zielinski that might assist my inquiries?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What about Stan Dodworth?’
‘Who?’
‘You don’t know him? Stan Dodworth?’
‘I think I recall the name…’
‘He’s one of Fergus Tait’s artists.’
‘Then I may have seen his work. Remind me.’
‘Body Parts.’
‘Oh yes, I remember. It was of no interest to me.’
Brock turned away, eyes scanning the walls as if searching for some clue. ‘So you wouldn’t have any idea where he is now?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. Why? What’s he done?’
‘He’s disappeared.’ Brock continued his contemplation of the paintings.
‘And that has something to do with the crimes?’
Brock didn’t answer.
Beaufort said, ‘Have you any idea who killed Betty Zielinski?’
Brock said, ‘Buffet went terribly out of fashion, didn’t he? After being so popular. Do you think he’s coming back?’
‘If he is,’ Sir Jack said acidly,‘then it’s more than can be said of you, Chief Inspector. If you ever want to speak to me again, please make an appointment through my secretary to see me at my office, not at my home. Goodbye.’
As Brock strolled through the front door he heard the faint cry of Beaufort’s wife, ‘Is that you, Jack? There’s someone waiting to see you in the living room. I can’t remember his name.’
The phone was ringing when Brock opened his front door that night, and kept ringing until he climbed the stairs to the living room and picked it up.
‘Hello?’
‘Why don’t you have an answering machine?’
‘Must have switched it off. Who is this?’
