His jacket was on the back of the other chair, and she knew he kept a small appointments diary in the inside pocket. She reached over for it and turned the pages back to the fourth of June. There was a note that read, ‘K @ Bramshill all week’, and she remembered that that was the week she’d been away on a course at the staff college. There were other notes for that and the following days; times and places of appointments, several marked ‘PO’. Post office? It was impossible to tell whether they related to the Verge inquiry or other cases.
As she returned the diary to the jacket pocket another horrible thought occurred to her. She had complained to Leon that Brock should have got someone else to do this drudgery. Perhaps he already had. Perhaps the penciller had been working for Brock, and had informed him of the circled items that had never been followed up. Was this Brock’s way of giving Leon a chance to redeem or hang himself?
She checked her watch. One thirty-five. She picked up the report and opened the bedroom door, hearing the rhythmic sigh of Leon’s breathing. ‘Sorry, lover,’ she murmured, and stroked his shoulder. He came awake slowly, blinking, as if she’d pulled him out of a deep, dark hole.
When she explained what the time was and that she’d found something that couldn’t wait till morning, he stared at her in disbelief, struggling to follow her words.
‘A pillow?’
‘Two pillowslips, Leon. Miki on one and Clarke on the other. And they weren’t sleeping.’
‘How do you mean?’ Leon was rubbing his face, trying to clear his head.
‘She had lipstick on.’
‘What about the sheets?’
‘They must have been washed in the previous load, don’t you think? And this must have happened not long before the murder; well, within twenty-four hours, surely?
Someone loaded the machine and then was distracted and didn’t start it up.’
Leon shook his head. ‘This is new? How come this hasn’t come out before now?’
‘Exactly.’ The decisive way she said this made him sit up. She handed him the last page of the report.
‘Oh.’ He stared at the incriminating words, then finally said, ‘I’m sure I’ve never seen this. I think I was off the case by then. What date was it?’
‘June the fourth. That was the start of the week I spent at Bramshill.’
‘Oh yes . . .’ He covered his eyes with his fingers and rubbed. ‘I remember.’
‘Do you want your diary, to see what case you were working on then?’
He shook his head. Now the fingers of his other hand were beating a little rhythm on the pages of the report.
‘No need, I remember that week. I’d definitely moved to another team by then.’
‘Good. Do you know who took your place?’
Leon lifted his pale fingertips from the report to his face and wiped his mouth. ‘Er . . . a guy called Oakley, Paul Oakley. We met up a few times to hand over.’
PO, Kathy thought. Not post office. ‘Well, that’s fine.
He’ll have to explain what happened.’
‘He’s left the Met now, gone abroad. That’s what I heard.’
‘Still, it’s not your problem.’ Kathy switched off the light and got back into bed, thoroughly relieved; yet, strangely, Leon didn’t seem to be. And there was something else. The Bramshill course had been about advanced interview techniques, and one of the days had been devoted to stress indicators, the little mannerisms that people betray when they hide the truth. Leon’s gestures might have been taken straight from the training videos.
He said, ‘You’re sure there’s no reference to this later on in the reports? I mean, it might have been cleared up somehow.’
‘Yes, I thought of that, and I looked.’ Kathy was feeling drowsy now. ‘But I couldn’t find anything.’
‘I’d better check too.’ He sounded wide awake. She felt his weight shift as he got up, and she pulled the duvet up to her ear and drifted away.
In the morning, she was surprised to find him still at work at the table in the living room. He hadn’t been able to find any further reference to the guilty pillowcase.
8
Leon was waiting for Brock as soon as he arrived at Queen Anne’s Gate. Kathy stayed out of the way as they disappeared into Brock’s office, Leon lugging the forensic files. After half an hour she and the rest of the available team were called together.
Leon looked grey and preoccupied, Kathy thought, while Brock appeared almost pleased in a grim sort of way, as he did when presented with some unexpected new evidence of human frailty.
He spoke to DS Moffat first, the woman who had come to them from Chivers’ team. ‘You remember your LO back in June, Linda? Paul Oakley?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I remember Paul. He didn’t stay long.
Left the force three or four weeks later. Got a better offer, I think.’
‘Right, well Leon has come upon a piece of forensic evidence that appears to have been overlooked, maybe due to the changes in LO around that time. We’ll have to do some more checking, but if it stands up it suggests that Miki Norinaga and Sandy Clarke were lovers. Has that idea ever come up before?’
People shook their heads, interested.
‘I don’t need to speculate on where that might take us.
At the least it’d mean that Clarke has lied to us, at the most he might be involved in some way with the murder itself.
Now I don’t propose to face him with this just yet. I want to find out as much as we can about him first.’
He began to spell out what they should do. The forensic evidence would be thoroughly reviewed again; the team investigating the financial affairs of the Verge Practice would focus their attention on transactions authorised by Clarke; the security video tapes harvested from the building and the surrounding streets would be pored over once more for possible sightings of Clarke on the weekend of the murder.
‘What else?’ Brock concluded.
Suggestions and counter-suggestions were offered and recorded on a whiteboard. The mood was becoming buoyant, Kathy sensed, as if everyone had been waiting for something like this, a fresh angle, a crack in the story that so far had led them nowhere. Miki’s infidelity, if it were true, might provide a motive for her murder, though Kathy doubted if it would help them track down Verge. But Brock seemed the most confident of all, beaming encouragement as they discussed options, in stark contrast to Leon at his side, silent and dejected. He’s taking it all too personally, she thought, and wanted to reassure and comfort him.
‘Kathy?’ Brock’s voice cut across her thoughts. ‘Any ideas?’
‘Jennifer Mathieson,’ she replied. ‘So far she’s given us the loyal PR story, but she’s been working there for nearly ten years. She must have a pretty good idea of what goes on inside that place. And she’s leaving them soon, so maybe we can get her to be a bit more frank.’
‘Good idea. See if you can talk to her today, will you?’
Kathy nodded, aware that she was supposed to be with her committee all day from ten o’clock that morning. She checked her watch and groaned. She was going to be late again.
The issue that day for the Crime Strategy Working Party was sexual orientation. Before lunch there were to be briefings and discussion papers presented by members of the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender Advisory Group, followed in the afternoon by the formation of focus groups to consider the issues from the point of view of victims, perpetrators and police. By four o’clock each of these groups had presented long lists of objectives, strategies and targets, using felt-tip pens on large sheets of paper. Kathy felt she had become allergic to lists and their mind-numbing effect, although the other members of the committee seemed remarkably enthusiastic.
Finally, when the facilitators, experts and activists had gone, Desmond called the committee members together for a short meeting. Kathy, itching to get away to meet Jennifer Mathieson, was interested to see that Rex, the objector at the previous meeting, had rejoined the group and was now sittin
g at Desmond’s left hand, with the administrator, Robert, on his right.
‘Well, I think we’ve had a very productive day,’ Desmond began. ‘There are just a couple of pieces of committee business that I thought we should get out of the way before we break up. The first is that I’m pleased to report that we’ve sorted out the problem which Rex raised at our last meeting.
The compromise we’ve worked out is that Rex will be appointed as deputy chair to the committee, to take the chair if I’m not available, and he will also have a casting vote in the event of a stalemate. Okay, then the next item . . .’
‘Hang on, Desmond,’ Jay interrupted. She scratched purple nails through her short hair and frowned doubtfully through her lozenge glasses. ‘Just go through that again, will you?’
Desmond patiently repeated himself, and added an explanation. ‘Rex’s point, which I believe you supported, Jay, was that it would send out the wrong signals to have a police chair. Well, this seems to be the best way to overcome that difficulty without compromising the original terms of appointment.’
‘Are you offering this as a proposal for discussion?’ Jay persisted.
‘Well, no. It’s already been approved, actually.’
‘I see, by the boys’ club, presumably.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Desmond, have you understood nothing of what was said this morning?’ Jay was speaking softly, but it was clear that she was angry. ‘The whole point of this exercise is to help the police reach out to the disadvantaged and underrepresented, right? Am I right?’
‘Of course.’
‘And what is the greatest single source of disadvantage and under-representation? It’s not sexual orientation, it’s not even race—it is gender. Men commit crimes and women are their victims . . .’ She rode right over Desmond’s attempt to modify this generalisation, and continued, ‘And now the boys’ club has decided to rig this committee so that two men will have the same voting rights as the whole of the rest of us put together!’
‘No, no, these are only casting votes we’re talking about, Jay,’ Desmond said soothingly. ‘I firmly intend that it will never come to that sort of situation . . .’
‘Look at you guys.’ Jay pointed at the three men sitting together across the table. ‘The men set the agenda, run the meeting and write the minutes. The women are window-dressing, as usual. Well, what do the other women say?
Shazia?’
Shazia pursed her lips, hesitated, then said carefully, ‘I do agree with Jay, actually. It seems an unnecessary destabilisation of the original balance of the committee. And if the situation will never arise, why introduce it?’
‘Right,’ Jay agreed fiercely. ‘Kathy?’
Kathy felt the eyes of the committee on her. The sensation was remarkably similar to the feeling she’d had in her first confrontation with an armed assailant—that she was about to be mugged for no very good reason.
‘I think it might have been better for the committee to have worked this out together,’ she offered, ‘rather than be presented with a solution. After all, if we can’t work through this sort of difficulty, how can we be expected to make recommendations to anyone else?’
This seemed to defuse the situation a little. Several people nodded grudgingly, but Rex, who hadn’t yet spoken, decided to land the killer punch.
‘Well, the fact is that this solution has been approved by senior management, and it really doesn’t matter how it was arrived at. And if you want to press the matter, Jay, we can put it to a vote, and you will lose, with or without my casting vote.’
‘No she won’t.’ Nathan, the sixth member of the committee, spoke up. ‘I agree with her, and that would give a vote of four to two. I don’t see any point in belonging to this committee if it’s going to be run this way. I’d like to propose that Desmond stand down as chair so that we can have an election. I personally would be in favour of a female chair.’
This caused some excitement. Kathy wondered if Rex and Jay had each been planning their coups right from the beginning, waiting for the right moment to press their claims to be chair. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would have such an ambition. She tried to visualise them making the presentation to the Joint Conference in two weeks, and decided that both of them, in their different ways, would love it; the public exposure, the press interviews and photographs. As for herself, she couldn’t think of anything worse.
Robert, the bureaucrat, face expressionless, said nothing as the arguments ricocheted around the table. But when it began to look as if Desmond might agree to vacate the chair in the interests of peace, sounding rather keen to hand it over to someone else, Robert leaned over and murmured in his ear. Desmond listened, then nodded reluctantly and called the meeting to order.
‘Look, I think we’re all a bit tired after a demanding day.
I suggest we adjourn now and meet again in the morning to continue the discussion in a calmer frame of mind. Can I just say that Robert advises me that the position of chair is not negotiable, unfortunately, so I suggest we work from that as a given.’
There was an angry response to this from Jay, then several people said they had appointments in the morning that they couldn’t break. The next meeting was finally arranged for lunchtime on the following day, sandwiches to be provided by the Met. As she made her way to the door, Kathy was stopped by Jay, who also had a hand on Shazia’s arm.
‘Can you hang on for a bit, Kathy? We need to talk.’
‘I’m sorry, Jay. I’ve got another appointment.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’m late.’
‘This is important, Kathy. This whole committee is becoming dysfunctional.’
Kathy eventually bought her freedom by giving Jay her mobile phone number, then hurried away.
When Kathy had phoned Jennifer Mathieson earlier that day, asking for an informal meeting, off the record, the Verge Practice’s information manager had been happy enough to agree, provided it was somewhere the other people in the firm wouldn’t see them. ‘I don’t want to be accused of leaking the gossip of the sinking ship,’ she’d laughed.
‘That’s good,’ Kathy had said. ‘It’s the gossip I’m after.’
The wine bar was in the City, not far from the offices of the property development company Jennifer was due to start work for the following week.
‘I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I hadn’t been leaving
VP,’ she said, as they sat down at a quiet table with glasses of chardonnay. ‘I’d have felt disloyal.’
‘Are you saying you were holding stuff back before?’
Jennifer pursed her lips, looking disappointed. ‘You’re not trying to trap me, are you?’
‘No, of course not,’ Kathy said quickly, annoyed with herself for sounding like a prosecutor. She realised that the last twenty-four hours had left her tired and tense. ‘Sorry if I sounded like that. I just wanted to chat really.’
‘That’s okay. I don’t think I deliberately misled anyone, but it’s difficult to keep a sense of balance when you’re being questioned by police in a murder investigation, you know what I mean? At first I clammed up and just said yes or no. But then I felt this odd compulsion to talk, like a confession or something, about everything, and I had to stop myself and make myself remember that loyalty to the firm came first. Now I don’t care.’
Kathy raised her glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Salud.’
‘Spanish?’
‘It’s what Charles used to say. Good luck to him. I hope he’s drinking something cool like this on some exotic beach right now.’ She sipped at her drink. ‘I suppose I’m doing what he did, getting out, and I’m just realising that it feels pretty good. I’ve been with them for nearly ten years now, my first really responsible job, and I’d forgotten how intense it is in there. Where I’m going they work hard too, but they’re so much more relaxed. They don’t worry every decision to death. If they like the look of something but it costs a lot, that’s fine. They don’t care if it’s not the he
ight of good taste, or consistent with what they did last year, or cutting edge.’
Cutting edge. Kathy pictured the Japanese carving knife, like a small Samurai sword, with which Charles Verge had murdered his wife. Jennifer ran a hand through her hair. It was cut short, in a crisp, rather severe bob.
‘I’m going to let this grow out,’ she said, ‘and I’m going to get some new clothes that aren’t necessarily black, and maybe I’ll have a baby instead of a coronary. So, what gossip were you interested in?’
‘Anything that could help us with motive. What was she doing that caused her to end up dead? Could it have been an affair?’
Jennifer shook her head slowly. ‘There hasn’t been a whisper of anything like that. I suppose if she was very discreet, visiting some secret lover far away from the office, we may not know about it. She didn’t share intimacies with us.’
‘How about someone in the firm?’
‘Not a chance. Oh, when she first came there were plenty of young guys who thought she was really cool and just about the neatest style accessory for an ambitious young architect you could imagine. But once Charles showed an interest that all stopped dead. It would have seemed sacrilegious, I suppose.’
‘How about Sandy Clarke?’
‘Sandy?’ Jennifer looked at Kathy with surprise, then a grin spread over her face. ‘It’s a nice thought, but no. Mind you, I do remember him flirting with her when she first arrived, but Sandy flirts with everyone.’
‘Does he?’
‘Well, I’d call it flirting; he’d probably say it’s just being agreeable. Whatever, he likes to make women feel good, and like him.’
The Verge Practice Page 10
