Bren Gurney, and the big Cornishman stood forward so that they’d know his face. Stung with disappointment, Kathy heard Brock mention her name too, almost in passing, saying that she would remain close to Gabriel Rudd and make follow-up enquiries in Northcote Square.
It made sense, Kathy eventually conceded to herself, after she’d buried her disappointment. Bren was senior in rank and had already spent the day working with the other teams on this problem. But when she looked again at the photographs of the girls they seemed to be accusing her: ‘Is this the best you can do for us?’Wherever they and their abductor were, it certainly wasn’t Northcote Square.
Later, as the briefing drew to an end with questions, she made an effort to take her role seriously. She put up her hand and said, ‘I wonder if we should look again at the circumstances of the death of Tracey’s mother, Jane Rudd, five years ago.’
There was a moment’s silence, and Kathy could see the puzzlement on faces trying to figure out the possible relevance. Then an older man across the room growled, ‘I was the investigating officer at the time.’
‘Fine,’ Brock said quickly. ‘Will you give DS Kolla a briefing after we’ve finished?’
The man nodded, watching Kathy through narrowed eyes. As the meeting broke up he came over to her and offered his hand.‘Bill Scott. Coffee?’
They found a quiet corner in the canteen and Scott said,‘Why are you interested in Jane Rudd’s death?’
His manner was terse and not, Kathy sensed, sympathetic. She wondered if he’d felt threatened by her question in that gathering of his colleagues. ‘It was only that several people have suggested a parallel between these two tragedies in Gabriel Rudd’s life. I thought I should be aware of what happened.’
Scott screwed up his nose and sniffed suspiciously at his coffee cup before sipping.‘Don’t see any parallel.’
‘No, probably not,’ Kathy said, and waited.
After a long silence Scott said,‘D’you think he’s going to try to make money out of it again?’
‘Rudd? Yes, probably. His dealer’s encouraging him in that direction. Fergus Tait?’
‘Don’t know him. They mentioned Betty Zielinski. She’s still around?’
‘Yes. She knew Jane Rudd?’
Scott nodded.‘Neighbour. Off her trolley. Tried to take the kid after Jane died. Claimed it was hers. Completely nuts.’
‘She tried to take Tracey?’
‘Mmm.’ Scott examined the look on Kathy’s face.‘She didn’t push Jane into the canal, if that’s what you’re thinking. Her movements were accounted for.’
‘Right. What happened when she tried to take Tracey?’
‘Got herself worked up. Quite hysterical. The grandparents had to step in. They took Tracey to live with them for a while till things settled down.’
‘Was Tracey’s father happy with that arrangement?’
‘As far as I could tell. My impression was that he wasn’t much bothered. More interested in his work, if you can call it that.’
‘How did he react to his wife’s suicide?’
Scott shrugged. ‘He drank a lot. How do you know what’s really going on inside someone’s head?’ He looked pointedly at his watch.‘Anything else?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Thanks, Bill.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ Scott got to his feet, then added, ‘I liked her, you know, Betty-mad as she was,’ and marched off before Kathy could change her mind.
‘Chief? The car’s here for your evening prayers.’
Brock looked up at Bren who’d tapped on his door. He checked his watch and swore under his breath. He hadn’t noticed the time and realised he was going to be late. He shoved a handful of papers into his briefcase and hurried out. The last thing he needed was a senior management meeting-dubbed morning or evening prayers, depending on the time of day-and especially this one, called specifically to discuss the report he hadn’t read.
By the time he reached the conference room at the Yard the meeting was well advanced. Commander Sharpe scowled darkly at him as he took the empty seat next to Superintendent Dick Chivers.‘Cheery’ Chivers, ever dour, was looking glummer than usual. Brock’s heart sank as he looked around the table and saw that everyone else’s copies of the report were decorated with dozens of place markers and stick-on notes of many colours, signifying the depth of their study. His own copy, entirely free of such embellishments, looked hideously naked apart from the letter tucked in at the end of chapter one. He made a mental note to get Dot to stick lots of things in for the future, and wondered where they all found the time. As he listened to them droning on he told himself that it was good to suffer these things from time to time, to remind himself just why he’d always refused promotion above detective chief inspector. He suffered less of this than any of them, and some no doubt spent their whole working lives in such meetings, pale termites in the ant heap of number ten Broadway.
By listening quietly, Brock was able to pick up much more from the exchanges around the table than he had from the impenetrable document. It seemed that some sort of power struggle was going on, though whether entirely within the police service or involving also the security services was not clear. The battlefield on this occasion was the ongoing allocation of responsibilities and resources between the centre-Scotland Yard-and the periphery- the thirty-three borough operational command units. The focus of this debate was Special Operations, and in particular the Major Enquiry Teams of SO1, to which they all belonged. In essence, it was the opinion of Sharpe- always, in Brock’s view, susceptible to conspiracy theories where his place in the organisation was concerned-that the Beaufort Committee would recommend that SO1 be shafted, sacrificed on some spurious altar of management theory.
‘Did he say Beaufort?’ Brock whispered to Chivers.
Cheery gave him a baleful look to see if he was joking, then reached to Brock’s copy of the report and turned to the introduction. Listed were the names of the committee of inquiry headed by its chair, Sir John Beaufort.‘Jugular Jack,’ Chivers snorted.
‘Something, Brock?’ Sharpe was leaning forward over his papers, beaming his piercing stare down the length of the conference table.
‘Just that I happened to come across Beaufort today. He’s got Special Branch protection, you know. He’s been getting death threats.’
‘Well, let’s hope they come to something,’ Sharpe said acidly.‘I suppose we can always consider that as a last resort. Murder is one thing we should be able to do reasonably well. No, Lillian, that’s not to be minuted.’ He allowed time for appreciative chortles around the table before moving to the next item on his long agenda. n the following days the initial turbulent activity settled into a pattern. New faces became familiar, actions became routine and the hope of quick results faded into a dull frustration. The weather settled too, into the soggy monochrome of autumn; leaves fell in earnest from the trees and people reached automatically for warm coats as if summer had never been.
Kathy continued to visit Northcote Square each day, although no one seriously expected Gabriel Rudd to hear from his daughter’s kidnapper. She became part of the background at 53 Urma Street, saying little but watching and listening in the hope of catching some reference that might be useful in the hunt for Tracey. She found that the enigma of Gabriel Rudd became no clearer to her. She attended a number of impassioned interviews he gave to radio, TV and press reporters in his house, in which he spoke agonisingly of his loss and pleaded with heart- wrenching conviction for his daughter’s safe return. She also observed the careful way in which he positioned his interviewers and their photographers so that his studies for The Night-Mare always appeared to good effect in the background. She noticed that he encouraged certain styles of photograph of himself, in close close-up, or in apparent conversation with his work, and she was struck by his change of mood when the interviewers left, becoming brisk and focused on his preparations for the exhibition at The Pie Factory, which seemed to absorb all his attention. It was as if she were watching two quite separate movies spliced together, one of a shocking family tragedy and the other of the artist at work.
Kathy also learned a good deal about Rudd’s creative process, which she found surprising. She had assumed that artists worked pretty much in isolation, applying their individual skills and inspiration to the material at hand, but it turned out that Rudd’s work was fabricated by other people, a whole army of collaborators or subcontractors acting under his instructions. Some of them worked elsewhere, but many of them moved into 53 Urma Street and could be found in busy groups in the studio, or sprawled at meal breaks in the living room, or asleep in the
