The Verge Practice

by Barry Maitland

  Paul chuckled—a rather smug chuckle, she decided— and said, ‘Well, let me get us all a drink. What’s yours, Kathy?’

  ‘Scotch,’ she said, aware that she was talking through her teeth. ‘With water.’

  ‘Fine.’ He turned to the bar, waving a twenty.

  ‘Kathy, for Christ’s sake . . .’ Leon muttered under his breath.

  ‘Sorry, but I had to see you.’

  ‘Not here —’ ‘You’ve got my car keys.’

  ‘What?’ This threw him.

  ‘You left the key to the flat, but not the car.’

  ‘Oh God.’ He began digging in his pockets. ‘No, these are mine. Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive.’ She wanted to add, and what the hell do you see in him? But she didn’t.

  ‘Well . . . Oh, hang on, I put them in my jeans pocket to go down to the basement, but then I never went. They must still be there. Sorry. I’ll drop them in to Queen Anne’s Gate.’

  So there had been no rebellious corner of his psyche sending an SOS.

  Paul handed around the glasses. ‘Well, cheers. I’ve heard so much about you, Kathy.’

  ‘And I’ve heard almost nothing of you.’

  ‘Is that right?’ He shot a conspiratorial look at Leon, who was staring unhappily at his glass of chardonnay.

  ‘Hasn’t Leon told you about our plans?’

  Was he talking about a wedding? Kathy felt nauseous.

  Paul took a card from the top pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to her. She read: Independent Forensic Services, Paul Oakley B.Sc., Managing Director.

  Cocky bastard, Kathy thought, then wished she’d thought of another word.

  ‘What, is Leon joining you?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘Well, we’re discussing it,’ Leon said defensively.

  Paul gave his chuckle. ‘Leon’s a great one for keeping things close to his chest, right, Kathy?’ For an awful moment she thought he might be going to give Leon a cuddle. ‘Big market, Kathy. Lots of opportunities.’

  ‘Who are your clients?’

  ‘We’re just at the initial marketing stage, but potentially the whole range—commercial, defence counsels, coroner’s court, even the Met, who knows?’ He grinned.

  Leon seemed to pull himself upright with an effort.

  ‘Kathy,’ he said softly. ‘I’d like you to go now.’

  She met his eye for an extended second or two, then nodded, downed her whisky in one gulp, managing not to choke, and turned on her heel.

  That night she couldn’t sleep. Twisting from side to side in her bed, she worked through the things she should or shouldn’t have said, debated whether she should or should not have ever gone near that pub. The only positive thing was that she could now put a face to the man, but in some ways that only made it worse, more drab, more sordid.

  She forced herself off this track by thinking about work.

  Distracted by Leon, she had been unable to finish her report for Brock, which now seemed pointless anyway, with her theories of Spanish plastic surgery disproved. Why was Brock so reluctant to close the case? Did he really think it possible that Clarke’s suicide might have been staged? Who would have had a motive? No one in the Verge Practice, surely, for the scandalous death of the third senior partner would be the final blow to their chances of recovery.

  Someone, then, with an interest in restoring Charles Verge’s reputation, perhaps? The thought of Verge’s mother and pregnant daughter trying to drag a comatose Clarke into his car to stage a suicide brought a grim smile. Or what about Charles Verge himself, lurking somewhere in the shadows?

  But no, it made no sense. She remembered Tony’s words to Brock: ‘No one knew all that about Clarke apart from Clarke himself—and us, of course.’ The idea of one of ‘us’ being responsible produced another flicker of a smile in the darkness, cut off by the sudden thought that it wasn’t really funny. After all, if Kathy herself hadn’t spotted the discrepancy in the forensic reports, Clarke would probably still be alive. Should she put that in her report to Brock? It certainly wouldn’t do Paul Oakley any good, she thought maliciously, to underline the mistake he’d made on his last job with the Met, especially if he was now hoping to get work or a recommendation from them.

  Maybe Paul Oakley murdered Clarke, she thought, aware that her mind was meandering into fantasy now, at the outer perimeter of sleep. Hard to see a motive, though.

  Oakley had done Clarke a good turn, after all, by overlooking the forensic test on the pillow. The oversight had been extraordinarily damaging to the investigation as it turned out, and almost inexplicable, given the checks in the system. But suppose he hadn’t overlooked it—suppose he’d deliberately hidden it?

  Kathy’s eyes snapped open. Now that was an interesting idea. There had been a case the previous year, of a civilian scene of crime officer who had supposedly approached a thief with an offer to lose the fingerprints he’d found at the site of a robbery. Oakley had been on the point of leaving the force; suppose he’d seen the opportunity to make a bit of extra cash by offering to bury an embarrassing bit of evidence that placed Clarke in Miki Norinaga’s bed? And when it finally came to light, what would Clarke’s reaction be? Would he contact Oakley? Threaten him with exposure?

  Kathy sighed and turned over again. It was nonsense, of course, but a satisfying fantasy. Maybe sleep would now be possible.

  21

  By eleven on Sunday morning, Suzanne Chambers had decided that enough was enough. Brock had arrived at lunchtime the day before, and it was soon clear that all was not well. Her grandchildren had picked up the signs quickly, and made themselves scarce after the first few threatening growls. She didn’t regard him as a moody man, nor especially self-indulgent, though living on his own was bound to have its effect. So she put his current behaviour down to exhaustion after the climax of his big case, and lack of sleep compounded by an inevitable sense of anticlimax.

  Yet that night she was aware of him twisting and turning, sleepless in the bed beside her. Overtired, she thought, and tried not to be disappointed by his perfunctory and preoccupied gestures of affection.

  Over Sunday breakfast things were no better. He brightened briefly over bacon and eggs, and produced a couple of comics that he’d bought for the kids and forgotten to give them when he’d arrived. But when Stewart, encouraged by this, asked him eagerly about the Verge case, he was met with an ominous silence. Suzanne didn’t like the hurt look in the boy’s eyes. Then later, when they were reading the Sunday papers together, he abruptly threw the pages aside and jumped to his feet, marching out into the back garden with a muttered comment about fresh air.

  She picked up the page that had apparently provoked this, and saw the articles on Charles Verge, detailing the triumphant restoration of his reputation, the excitement in architectural circles over the revolutionary design of his last great building, and the latest rumours about the death of his partner.

  She looked out the window at Brock’s back, his shoulders stooped as he poked disconsolately at the ashes of a camp fire the children had made the previous day, and was at a loss. There was nothing contentious about the articles.

  The police were not attacked. On the contrary, he himself was mentioned in positive terms. There was even a suggestion that if he had been in charge of the case from the beginning, it might have been resolved long ago. She put the paper down and followed him outside. A light southeasterly breeze was clearing the clouds from the sky, and sunlight was beginning to sparkle on the glossy leaves of an old rhododendron bush.

  ‘I think it’ll be fine by lunchtime,’ she said. ‘Shall we go to The Plough?’

  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 anyt
hing, 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 affected 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.