The verge practice bak-7

by Barry Maitland

  He grunted a yes.

  ‘On the condition that you talk to me in words of more than one syllable, and don’t frighten the children.’

  He turned to face her, a look of puzzlement on his face. ‘Is it that obvious? Sorry.’

  ‘What’s the matter, David? No one’s sick or anything, are they?’

  ‘No, no. It’s the case, that’s all.’

  ‘But it’s a triumph for you, isn’t it? Everyone says so. Your boss is pleased, isn’t he? And the papers say the timing was perfect, saving everyone’s face over the prison opening.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then, will you tell me why you’re so unhappy? Not now-at The Plough, when you’ve got a pint in your hand.’

  He smiled and put an arm around her shoulders, and they walked back inside.

  The principal attraction of The Plough was a menagerie of ancient animals-a horse, some mangy rabbits, a cantankerous goat and two peacocks-for which the landlord’s aged mother had provided refuge in the back garden, possibly as an object lesson to her family on the care of the elderly. While the children renewed their acquaintance with the beasts, Brock and Suzanne took their drinks to a bench in a sunny corner.

  ‘It’s his body,’ Brock said at last, wiping beer froth from his whiskers. ‘We can’t find Verge’s body.’

  Suzanne misunderstood. ‘Yes, that must be upsetting for the family.’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that. I think…’ He paused, as if hesitating to put his thoughts into words. ‘I think there may not be one. I think the whole thing may be a sham.’

  She was startled. ‘Oh… But everyone is so sure. Did you read the interview with the Prince about the opening of the prison?’

  ‘Yes. As you said, the timing was perfect. That’s one of the things that worries me.’

  Suzanne said nothing for a while, thinking. She understood about worriers, never satisfied unless there was some disaster to anticipate. She was a bit of one herself, though she’d never thought of Brock in quite those terms. ‘You really think he might still be alive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But, David…’ She stopped. The notion seemed preposterous. ‘Have you discussed this with the others?’

  ‘I can’t. The case is closed. I can’t start spreading rumour and doubt. I just hope I’m wrong, that’s all.’

  ‘You think he’s that devious?’

  ‘I thought that from the beginning. I had an image of a clever and devious man, evading his pursuers, and everything I learned about him seemed to confirm it. Now we’re asked to believe that he was a helpless victim, duped and murdered by a colleague who struck me as fairly transparent.’

  ‘You’re not just disappointed that your reading of the situation was wrong?’

  ‘There’s that, I suppose.’

  ‘And no one else has had any doubts?’

  ‘Kathy thought she’d picked up some kind of a trail in Spain, but the suicide and confession of Verge’s partner put an end to it. The problem is, you see, that to explain it the other way, you have to believe that Verge didn’t just act impulsively last May. You have to accept that he was planning the whole thing for a year or more beforehand, setting up companies and milking funds from his own firm, constructing the whole damn story. And more than that, that he’s probably been here all the time, in England, pulling the strings, while we combed the rest of the globe for him. And there’s no motive for it. Why would he do such a thing? He was at the height of his success. Why would he deliberately blow it all away?’

  ‘Apart from the lack of a body, what else is wrong?’

  Brock shrugged with irritation. ‘A confession that doesn’t sound right, a trace at the suicide scene that doesn’t match anything… Nothing definite.’

  Suzanne sat back, beginning to understand the scale of Brock’s dilemma. ‘What can you do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He took a deep swallow of beer.

  Suzanne sipped her wine thoughtfully. ‘It depends on your reading of Verge, doesn’t it? Whether he really was as cunning and manipulative as you imagine?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve spoken to all the people close to him, but in the main they think he was a hero.’

  ‘What about his wife?’

  ‘She’s dead…’

  ‘Didn’t he have a first wife? Have you talked to her?’

  ‘Kathy did. Didn’t get anything. They’d had no contact for almost a decade.’

  ‘She might have a more informed view of his deviousness. Most divorced women do.’

  ‘It’s a thought.’ He turned it over in his mind. ‘Yes, it is a thought.’ He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘There’s a price,’ she said. ‘The bar billiards machine was free when we came through. Stewart is looking rather bored with Dobbin and his mates. He’d be thrilled if you offered him a game.’

  It was raining heavily on Monday morning when Kathy arrived at Queen Anne’s Gate. The weather matched her mood after a difficult weekend. She had been to see two movies, neither of which she could now remember, and using her only recipe book had cooked herself an elaborate meal, which she had been unable to eat. It hadn’t helped her sense of isolation when Linda Moffat had phoned on Saturday morning to ask if she and Leon would like to make up a foursome to a concert that night. Tony had won some tickets, apparently, and his wife was elsewhere. Kathy had said that they were already committed to something they couldn’t get out of, and had wondered afterwards at her inability to tell the truth. And now she was faced with a whole week chairing the Crime Strategy Working Party.

  Bren Gurney appeared from around a corner and gave her a weary grin. There were dark circles under his eyes.

  ‘Baby keeping you awake?’ she asked. His third girl was now three months old.

  ‘Yeah. Little bugger.’

  ‘You love it.’ Then, on impulse, she added, ‘Is Brock about?’

  ‘Don’t think so. I saw him half an hour ago, but he was heading off somewhere. Not in best of sorts. They sent him a couple of invitations to the opening of Marchdale Prison later this week, and he reckons he has to go. He asked me if I’d go with him, but I’ve got too many other things to do.

  I said I’d find somebody. What about you, could you go? It’s on Thursday.’

  It sounded like a good excuse to get out of at least one day on the committee. ‘Yes, all right. Listen, maybe you can help with what I wanted to check with him. I haven’t finished writing up my Verge report, and there’s something I’m not sure about. You remember the bit about the missing forensic evidence on the pillow? I was the one who first spotted it, and I just wondered if that was finally cleared up, how it happened and everything.’

  ‘Sure. Didn’t Leon tell you?’

  She began to frame some innocuous lie, then stopped herself. ‘The truth is, we’re not talking at the moment. He’s moved out.’

  ‘Oh, hell. Sorry about that, Kathy. I thought you two were all set.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. Apparently not. But it wasn’t his fault it was overlooked the first time, was it?’

  ‘No, no. The lab ran an internal inquiry into how it happened. They were very pissed off, as you’d expect. But Leon was in the clear.’

  ‘Right. So it was the other guy’s fault, the other LO?’

  ‘No, it was a clerk who stuffed up. A part-timer, only there three days a week. No continuity, of course. They got rid of her. The report’s on my desk. Borrow it, if you’re interested.’

  ‘Great. I might do that. Thanks, Bren.’

  ‘I’ll tell Dot you’ll go to Marchdale with the boss. She’ll give you the details. Maybe you’d like to come over for a meal, see the baby?’

  ‘Thanks, Bren. I appreciate it. Maybe when she’s settled down a bit? I wouldn’t want to give Deanne any extra work at the moment.’ The truth was, she didn’t think she could face babies right now.

  ‘Sure.’ He waved and continued on his way.

  The wet Monday morning seemed to have affecte
d the mood of the committee, too. They were fractious and uncooperative, niggling over trivial points. They were supposed to have prepared outline position papers for general discussion on policy relating to their particular areas of interest and expertise, but none of them had. Like recalcitrant schoolchildren, Kathy thought, surveying the sulky expressions around the table. Even Robert seemed sleepy and off-colour, hardly bothering to help her steer their discussions in more positive directions.

  Finally, towards lunchtime, Kathy lost patience. Knowing that her voice sounded too angry, she declared that it was pointless to go on like this, and proposed that they pack it in until everyone was in a more constructive frame of mind.

  Her outburst was met with a surprised and embarrassed silence, and Kathy felt herself blushing, not quite sure what to do next. Then Jay ran a hand through the bristle on her head, and adjusted her lozenge glasses, which appeared to be a shade of blue today. ‘Yeah, well, that’s right,’ she said. ‘I mean this whole thing is crap. We’re not getting anywhere because we haven’t even begun to address the fundamental problem.’

  ‘Which is?’ Robert blinked at her as if waking up. He seemed genuinely interested to know her opinion.

  ‘The nature of the police, Robert. Ranks, uniforms, mind-set-they’re an army. A male army, of occupation.’

  This produced a stir of interest. The administrator smiled languidly and said, ‘Oh, come on. Two of the three officers on this committee are women.’

  ‘Yes, and there are women in the all-male rugby club, too. They clean the toilets and serve behind the bar. Sorry Kathy, Shazia, but it’s true. The whole organisation is founded on a male model of domination and aggression. Until you deal with that, you’re wasting your time. Look at this stuff.’ She lifted her pile of the supporting documents, the effort making the tattoos on her biceps swell. ‘Cosmetics. Public relations crap. Rape-denial.’

  Everyone began talking at once, some laughing, others serious. Kathy caught Robert’s eye. He was beaming at her, pink lips pursed with amusement as if to say, what an absolute fool, but what else can you expect? She suddenly found his complacency very irritating indeed.

  As the voices died away she called the meeting to order and said, ‘Jay’s obviously made a point that we all find interesting. I happen to think that it’s a very valid point of view and one we ought to consider seriously in our report.’ She was aware of a choking sound from Robert. ‘But we need these ideas set out in a coherent form. We need a report. We need all our reports, mine included. They don’t have to be in fancy English. Dot points will do. Just something you can talk to and we can discuss. I think we should finish now so we can spend the rest of the day preparing them for circulation tomorrow morning. Come on, please,’ she added, feeling a sudden panic at the thought that in a very few days she would be standing in front of five hundred sceptical faces mouthing whatever feeble platitudes her group could cobble together. ‘Help me.’

  As they left the room, Jay said to her, ‘Thanks for the words of support. Did you mean them?’

  ‘I think I’d need to know more about what exactly you mean.’

  ‘How about lunch? I’ll give you a run-down.’

  Kathy hesitated and Jay added, ‘It’s okay, I identify as queer, but I’m not practising.’

  ‘Oh,’ Kathy said. ‘Right.’

  The wine bar was crowded, and they were lucky to find a small corner table to sit at with their turkey and avocado sandwiches. ‘I think I need this,’ Jay said, raising the glass of wine. ‘I found it difficult to get my brain working this morning.’

  ‘Until the end,’ Kathy said with a smile.

  ‘Well, I believed what I said. Most of the time we just trot out formulae we know everyone expects us to say, but this I believe. They’re different from us, Kathy. We all know it, but we pretend it’s otherwise. That Y chromosome does something to them. They think differently, feel differently.’

  ‘You make them sound like aliens.’

  ‘It’s safest if we do think that. It’s when we believe we understand them that we get into trouble.’

  A few days ago Kathy would have dismissed this as nonsense, but now she wasn’t so sure. She thought about Leon and the shock of realising that she had lived with a man for six months without detecting the most important thing going on inside his head. And about Sandy Clarke, whose secret life had, it seemed, been completely unknown to his wife of twenty-four years.

  As Jay went on to explain her ideas about ‘degendering and demilitarising the police force’, as she put it, Kathy imagined what her colleagues would make of it. Total garbage, of course. But there was something excitingly radical and fresh about it, too, at least to her, and she determined that she’d put something of it into their final report, if only to give Robert palpitations.

  Her mind drifted back to Jay’s opening comments about men, and she pictured Paul Oakley at Leon’s side in that pub. Did they understand each other? And how could she dislike Oakley so instantly, when she knew nothing about him? One look had been enough. Yet she’d been wrong about his incompetence, because she had wanted to believe it. The report on Bren’s desk had been quite clear in blaming a female clerk, Debbie Langley, for the error. In transcribing the original report she had apparently omitted the crucial item, then discovered her mistake a week later and amended the computer file without informing anyone and without realising that the file had already passed through the system.

  ‘Anyway, there’s no point in pursuing it in our report,’ Jay was saying. ‘Your five hundred Chief Constables won’t want to know.’

  ‘No, but it might be nice to stir them up a bit.’

  ‘Watch out, Kathy. Don’t make yourself too conspicuous. You know when something goes wrong they all gang up and pin the blame on a woman.’

  ‘True enough.’ Kathy laughed, then thought, could that be what happened to the clerk, Debbie Langley? She finished her sandwich and said, ‘Tell me, Jay, do you think a grown man, who was secretly gay, still living with his parents, could hide that fact from his mother? Don’t you think she would know, deep down?’

  Jay shrugged. ‘Depends on her attitudes.’

  ‘Traditional, I’d say.’

  ‘Then, in my experience, she would probably be the first to know and the last to admit it to herself.’

  Kathy wondered. ‘Somebody else said to me recently what you just said about not understanding men. Charles Verge’s first wife said she divorced him after twenty years because she couldn’t understand him.’

  ‘I think there was a bit more to it than that. Chalk and cheese.’

  Kathy was surprised. Everyone seemed to have opinions about the Verges. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘A friend of mine knows Gail Lewis. She runs a homeless shelter, and Gail has done work for her. She reckons Gail is great, really caring and sincere, unlike Verge, big-noting himself in all the colour supplements. Mind you, she did wonder if they might be getting together again.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘She saw them together one time, and they seemed to be very friendly.’

  ‘That must have been a long time ago.’

  ‘A year or two. My friend’s been at the shelter for a couple of years now. Verge dropped Gail off there one night. His silver Ferrari drew a bit of attention in that neighbourhood, and my friend recognised him.’

  Kathy was puzzled-that wasn’t what Gail Lewis had told her. As she said goodbye to Jay the discrepancy troubled her, so she pulled out her phone and rang Brock’s number.

  Brock made his way around Regent’s Park past Primrose Hill, eventually discovering the place tucked away in a back street of Camden Town, part of a terrace built of pale-yellow London stock bricks, blackened with age and the rain. There was a speaker by the front door, and a brass plate reading Gail Lewis, Architect. He pressed the buzzer and waited under his dripping umbrella. A male voice said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Brock for Ms Lewis. I phoned.’

  ‘One mom
ent.’

  Gail Lewis opened the door, regarding him with a searching curiosity in her grey eyes, and Brock, getting an impression of sharp intelligence, felt as if he should have prepared more thoroughly for his visit. They shook hands and she led him down a hallway running the length of the house to a room at the back-her office, she explained- which had been extended into an L-shaped area around the small, paved rear courtyard. It was more like a workshop than an office, Brock thought, with its air of purposeful activity. Modest and informal in atmosphere, it could hardly be more different to the Verge Practice’s grandiose offices. It was physically different, too, the building and furniture made predominantly of pine rather than stainless steel. A man was sitting at a computer, a woman was building a balsa-wood model over by the windows. They both looked up and smiled at Brock as he passed, and he noticed how young they seemed; students, perhaps.

  ‘If you don’t mind we’ll talk at my board,’ Lewis said, leading the way between plan-chests and tables to the far corner. ‘I’m expecting a call that I really need to take, and I’ll want to refer to my drawings. Would you like a coffee?’

  Brock said yes, and the young man called after them, ‘I’ll get it, Gail.’

  They sat in her workstation, partly screened from the rest of the office by the tilt of her drawing board, to which a half-finished plan on tracing paper was taped. Wanting to get a better sense of the woman before he got down to business, and remembering the banks of machines in the Verge draughting studios, Brock said conversationally, ‘You don’t design on a computer, then?’

  ‘I still prefer a pencil,’ she said. ‘At least for the early stages. I think better with a pencil in my hand.’ She picked one up, clicking the lead forward, and took a notepad from the side table, as if she were about to interview him. ‘I’m puzzled by why you should want to see me, Chief Inspector. You’re in charge of the case, aren’t you? I’ve seen your name in the papers.’

  The case, as if there could be no question why he had come.

  ‘That’s right. You may have read that we’re closing down the investigation, but we just want to make sure there are no loose ends.’