‘There, is that discreet enough for you?’
‘Yes, that’s just fine, Gabe, thanks.’
‘You see? You proved I wasn’t being paranoid. It all means something.’
‘I think I was wrong about that.’ Kathy was regretting telling Gabe her bright idea. ‘I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.’
‘No, no, no. There are no coincidences. Everything means something, if you can just figure it out.’
Later that afternoon, at Shoreditch, Brock called to speak to her.‘I’ve got a meeting arranged with Wylie’s solicitor at six, Kathy. I was wondering if you’d be free to come along too. I may need a witness.’
‘Yes, of course. I have to tell you one or two things.’
‘Right. His office is south of the river. Can it wait until we drive down there?’
‘Fine.’ She thought he sounded keyed up.
On the journey she told him about her abortive search for Tracey’s self-portrait.‘I just thought, if Stan stole it from Betty’s house and I could have found it among his possessions, it would have given us a firmer link from him to the killing.’ She saw that Brock wasn’t convinced, but when she mentioned the call to meet with Beaufort he immediately became interested.
‘What did he want?’
‘To warn us to be careful, I think.’
‘Everybody’s doing that,’Brock growled under his breath.
‘He seemed to want me to pass on to you the idea that Wylie might try to sow suspicion in your mind about him. Is that possible?’
‘Could be,’ Brock said.‘We’ll find out tonight.’ Then he gave her an outline of his session with Wylie in the prison. Kathy thought Wylie’s claims about the judge were preposterous, and said so.
‘Let’s wait and see, Kathy,’ Brock said. ‘Let’s just wait and see.’
They stopped on the high street outside a Chinese takeaway. Half a dozen customers stood inside under a blaze of light, waiting for their orders. A nameplate on the doorway next to the shop said, Russell Clifford, Solicitor. They went inside and climbed a threadbare stair-carpet to the office above. Clifford’s staff, if there were any, had apparently left for the night. He emerged from his room in shirtsleeves, looking as preoccupied as ever, and showed them to an interview room at the back. On the table lay a single large yellow envelope and a notepad.
‘I’m acting on my client’s instructions, of course,’ he said. ‘He’s asked me to allow you to view the contents of this envelope, but not remove them.’
Brock stared at the envelope. It had a handwritten note on it: Mr Wylie, Deposit A.
‘Do you know what it contains?’ Brock asked.
‘No.’
Brock reached for the envelope, unfastened the flap and looked inside. There were a number of photographs, which he shook carefully onto the table without touching. Kathy caught her breath as she made out the first-a picture of Tracey in her school uniform, standing in sunlight in a street. A tall man, Beaufort certainly, was bending to offer her something in his hand. Kathy recognised the corner of The Daughters of Albion in the background. Brock took out his pen and used it to slide the picture aside.
The second photograph showed Beaufort seated in a room. Tracey was sitting on his knee, an arm around his neck, face close to his cheek as if she’d just kissed it or whispered something in his ear. He looked rather surprised, but pleased, too. The light was very bright and clear and there was no mistaking the two of them, although the background was out of focus. Tracey was wearing what looked like a dressing gown, too large for her, and one leg was exposed to the hip.
Kathy didn’t want to see any more. She looked up at the lawyer who was staring fixedly at his framed certificate on the wall, as if using all his willpower to prevent his eyes dropping to the photos.
The third picture seemed to be taken in the same place, but now Tracey was naked. She was kneeling on a table with a fixed, faintly puzzled expression on her face and Beaufort, fully clothed as in the previous picture, was stroking her shoulder. The fourth was shot in a bedroom in poor light. A small naked girl lay beneath a large naked man. Again, Tracey and Beaufort.
Brock peered closely at each in turn for some time before speaking.
‘You say you haven’t seen these before, Mr Clifford?’
‘That’s right,’ he said, eyes still fixed above their heads. ‘Mr Wylie specifically asked me not to. I am simply instructed to make sure you don’t remove any. There are four photographs, I understand.’
‘No, that won’t do. These appear to be material evidence relating to a major crime. I’ll have to retain them.’
‘But…’ Clifford started to object, but Brock went on.
‘And I want you to look at them so that you can identify them later in court, if asked.’
For a moment it seemed as if Clifford was debating trying to physically retrieve the pictures, then he subsided in his seat and allowed his eyes to drop. Brock turned the photos round, one by one, so that he could see them. With each, the solicitor’s worried frown intensified.
‘My God,’ he whispered.‘That’s Sir Jack Beaufort, isn’t it?’
‘And that’s the missing girl, Tracey Rudd. You see why I have to have these, don’t you?’
‘Mm.’ Clifford was chewing his bottom lip. Brock watched him, thinking how different he was to Virginia Ashe. The public prosecutor worked for the state, had a steady flow of work, lots of backup and a regular pay check, and could afford a wry air of clinical detachment. The defence solicitor, on the other hand, had a client who wasn’t confiding in him, had a dodgy record and might not pay his bill at the end of the day. And there would be other calculations going through his head: his own legal position, his reputation within the profession.
‘What exactly are your client’s instructions, may I ask?’ Brock prompted.
‘I’m to seek your written guarantee that his and Patrick Abbott’s email accounts will not be accessed, now or in the future. I am also to seek your assurance that you will support the dropping of all charges against Mr Wylie and his immediate release from detention. In return, he’ll provide you with these pictures and other evidence he has relating to the same matter.’
‘Do you know what form this other evidence takes?’
‘No.’
‘I assume you’re holding it for him. Deposit B, presumably?’
‘I really couldn’t say.’
‘When did he deposit these with you?’
‘I… couldn’t say.’
Brock rubbed a hand wearily across his eyes. ‘Do you know whether your client took these pictures himself, or witnessed them being taken?’
The solicitor shook his head.
‘Or what kind of camera was used?’
‘No, I don’t.’
Brock gathered the pictures, scooped them into the envelope and handed it to Kathy.‘I can’t agree to anything on the basis of these. They’re useless.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They look to me like digital pictures. The courts won’t accept them as evidence.’
‘You think they’ve been fabricated?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why your client will have to give us more, much more, before I can help him.’
The lawyer now looked very worried.‘There may be a problem. He mentioned to me that he had no faith in the police. He said-his phrase-that you were all in each other’s pockets, and you might try to suppress his evidence and maintain his guilt in order to protect your friends. In which case, he said, he would have to find other ways to make use of it.’
‘What do you think he meant by that?’
Clifford shrugged unhappily.‘Go public, perhaps?’
‘There are other copies of these?’
‘I don’t know, but Mr Wylie is a very cautious man.’
‘I think you’d better try to persuade him to give me what I need.’
‘Yes, but he doesn’t always take my advice.’
