The Verge Practice (12 page)

‘When did you last see him?’

‘He was in Barcelona in early April, we met briefly.’

‘What did he talk about?’

‘Mainly about his daughter. He had just heard that she was to have a baby, and he was very happy about this, but also worried about her not having a partner to help her.

Charlotte had recently split up from the father, and then she discovered that she was pregnant.’

‘Was Charles angry about that?’

‘Angry? No. He thought the man was lazy, that Charlotte was well rid of him. But he wanted to help her. They had just found this cottage for her, near here. He said he hoped I wouldn’t mind having her as a neighbour. I said of course not.’

‘Did he talk about anything else?’

‘About his work, I think. Yes, his prison.’ She arched an eyebrow, catching the small crease in the corner of Kathy’s mouth. ‘You think that’s amusing?’

‘No. A bit ironic, that’s all. It’s an unusual project, isn’t it?’

‘Charles was very bound up in it . . .’ Now Luz allowed herself a tight smile. ‘Yes, full of irony, I know. But he was really passionate about it. He said no other well-known architect would do such a project. They all want to design what he called safe public buildings—prestigious art galleries, museums, universities. No one had the courage to face such an uncomfortable subject as a prison. But he said that it is the father and mother of all buildings, because it does absolutely what other buildings do only in part. A prison is the building that most fully controls the lives of the people inside it, so the very best architects should design it.’

‘Someone in his office said that he had the idea that his building could fundamentally change people. They said he was obsessed with it.’

Luz Diaz looked thoughtfully at Kathy. ‘Did they say that? Were they laughing at him, do you think?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Do they miss him? Or do they hate him for what he’s supposed to have done?’

‘I think they’re just trying to weather the storm caused by it.’

‘Yes, of course. We’re all trying to do that . . .’ She said it wistfully, looking out through the large window as if she ‘You sound as if it affected you a great deal.’ might catch sight of the missing man somewhere out there in the sunlit fields.

The woman looked back sharply at Kathy. ‘Not me, no.

I meant the others. Although I miss him now, more than I would have expected.’

Kathy watched her reach for another cigarette. Her fingers looked pink and inflamed, as if she were allergic to something in the paint. ‘Are you quite sure you haven’t heard from him, Ms Diaz?’

Luz snapped the flame off and took a deep breath.

‘Quite sure. And I’m quite sure I never shall.’

‘Why?’

‘Because his mother is right. He is dead.’

‘How can you be certain?’

‘I feel it. I know it. I am absolutely sure that he didn’t murder his wife. And whoever did has made quite certain that you will never find him. You’re wasting your time looking. Charles Verge doesn’t exist any more.’

Luz Diaz got to her feet and looked at her watch. ‘I said ten minutes. I’ve given you twenty. Now I must work.’ She rammed the cigarette into her mouth and reached for the yellow gloves.

7

T
he idea of fronting up to another strong woman didn’t appeal to Kathy, but she knew that Leon would have phoned his mother to warn her she might be calling. She rang the Barnet number and when Ghita Desai answered she heard the guarded tone in her voice.

‘Yes, dear, Leon said you might call to see us. Is everything all right?’

‘Yes, yes. I’m just going to be over your way, so I thought I’d say hello. But only if it’s convenient.’

‘Of course. Morarji may be resting. His operation, you know. But that doesn’t matter.’

Kathy arrived armed with a bunch of flowers at the Desai house, its semi-detached neatness enhanced by some recently fitted double-glazing.

Ghita answered the door immediately, as if she’d watched Kathy’s approach from behind the net curtains.

‘How are you, dear?’ She offered Kathy a cheek. Both she and her husband had the coal-dark eyes that Kathy found so disconcertingly attractive in Leon, but in their sagging faces the eyes gave an impression of deep fatigue, as if recovering from a very long period of watchfulness. Ghita peered at Kathy now through those dark eyes like someone conducting a physical.

‘Are you sure everything’s all right? There is nothing wrong?’

It was the unexpected visit, the rarity of direct contact, and suddenly Kathy realised that Ghita assumed she had come to deliver some momentous message concerning herself. ‘Leon and I have decided to get married’, perhaps, or more likely, ‘You’re going to become grandparents’. Yes, that was it. Ghita thought she was pregnant and had come alone to spill the awful beans. Because Kathy also saw, from the sombre expression on Ghita’s face, the way she held herself braced, that such news would not be welcome. Not from her.

‘No, everything’s fine. Absolutely. How is Morarji?’

The brow between Ghita’s dark eye sockets creased in a tiny frown of doubt, then eased. ‘He’s much better, really.

But he gets tired. He’s just having a little nap. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Of course not,’ Kathy said, wondering if he’d been packed off so that Ghita could have this out with her alone, woman to woman, without any fudging from Morarji, who liked her. ‘These are for you.’ She handed over the flowers and followed Ghita through to the living room. There was a smell of baking and air-freshener.

‘Sit down, dear, while I put them in water and pop the kettle on.’

Kathy had never been left alone in this room before.

Ghita was an immaculate housewife and every surface gleamed. She noticed a small perfume dispenser plugged into an electrical socket. There were embroidered linen protectors on the arms and backs of the brocade suite. On the mantelpiece were mementos of their days in East Africa, from where they’d been expelled, and above them a rank of framed family photographs, Leon conspicuous.

‘And how is Leon?’ Ghita bustled back in.

‘He’s fine. He’s taken quite an interest in cooking lately.

He’s getting really very good at it.’

‘Cooking?’ Ghita looked appalled for a moment, until she managed to smooth the expression away. ‘Well, I’m sure that will come in handy. And his work?’

‘He’s working too hard.’

‘Ah,’ Ghita shook her head. ‘That job.’

‘The trouble is he’s so good at it. He’s in demand.’

‘He would be good at whatever he set his mind to. It’s a mistake.’

‘You mean forensic liaison?’

‘I mean the police!’ she said with sudden passion. ‘It was always wrong for Leon, always.’

Kathy hadn’t realised the depth of Ghita’s opposition to Leon’s work, and as she went on about the pay and hours, the dreadful experiences, and compared them to what a cousin of his in IT was getting in the City, Kathy thought of Charles Verge’s mother, equally dedicated to her only son. Both mothers had brought them up in some isolation, Madelaine as a widow, Ghita as a refugee, which had probably lent a certain intensity to their relationships with their sons.

‘That was why I told him to go for the Liverpool course, as a way out, into the private sector.’

So Ghita had encouraged that, which Kathy hadn’t realised. She felt as if she were seeing his mother for the first time, as if all their previous encounters had been so wrapped up in courtesies that nothing at all had been communicated.

Ghita obviously sensed she was getting onto dangerous ground, and moved onto a neutral topic. Were they planning a holiday this year? Time went so fast, the year was nearly over, and they hadn’t managed to get away. When Morarji felt a little stronger they might try to have a break, somewhere warm . . .

She was interrupted by a movement at the door and the voice of her husband. ‘Talking about me?’ Naturally short and plump like his wife, Morarji Desai had lost weight, Kathy saw, and the dressing gown seemed to swamp him.

But the good humour was as bright in his eyes as ever as he advanced across the room to kiss Kathy’s cheek, ignoring

Ghita who was immediately on her feet and objecting to his being out of bed.

‘Ghita worries too much,’ he said with a wink.

‘Well, somebody has to,’ she snapped back.

‘It’s a division of labour, you see, Kathy. She does all the worrying and I do all the fooling around. Very efficient.

We’re both experts in our own fields.’

It was true, and when Kathy tried to place Leon between these two poles she had to conclude that he was closer to the mother’s. Morarji sat down with a chuckle while his wife went to fetch the tea. ‘She wasn’t giving you a hard time, was she?’ he asked, voice lowered.

‘No, no. We were just talking about Leon.’

‘Of course, what else? But how about you? He tells us you’re working on the Verge mystery now. What an exciting life you lead, eh? I have my own theories on what happened, you know . . .’

But Morarji never had the chance to expound them, for his wife returned with the tea and abruptly changed the subject. ‘Leon told me to ask you to please pick up his computer and take it back with you.’

The computer question had been discussed before and always put off. On the one hand it would be very handy in the flat, especially for email and the web, but on the other it was bulky and would be difficult to fit in, and Leon seemed reluctant to make the decision to shift it out of his old home. His mother, too, seemed unhappy about letting it go.

‘Morarji has been using it, but I don’t know how Leon’s managed without it,’ she said doubtfully. ‘He’s very attached to it. It was our birthday present to him last year.’

‘I’ve been telling him we should get a laptop,’ Kathy said.

‘That would be very wasteful,’ Ghita said disapprovingly, ‘when he already has such a good machine.’

‘But if Morarji is using it . . .’

‘Oh nonsense. He only plays around on the web.’

It was obvious that Ghita was quite out of sorts about the whole business and, despite her husband’s attempts to make amusing conversation, the rest of Kathy’s visit was a subdued affair, made more painful by the labour of dismantling the computer in Leon’s old bedroom and carting it down to the car. As she drove back towards Finchley, Kathy thought of Brock’s suggestion that she imagine the mother as twenty years younger and male, but couldn’t see Leon, or didn’t want to.

He helped her carry the computer up to the flat on the fourteenth floor, and it was immediately apparent that it was going to be a problem. The flat was just too small, and there was nowhere to put it. In the end it had to be set up on one end of the table they used for eating and writing. The place was becoming impossibly cluttered, and despite her best efforts, Kathy felt herself showing her irritation.

‘We’ll have to get a bigger place,’ she said, hearing the edginess in her voice. ‘This is getting ridiculous.’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll manage.’

Kathy caught herself angrily thinking of his mother’s words:
somebody’s got to do the worrying
. ‘What’s that stuff over there?’ She pointed accusingly at a pile of bound documents spilled untidily beside the sofa.

‘All the forensic material on the Verge case. Brock sent it over to me. Wants me to review it and find if they missed anything.’ He sounded exhausted and defeated by the prospect. ‘I haven’t got the time, Kathy. Look at it. I’m up to here at work, and I’ve got my first university assignment due next week.’

This was why he needed the computer, of course, Kathy thought, and immediately her anger drained away. She went over and put her arm around him. ‘Sorry, love. I’d forgotten about that. Can I help with the Verge files? You were involved at the beginning, weren’t you?’

‘Only for the first couple of weeks, then they moved me on to other cases.’

‘Well, why don’t you go through the technical stuff and I’ll check the procedures. I know the drill.’ As she said it she thought guiltily of the briefing documents for the Crime Strategy Working Party that lay in her briefcase, unread.

He shook his head. ‘No, I’ll have to do it . . .’ But over dinner he conceded that it might just be possible for her to help.

They settled themselves with coffee at opposite ends of the sofa, the reports piled between them, and began to work through them in silence. At midnight Kathy rubbed her eyes, yawning, and realised she had reread the same paragraph three times and still hadn’t made sense of it.

‘I think I’ve had it,’ she said. ‘This stuff is so boring.

What does this mean?’

She handed him the passage.

He squinted at it, eyes heavy. ‘It means that the following traces weren’t matched.’

‘Well, why don’t they just say that?’ She took the document back and turned to a schedule on an earlier page.

‘There’s quite a number of them, fingerprints and DNA. So that means they weren’t matched to either Miki or Charles Verge?’