then she’d have moved back in with us.’
‘What about Gabe?’
‘What about him? It was his idea.’
‘His idea?’
‘That’s right. We’d been fighting with him over Tracey for years, and finally he came up with this. He admitted she was at risk staying with him-there were some dodgy characters in the square, apparently, and those other little girls had gone missing. So he said we could have her.’
‘But why didn’t he just transfer guardianship to you? Why the secrecy?’
‘This was the only way he would do it. It was this or nothing. We had no choice,’ Bev said, a note of desperation in her voice.
Len said, ‘The question is, what are you going to do now?’
‘There are lots of questions to be answered,’ she said, and their attention was suddenly diverted to another movement in the garden. Brock was coming through the gate, and at the same moment the front doorbell chimed. ‘Why don’t you let those people in while I go and fetch Tracey?’
The television noise was coming from her bedroom upstairs. Kathy tapped on the door and a little voice said, ‘Come in.’
‘I just wanted to say hello, Tracey.’
‘Hello.’ The girl was stretched out on her stomach on the bed and didn’t turn away from the screen, where some children were painting with their fingers on a wall.
‘You are happy here, aren’t you, Tracey?’
‘Oh yes. Aren’t they stupid? They think they’re being like artists but they’re just making a mess. My Daddy’s a real artist, and so am I.’
‘Are you?’
‘Oh yes. Look, I’ll show you.’
She suddenly ducked forward and reached under the bed, pulling out a small canvas.‘I did this with real brushes. It’s a picture of me with yellow hair.’ She handed it to Kathy.
‘So it is. It’s very good. Betty showed me one just like this.’
‘This is it! I gave it to Betty as a present when I left, but Grandpa got it back for me.’ Tracey suddenly cocked her head.‘What is that noise? Who are those people?’
‘They’re friends of mine. They want to have a look around the house while we all go for a car ride together. You’d better put your coat back on again, because it’s still cold outside.’
Kathy looked out the window into the street. Across the way, Enid and several other neighbours were standing at their front doors watching the police vehicles arriving, and people in white plastic overalls making their way to the Nolans’ front door. Enid had a phone to her ear, alerting the neighbourhood.
33
By the following morning the physical evidence had become overwhelming. In Len Nolan’s workshop they had found a set of Japanese Iyoroi brand chisels with hollow ground backs. Upon laboratory examination one had been established beyond doubt as the implement which had caused the marks at the various crime scenes. It had traces of blood on the handle which matched Gabe Rudd’s, and his blood had also been found on a pair of gloves in a toolbox in the workshop. Len Nolan’s DNA had been found to match the unknown DNA on the bloodstained shoes found in the bin near Rudd’s house. This was the DNA which the lab had found, on Brock’s prompting, to belong to a close blood relative of Tracey Rudd.
The Nolans responded to these damning facts with a strange mixture of self-justification and denial, Len full of bluster and Bev quietly insistent. Yes, they had hidden Tracey and lied to the police, but no, they were neither criminals nor murderers. Len Nolan freely admitted that the chisel was his, and even showed Brock the little mark which he had branded on the handle in case it was ever stolen. The gloves and shoes were also his, he conceded, and Bev could recall the shops where he’d bought them. Len also acknowledged that he had only one key for his workshop, the one on the key ring they had found in his pocket.
But when it came to linking these things to the murders in Northcote Square, they protested their total innocence. They vehemently denied any involvement and could offer no explanation. When asked about Tracey’s self-portrait, removed presumably from Betty’s house at the time of her murder, Len could only say that he had found it on their doorstep one morning, wrapped in a plastic bag. They hadn’t told Tracey that Betty, or Stan, or her father were dead.
The contrast between willing cooperation in some things, and total denial in others, began to worry Brock and made him wonder if the couple was suffering from some kind of psychological condition. A psychiatrist was brought in to examine them and spoke of obscure cases of dissociative fugue and multiple personality disorder in which couples had been involved, experiencing periods of shared amnesia.
When shown the photograph of the Christmas party, Len agreed that he had been the photographer, and they found the space in their family album from which it had been removed. When they looked at the picture both Len and Bev became wistful. Prompted by Kathy, Bev volunteered that it was the last time they saw their daughter smile. Within a few weeks she would be dragged from the waters of the canal. Kathy pointed to the three people standing behind Jane and her baby, and Bev offered the opinion that all three of them, in their different ways, had contributed to Jane’s despair-Gabe by his neglect, Betty by her mad claims upon her child, and Stan by his morbid preoccupation with death.
‘So you’d say they were responsible for Jane’s death, would you, Bev?’ Kathy suggested, and Bev agreed that she would, apparently without any recognition that she was talking about three murder victims.
‘There’s a lot more work to be done,’ Brock said unhappily, sinking back into the armchair in Commander Sharpe’s office. ‘We’ll have to pick away at every detail to be sure we’ve got it right.’
‘But still,’ Sharpe said, stroking the cover of Brock’s report appreciatively,‘an excellent piece of detective work.’
‘I’ve spent hours locked up with those two over the past days, and I still can’t get inside their heads. I can’t…’ he groped for the word,‘… see it.’
‘Oh, come on. Do you have children, Brock? I should know.’
‘A son. He’s in Canada now, I believe. We’ve lost touch.’
‘Well, I have a daughter. She’s intelligent, ambitious and beautiful, and holds down a responsible job in the City. She married a deadbeat who gets up at noon and spends his day between the pub and the betting shop. He hasn’t driven her to suicide yet, but even so there have been many times when I wanted to slit his damn throat. And let me tell you that a million parents and grandparents in the same situation would have paid for my defence. I’m not sure that I followed all the mumbo jumbo in the shrink’s report, but I can understand the Nolans perfectly, and let’s face it, the physical evidence is irrefutable. It’s a great result, Brock. Five murders solved, including Wylie for Aimee Prentice and Lee Hammond, and, best of all, Beaufort’s dead.’
‘Dead?’ Brock sat upright.
‘The committee, not the man. As of midday today the Beaufort Committee was suspended, consigned to limbo, relegated to the outer darkness. Nobody wants to hear about it.’ He paused, clearing his throat in a way that made Brock look up. ‘Which means, unfortunately, that your promotion to super is best left in abeyance at this stage. Much as we appreciate the work of you and your excellent team, we mustn’t appear to be crowing, you understand?’
‘All right,’ Brock said,‘but my sergeant, Kathy Kolla, is long overdue for a move up to inspector. She passed the exams ages ago. I’d like something to be done about that.’
‘Blockages in our personnel profile,’ Sharpe nodded, as if regretting a medical problem. ‘I’ll see what I can do. She’ll probably have to move to another unit, though.’
‘No.’
‘No? Oh, very well. Leave it with me. There’s another matter. You probably know that at least one well- known reporter has got wind of you interviewing Beaufort at Shoreditch-somebody at the station probably tipped him off. They sniff scandal, Brock, and they’re going to be after you, very soon, and we’d like to avoid that. Sir Jack
