‘God, yes. But they’ve been pestering us for days, and with the murder yesterday… Our Head thought we should seize the moment. It’s not every day the whole school’s demanding to go on an art excursion. And it’s perfect, really-being able to see the artist actually doing it, the work in progress, the workshops where the banners are being made, and hopefully a glimpse of the actual crime scenes, at least the outside of the houses. They even hope that they might catch sight of the murderer, lurking about in the square somewhere. I just feel sorry for the police-if they don’t catch the bastard soon, they’ll be branded as incompetent, and if they do, everyone’ll be disappointed that the show will be over.’
‘Yes. Tell me, what are those thick folders that you’ve got?’
‘Our resource folders? They’re mainly stuff we’ve got off the web. Have you seen his site? It’s huge. Each section relates to one of the banners, about its symbolism, its references, its stylistic approach and so on. Of course, you don’t know how true it is, because people are contributing from all over, both good and bad criticism.’
‘Can I see what you’ve got on the first banner?’
The woman showed her.‘Anything in particular?’
‘That image of the figure holding the child’s hand.’
They thumbed through the pages, then the teacher said,‘Here it is.“On the lower left side is a haunting image of the lost child being led away by a sinister dark figure into a tunnel.” That’s all.’
‘Nothing on the source of the image?’
‘No, must be just the artist’s imagination. Poor bloke.’
As Kathy turned to leave, the computer operator she’d spoken to earlier called out to her. ‘Is your name Kathy? I’ve got an email for you.’
‘For me?’ Kathy read the page she was handed. It came from Gabriel Rudd and said, Hi. Back again? Anything you want to know? Gabriel.
Kathy looked back at the cube and saw him watching her, a little smile on his face.‘Can I reply?’ she asked.
‘Sure. You want to type it?’
‘Just say, Where’s Stan Dodworth?’
The reply came back after a few minutes. Sorry, can’t help. She looked back at the cube, but a fresh horde of school children was blocking the view.
It was time to go, she knew, though she would have liked to stay. She was beginning to find Northcote Square addictive, but Brock had given her an assignment and she had to return to Queen Anne’s Gate to follow it up, because he was insistent that no one at Shoreditch should get wind of it. He’d remembered that she had a friend in Criminal Records, now the National Identification Service, didn’t she? She told him that she did, Nicole Palmer, a good friend. And would Nicole Palmer do a favour for her, a discreet favour, possibly entailing unpaid overtime that Brock might repay in the form of theatre tickets or some liquid refreshment of some kind? It was quite possible, Kathy said, wondering why Brock wasn’t using the numerous contacts he himself must have in the NIS. A computer check, but possibly, he wasn’t sure, requiring a manual search-tedious, certainly. Theatre tickets and a case of bubbly. Maybe even a modest pre-theatre meal for two. What did Kathy think? Kathy asked who the target was. A certain judge, Brock said. He was interested to know if this man, let’s call him Q, had ever presided over a trial or appeal involving any of the people of interest to them in their present investigations. But no one else must hear of Nicole’s discreet inquiries, and above all there must be no mention of Brock or SO1. Definitely a pre-theatre meal as well, Kathy said, and not too modest.
The teacher’s assessment of the significance of what was happening at Northcote Square seemed to be confirmed by the commentators in the Sunday papers two days later. What had started out for some as a self- indulgent exercise in dubious taste had now been transformed into a statement on art and life as significant as, according to one excited reviewer, Picasso’s Guernica, or Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe paintings. There was speculation that, taken as a whole, The No-Trace Project, as people now seemed to be calling it, had become too big and too important even for the premier contemporary art prizes, such as the Turner Prize and the Beck’s Futures award. Questions were being asked as to what should happen to the work when it was completed. There was speculation that Fergus Tait intended to auction the banners individually, something that would result in the whole set being fragmented and dispersed, number one to Los Angeles, perhaps, number two to Bilbao, and so on. This would surely be intolerable. There was call for a public subscription fund to keep the work together and in the UK, preferably at Tate Modern.
Kathy yawned as she read this and took another sip of the coffee she’d made. She was in her office at Queen Anne’s Gate, where she came when she wasn’t required at Shoreditch or elsewhere. Since that Monday morning two weeks ago when the case had begun she’d barely had a day off. It didn’t seem right with Tracey still missing. She looked again at the girl’s picture pinned to the screen behind her desk. Today she had been searching Gabriel Rudd’s web site for some clue as to the connections or references that Brock had suggested must lie in the style of Betty’s murder. The trouble was that the material in the site really was as extensive as the teacher had said, and there were endless references to the work of other artists, from Giotto to Koons.
She needed help. She picked up the phone and rang Bren’s home number. Deanne answered, the sound of children’s voices in the background.
‘Hi, Deanne, it’s Kathy. Is this a bad time?’
‘No, it’s fine, Kathy. How are you? I’ll get Bren.’
‘It’s you I wanted to speak to, if you’ve got five minutes.’ She explained her problem.
‘How about Fuseli?’ Deanne said.
‘Yes, you mentioned him before, but I can’t find any references to him in connection with the work Gabe’s doing at the moment. What made you suggest him? Didn’t you say that the image of the little girl being led off by a stranger was his? Because there’s no reference to that on the website.’
‘Well…’ Deanne hesitated. ‘I just assumed it was Fuseli, because of the melodramatic style. I mentioned him because he inspired Rudd’s last really successful show, The Night-Mare, and because he seemed to consciously model himself on Fuseli-brooding, eccentric, a bit violent and wild.’
‘I heard someone mention that Fuseli’s hair turned prematurely white, like Rudd’s.’
‘Really? I didn’t know that. Well, there you are.’
‘But I don’t know that this has anything to do with Rudd’s sources. It might be Stan Dodworth’s that I should be looking at.’
‘Oh… I’d have to think about that. Goya? Maybe Giacometti.. .’
‘Oh dear.’ Kathy groaned, feeling the ground sliding out from under her again.
‘Tell you what,’ Deanne said. ‘I have to go to the university library this afternoon. Why don’t I get some books for you to look at? That might give you some ideas. Are you free tonight? Come and have dinner with us and we can talk about it.’
After another fruitless day, the idea of spending the evening soaking in the warm tub of the Gurneys’ domesticity seemed quite appealing, although Kathy almost changed her mind as she heard the sounds of squealing children through the front door. They were overtired and ready for bed, and after greeting the older two and handing over the colouring books she’d brought, Kathy kissed them goodnight and Bren coaxed them away. He was immensely patient and gentle with them, so huge and protective alongside their little figures that Kathy was touched with a sense of sadness and loss that she couldn’t quite pin down.
Deanne was in the living room, about to feed the youngest girl, Rachel. At six months, Rachel was just beginning to appreciate her mother’s fine art books, one of which she was trying to get into her mouth. Deanne whisked it away, wiped it with a kitchen towel and substituted her breast.
‘Sorry, Kathy. You know how it is. There’s a bottle of wine on the sideboard next to the books I got you. You can set the table if you feel like it. The stuff ’s on the tray. Dinner’s nearly ready. How was your day?’
‘Useless. I achieved nothing.’ She began laying out the knives and forks.
‘Oh dear. Mine was much the same.’
‘Well, at least at the end of it you can say you filled a small stomach.’
Deanne gave her a curious look.‘Not envious, are you? Take her, she’s yours. Let me have her back in a year or two.’ She shifted the baby across to the other breast. ‘I’ve been trying to think about your problem, but I couldn’t come up with anything brilliant. I’m not sure I really understand what you’re looking for.’
‘Me neither. It’s just that there were some odd things about the way the body of the murdered woman in the
