The Verge Practice (6 page)

Finally, Brock’s inspector Bren Gurney asked for more information on the Barcelona connection. Verge had a number of relatives there from his father’s family, and in addition he had done architectural work in the city, including an apartment building in the port area for athletes competing at the 1992 Olympics, and he had visited the city regularly. Of the relatives, one had been of particular interest, a cousin who had been a close boyhood friend of the fugitive. This man ran an engineering manufacturing business which exported a range of valves and pumps to various parts of Europe and Latin America, and in particular Argentina, where he owned a local sales and servicing company.

Relatives and other contacts had been interviewed by detectives of the Cuerpo General de Policía in Barcelona, the CGP, and by members of Chivers’ team, but none admitted to contact with Verge since his disappearance.

Phone calls and financial transactions between the families in Spain and England were being monitored, and between the cousin’s businesses in Barcelona and Buenos Aires, so far without result.

There was one other possible link with Barcelona. On the same Monday morning that Miki Norinaga’s body had been discovered in London, a holidaying English couple called McNeil had been strolling along the Passeig de Gràcia, the main avenue of Barcelona’s fashionable Eixample district, when Mr McNeil noticed a man get out of a taxi and quickly cross the pavement in front of them, then enter an adjoining building. After a moment’s thought he said to his wife that he thought he recognised the man as the famous architect Charles Verge. McNeil was a recently retired structural engineer, and although he had never met Verge in person, he had seen his picture many times in industry journals, and confidently picked him out later when shown photographs. He didn’t realise the significance of his sighting until they returned to England a week later, when they discovered the papers full of the Verge scandal, and he phoned the police hotline. By that stage the police had already had dozens of reports of Verge from all over Europe, but they knew of the family connection with Barcelona and paid particular attention to McNeil’s story.

From maps and photographs supplied from Spain the couple identified the building on the Passeig de Gràcia, and its tenants were questioned by the CGP—paying particular attention to the staff of a travel agency on the first floor— but again there was no result.

Someone asked about Verge’s state of mind at the time of the murder. The clients he had met in California in the week before the murder had been interviewed, as had the crew on the overnight flight back to London, and both could say no more than that he had seemed normal and not unduly stressed, and he certainly hadn’t appeared drunk when he disembarked. He had been met at Heathrow by his business partner Sandy Clarke, who said they had talked about Verge’s successful trip and about a presentation they were doing on the following Monday morning. Verge had been calm and in good spirits.

According to his friends and colleagues in London, his relationship with Miki had gone through a change in the previous year or so. He had worshipped her when they first married, but more recently there seemed to have been a cooling between them, and rumours of disagreements.

However, there had been no public scenes, and no one believed that Miki Norinaga might have had a lover.

Everyone appeared to find the idea of Verge committing a violent murder quite inexplicable.

‘What you’ve got to understand,’ Chivers said, ‘is that they all think Charles Verge was the Archangel Gabriel. He might have been an egotistical bastard at times, but that was okay because archangels have a lot to put up with. The important thing was that he could mesmerise the big clients, come up with the big ideas, and pay them all big salaries. And if he did bump Miki off, well, she probably deserved it, didn’t she, because archangels are always right. What they’re all secretly hoping is that he will turn up any day now with a perfectly reasonable explanation and everything can go back to the way it was before the Fall.

‘And they didn’t like Miki. They won’t come right out and say it, because they’re all nice middle-class people who wouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but it’s pretty obvious. The men didn’t like her because they thought she manipulated Verge into marriage when he was on the rebound from a divorce, and she promptly changed from being a lowly apprentice into someone who acted as if she was the boss herself. And the women didn’t like her because she was aloof and didn’t share in their gossip, and because she got off with the man they all secretly fancied.’

Kathy, who had been examining the crime-scene and autopsy photographs, asked, ‘Were there any injuries apart from the stab wound?’

Chivers shook his head. ‘Nothing. What of it?’

‘If they got into an argument and he flew into a rage, you’d think there would have been some preliminary physical stuff, a shove, a slap. Going out to the kitchen and selecting a knife seems very deliberate, cold.’

‘That was how he got angry, apparently,’ Chivers said.

‘He didn’t rant and rave. One of his staff said he could kill with a look if someone stuffed up. Another said it felt like being verbally disembowelled. And the killing was very efficiently done. The medical examiner was full of admiration. One very powerful, clean, deep blow. We did get an opinion from a psychologist, who was interested in the fact that both the blade and the woman were Japanese. He suggested that there might have been something symbolic in the act.’ Chivers snorted to indicate what he thought of that idea.

When the questions seemed to have come to an end, Brock said, ‘I had a call yesterday from Verge’s mother, Madelaine Verge. She wanted to tell me about her theory that Charles was murdered for commercial reasons, and that his wife was killed to put us off the scent.’

This caused a buzz of interest, silenced by Chivers’ exasperated shake of the head.

‘Crap. She started flogging that line as soon as it became obvious to everyone else what her darling boy had done.

She tried to get the press to take an interest, but they soon discovered that she had nothing to back it up. One of the tabloids tried to run with it—
Distraught mother claims Verge victim of conspiracy
—that kind of thing, but couldn’t make it work. We did look into it, but came up with nothing.

Charles’s staff thought the idea was ridiculous. We couldn’t find anything more substantial than a mother’s wishful thinking.’

Brock decided to leave it there. He thanked Chivers, then read out the list of names of members of the earlier team who would be transferring to the new investigation, including Chivers’ exhibits officer, statement reader and action manager, and the liaison coordinator with overseas forces. He had agreed these beforehand with Chivers, but it was an uncomfortable moment nevertheless, and at the end of it Chivers got to his feet, ground his cigarette in a plastic cup, stiffly wished them good luck and left with those no longer required.

Only one of the newcomers was a woman, Kathy noticed. DS Linda Moffat, the overseas liaison coordinator, was a tall, dark-haired thirty-odd year-old, who presented confidently and economically when it came to her turn to describe what they’d been doing. She spoke of her contacts, the Alonsos and Garcías and Alejandros, as if they were all old friends, and when Brock asked about Barcelona she became quite lyrical.

‘Captain Ramiro Alvarez and Lieutenant Jésus Mozas are our two CGP contacts. We’ve visited them twice and they’ve been over here once. Ramiro’s a bit grim, but Jésus is lovely. The trouble is, both they and Buenos Aires seem to be going a bit cold on us. We think they’ve been told to be polite but not spend any more money. Superintendent Chivers was thinking of going over there again soon to try to keep them involved, but I think he was waiting until When they finally broke up, Brock asked Kathy if she would go with him to have a look at the crime scene and talk to Verge’s colleagues. She was glad, because he hadn’t said in the meeting what her role in the investigation would be and she was afraid of being sidelined because of the committee business, which she was already regretting. A preliminary meeting of the working party had been called for later that afternoon, and she knew she’d have to watch her time. we had something definite to follow up. He was planning to take me,’ she added hopefully, then clamped her mouth tight when she noticed the smirks passing between the men.

It took the rest of the morning to work through the business and allocate jobs. Kathy observed the way Brock quietly brought the two halves of his team together, coaxing Chivers’ people to reconsider what they had done, identifying the areas of old ground that would have to be gone over yet again. Though he appeared all method and rationality, for Brock the most important part of the process was encouraging something more intangible, an act of faith, a belief that he would simply be luckier than Chivers. Sharpe wanted to believe this and so did the remnants of Chivers’ team, flagging now after four months without a result, and Brock needed their faith to bring the hunt back to life.

As she drove across Westminster Bridge she decided to ask Brock what she would be doing. He didn’t reply at first, gazing out of the side window at the sunlight glinting on the great wheel of the London Eye. Finally he said, ‘I want you to explain Verge to me, Kathy. Get me inside his head.

I want to understand what he was thinking when he did it.

What was in his mind as he drove down to the south coast?

Maybe if we understand better how his journey began, we’ll have a better chance of working out where he’s ended up.’

Sounds all right, she thought, then began to wonder how it could be done. Get inside his head. She pondered this as she negotiated the South Bank traffic, slowing at roadworks under the railway bridge by London Bridge station, past Southwark Cathedral then across Tower Bridge Road and into Bermondsey. Just lately, with Leon, she’d begun to doubt if it was possible to get inside anyone else’s head, especially a man’s. They’d been living together for six months, but there were parts of his mind that were completely closed to her, she knew, just as there were parts of hers that she hadn’t let him see. And if it was impossible with someone that close, how could you do it with a man who had vanished four months before?

As if he were reading her mind, Brock said, ‘You might have a talk with his mother, and while you’re doing it, imagine her as a man, and twenty years younger.’

Not a bad idea. Maybe she should do the same thing with Leon’s mum, the tyrant of the Desais.

‘And if that doesn’t work, you might get some inspiration from this . . .’ Brock reached into his briefcase and pulled out the kids’ scrapbook. ‘Stewart and Miranda put it together. Quite a good effort, and a lot more lively than our files.’

Kathy smiled. She knew the children, abandoned by their mother to their grandmother’s care, and she knew of their ambivalent attitude to Brock, seen sometimes as a heroic crime-fighter and other times as an intruder threatening the security of their home. She wondered if this project was an attempt by Stewart to come to terms with his grandmother’s friend.

She turned off Jamaica Road into a maze of narrow streets that led towards the old brick warehouses lining the south bank of the river. Tyres drumming on granite cobbles, she slowed opposite a vertical plane of glass, shockingly naked among all this brick and stone, which she recognised from a picture in the Verge Practice brochure that Superintendent Chivers had circulated at the briefing.

In the photograph, the half-dozen floors behind the glass had been filled with people, illuminated like mannequins in a department-store window or actors in some kind of experimental theatre, but now she could see no one.

A woman was waiting for them, introducing herself as Jennifer Mathieson, information manager, her red hair made more vivid by a black silk blouse and suit. As she led them to a glass lift in the central atrium, Kathy noticed that not only the structure of the building, but also all of its furniture and fittings—including the reception desk, stairs and tables—were made of glass and glittering stainless-steel rods.

‘It was you who found the body, wasn’t it, Ms Mathieson?’ Brock asked as they glided upwards.

‘That’s right.’ She sounded nonchalant, the shock and immediacy of her discovery long gone. ‘I’ll take you up to the apartment after you’ve seen Sandy Clarke.’

The lift sighed to a stop and she led the way to a glass-enclosed office to one side of the atrium with a view out over the river. The room was spartan and immaculately neat, a row of gold-embossed design award certificates forming a frieze along one wall. Clarke rose to his feet from behind his desk, shook hands gravely and they took their places on black leather swivel chairs arranged around a glass-topped table.

He was tall, careful and rather elegant in both dress and movements. He straightened his tie with fingers that were long and delicate, like a pianist’s. ‘Has there been some new development?’ he asked, and it seemed to Kathy that the possibility worried him.

But as Brock explained the changes to the investigating team Clarke looked pained, as if at the thought of having to go through the whole thing again for their benefit. ‘It all seems academic now,’ he said, voice flat. ‘You’re not going to find him after all this time, are you?’

‘You think he’s found a secure bolthole?’

‘I didn’t say that. As I told your colleagues, I find this whole tragedy inexplicable. The idea of Charles committing murder and then running away just doesn’t make any sort of sense to me. Both actions would be completely out of character.’