to have been the principal tormentor.’
She paused and looked around the gallery room, which at that moment was empty apart from themselves.‘Is it little girls?’she asked, gazing steadily up into Brock’s face.‘Is that the problem?’
‘Yes.’
‘I assumed so. It’s something that’s always troubled him. I remember not long after we were married confronting him with some pictures which I’d found in his study. He was mortified, literally sick with shame. I must confess I’ve often found it difficult to fathom what goes on in men’s minds, but I am absolutely certain that that is where Jack has kept this particular demon of his-in his mind. He would never, never do anything shameful in that way.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I know him, Chief Inspector. I know him better than you or anyone else does. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I realise that it may not be a very satisfactory thing for you, a wife’s endorsement of her husband, but in this case it’s the most dependable thing you can have.’
She turned back to consider her husband’s portrait.‘It’s caught him rather well, hasn’t it? His weaknesses as well as his strengths, Moloch as well as Solomon.’
‘Didn’t Moloch demand children as sacrifices?’ Brock said.
Lady Beaufort gave an embarrassed flutter of her hand. ‘Oh, well I’ve probably mixed him up with somebody else.’
‘Your husband told me that he became involved with a man called Robert Wylie in order to help a friend whom Wylie was trying to blackmail. Have you any idea who the friend might be? It might help your husband if the friend could confirm the story.’
‘Didn’t Jack tell you? Well, well, how gallant of him.’ Brock caught the stress on the word “gallant”. A group came into the room, and Brock and Lady Maisie drew back into a corner as the people clustered in front of Beaufort’s portrait.
‘It’s a Gilbey, isn’t it?’ one said, peering at the title panel. ‘Yes. I’ve always loved this guy. Do you remember his Mick Jagger? He hasn’t really lost it, has he? A bit more blurry, like Monet in his old age, his eyesight going.’
‘I don’t think Jack would be altogether happy that they call it a Gilbey, rather than a Beaufort, as if he’s coincidental, like a bunch of flowers or a bowl of fruit.’ Lady Maisie allowed herself a little smile. ‘The friend was my sister-my younger sister. When Jack and I first went out she was a sweet, spoilt little girl of ten. Jack adored her, like everyone else. Well, perhaps not quite like everyone else. Anyway, later she became bored with being spoilt all the time and took to drink in a big way, and got into various kinds of trouble. Jack pulled strings for her a couple of times. She’s a reformed character now, so one is led to believe, married to a lovely man in the City. I’m not sure if she’d confirm Jack’s story or not. It might be an interesting test.’
There had been an edge to her voice throughout this account, and while he believed her, Brock wondered what else there might be to the story. Did the little sister know something about Beaufort that he wouldn’t want her to bring up?
Lady Maisie glanced at her watch. ‘I really must go now. There are so many last-minute arrangements to be made. I’m so glad we’ve had this little chat, Chief Inspector. I feel I shall be able to relax now, while we’re away.’
She pursed her lips into a smile. They were orange, not quite right with the crimson scarf, and Brock wondered if she was colour-blind.
31
The next morning they picked Poppy up at the hospital and took her back to Shoreditch station. Some colour had returned to her face, and though she still looked exhausted, a little of her old cheek had reasserted itself.‘Got a fag?’she demanded as she sat down. ‘Can’t talk without a fag.’
After a search was mounted in the front office, a packet of Benson and Hedges was requisitioned from a reluctant constable and the interview resumed. Kathy decided Poppy was robust enough to take some hard questions.
‘Okay now?’
‘Yeah, yeah, fire away.’ Poppy casually lifted her chin and drew on the cigarette.
‘Just so you know, we checked your DNA. Betty Zielinski was your birth mother.’
The thin column of blue smoke quivered.‘Yeah,’ Poppy said after a pause,‘I know.’
‘When did you find out?’
‘When Reg spoke to me. Yesterday was it? God, it feels like weeks ago.’
‘Did you suspect it before?’
‘No, of course I didn’t. What, that old bag?’ She shook her head in disgust, as if someone had swindled her out of small change.
‘And the DNA confirmed that Reg was your father, too. But you’ve been sure of that for some time, haven’t you? Is that why you dumped that rubbish of Stan’s in Reg’s bin and told me to look there? Were you trying to punish him for denying you?’
But Poppy wasn’t yet ready to make admissions of this kind, and Kathy took a different line.
‘Reg said you were very upset when he told you about Betty. So upset you ran back to Mahmed’s and tried to kill yourself. Why was that?’
Poppy seemed to shrink a little in her chair, as if fending off some terrible memory. She didn’t reply.
Kathy leaned forward and spoke gently. ‘We know. We worked it out for ourselves, Poppy. It was Gabe, wasn’t it? You realised that your boyfriend had killed your mother.’
Poppy flinched but kept herself under control, biting her lip as if at a spring tightening inside her.‘He didn’t. He was in that glass cube.’
‘We’ve found out how he was able to leave the cube without being seen on camera, just as he did later, when Stan died. Were you there, Poppy, when Stan was hanged?’
Poppy glared at her, mouth tight. ‘God, you’re so fuckin’ sanctimonious, aren’t you? So pleased with yourself. Were you there, Poppy? like a fuckin’ primary school teacher. Gabe was so right about you!’
Brock broke in, ‘That’s not going to help, Poppy…’ but Kathy had seen the glint of tears in Poppy’s eyes, and she said gently,‘It’s okay, I think it already has.’
Poppy stared at her for a moment, and then the tears began to flow.
They sat in silence while Poppy sobbed, head bowed, then Kathy nodded to the uniformed woman constable who was standing by the door. She came forward and put an arm around Poppy’s shoulders, took a packet of tissues from her pocket and said, ‘It’s all right, love. Can I get you something, a nice cup of tea?’
Somehow the uniform and the platitude had a calming effect. Poppy sniffed, nodded her head and wiped her nose. Then she took a deep breath and lit a new cigarette from the stub of the old one. ‘No, I wasn’t there,’ she said, voice subdued to a whisper. ‘I had no idea that was going to happen.’
‘Just tell us what you know,’ Kathy said.
She had seen Stan Dodworth on the morning after Betty was murdered, Poppy explained, though she didn’t know about the murder at the time. He had returned briefly to his room at The Pie Factory, and he was so jumpy and wired that she’d thought he’d taken drugs. Something had happened, he said, something really scary and exciting. He said he had to go away for a while, and made her promise not to tell anyone she’d seen him. She’d stayed in her room after that until the police came to get her to be interviewed, and only then did she learn about Betty being killed. She was terrified that Stan had been involved, but decided to say nothing until she’d had a chance to speak to Gabe, which she did later that day, on his mobile. He told her to keep quiet and wait to hear further from him.
She was surprised when Gabe came to her room later that night, after everyone was asleep. He told her he had a way of slipping out of the cube without being seen in the dark, and together they went across the square to Gabe’s house, where Stan was waiting for them. Gabe explained that the police thought Stan had something to do with Betty’s murder, and they had to help him because he had no one else to turn to. He was going to hide at
