The Verge Practice (4 page)

‘Okay, thanks. I suppose I’ll do it.’ Her eyes passed over the papers on the desk, the job schedules and files. ‘Has something come up?’ She read the label on the top file.

‘Charles Verge?’ Her eyes widened. ‘They’re not giving us the Verge case?’

‘They are. We’ll be having a briefing on Monday.’

‘But that’s fantastic!’

Her enthusiasm was immediate and completely untainted by Brock’s misgivings. He envied her optimism and wondered if he’d been infected by Chivers’ gloom.

‘No, it’s not. It’s an act of desperation. Chivers’ people have been flogging it for four months and they’ve got nowhere.’

‘Yes, but we’re better . . .’ She grinned suddenly and said, ‘It’s an honour to be picked, and it’s a great opportunity.’ Brock acknowledged his own rather awkward words with a reluctant smile. Kathy’s attention had turned to the job matrix lying beside the files, and she frowned at the blank beside her own name. ‘I’ll be on the Verge team, won’t I?’

‘What did Sharpe have to say about time commitments?’ ‘He said it would be a fractional commitment, about fifty per cent. I just have to give the committee priority if there’s a clash with other duties. Oh, come on, Brock! You have to let me on.’

He pondered a moment, then said, ‘Okay,’ and took up his pencil, writing ‘0.5’ in the blank space.

She smiled her thanks, then checked her watch. ‘I have to run.’

‘A date?’

‘I’m meeting someone. Leon.’

‘Ah yes. Would you describe yourselves as partners these days, Kathy?’

She gave him an odd look. ‘I might. Yes, something like that.’

‘Have fun.’ He turned back to his papers.

When she had gone he repeated softly, ‘Something like that . . .’ What did that mean, exactly? Something unresolved? He shook his head and hoped that Leon Desai knew what he was playing at.

On the way home through South London he stopped at a supermarket and stocked up for the weekend with some precooked lasagne, a pork pie, salad, eggs, bread, coffee and a couple of bottles of Chilean red. That evening he began with the crime scene file, and eventually fell asleep in his armchair over a copy of the pathology reports.

By the following evening he felt he had a reasonable overview of the case. Although he had been given only a small part of the huge volume of material that had been generated, it was enough to confirm his earlier expectation that Chivers’ team had done a very thorough job. Once he had become convinced that Verge had indeed bolted, Chivers had set about constructing a huge spider’s web of tripwires that spanned the globe. Phones were tapped, mail intercepted, bank accounts monitored, passenger lists scanned, in the hope that one day, somewhere, a contact would register. Given the celebrity of the runaway and the crime, foreign police forces had been glad to assist, and liaison officers in over thirty countries had been identified, in addition to normal Interpol links. Particular effort had gone into working with the police in Spain and in a number of Latin American countries.

Brock couldn’t fault the investigation, assuming the initial assumptions were correct, and there seemed nothing to suggest otherwise. The only thing that niggled was a certain vagueness about the forensic evidence, an absence of information, which Brock found unusual. The handle of the murder weapon had revealed no fingerprints or DNA traces of the assailant; the victim’s body showed no signs of injury apart from the fatal wound; the bedding on which she lay had been recently changed, and offered no forensic data; and neither did a single driving glove, found on the floor of Verge’s car. It was almost as if the murder setting had been sterilised, wiped of drama and significance.

He sighed, poured himself a glass of wine and opened the file containing a summary of each of the 1863 reported sightings of Verge from around the world which had been officially logged up to and including the previous Sunday, quite apart from the thousands more that had been recorded on the various Verge websites that had sprung up.

He was interrupted by the phone ringing at his elbow.

‘I thought we were going to meet this weekend.’

Brock recognised Suzanne’s voice, sounding slightly peeved.

‘Yes, I’m sorry. I was about to phone. Something came up yesterday, and now I’m up to my ears in files. I don’t think I’m going to make it.’

‘Oh dear. A new case?’ Her voice softened, prepared to be mollified.

‘An old one, but they’ve decided it needs a fresh look, and they’ve dumped it on me.’

‘It must be important. It’s not the Verge case, is it?’

Brock was astonished. ‘Well . . . yes, it is actually.’

‘Oh David, that’s fantastic! And you’re in charge of it now?’

‘Well, yes . . .’

‘Just wait till I tell the kids. They’ll be thrilled. Stewart thinks he got away in a submarine, and Miranda’s sure she’s seen him in our shop. Of course, they both think you should have been on it from the start.’ Then a thought struck her. ‘But you don’t mean to say you’ve been down here without telling us?’

‘No . . . Why?’

‘Well, to see the place where he disappeared. Bexhill.

The kids are sure he would have come through Battle on his way down to the coast.’

Brock hadn’t really registered the fact that Verge’s jumping point had been quite close to where Suzanne lived with her two grandchildren. ‘No, I hadn’t got that far yet.’

‘Well obviously you must. We’ve been down there to look for clues. We can show you exactly where the car was found. Stewart found an icecream wrapper that he thought should have been dusted for prints, but our local nick weren’t much interested. No doubt he’ll give it to you. And we worked out how Verge could have got to the Channel ports from there, that is if he wasn’t picked up by a passing submarine.’

‘You seem to know a lot about this.’

She laughed. ‘Of course we do! David, this is the biggest thing since Princess Di. The beautiful couple, the crime of passion, the disappearance. We follow every move. Stewart’s got a map of the world on his bedroom wall with pins stuck in for each sighting reported in the papers.’

More than I’ve got, Brock thought.

‘Anyway, you’ll have to come down. Why not make it tomorrow? The forecast is fine. We can have a picnic on the very spot.’

Brock looked around at the papers piled around his feet and said, ‘You know, I think that’s an excellent idea. I’ll be there by noon, and you can give me a briefing.’

And so the following day Brock found himself sitting on a tartan travelling rug laid out on the patch of beach just below where Charles Verge’s car had been abandoned, holding a chicken drumstick in one hand and in the other the bulging scrapbook which Stewart and Miranda had compiled of the crime. He found their information a good deal more readable than the police files, especially concerning the principal characters. There was an amazing number of cuttings from magazines and newspapers, many recent, but some dating back years, scavenged by the children from junk shops and doctors’ surgeries. Verge appeared most often, a short, stocky figure with a Napoleonic gleam in his dark eyes, a good tan, close-trimmed black hair and rather large nose, at the controls of his own helicopter about to fly his plans of the German Ministry to Berlin, or with a beaming Home Secretary examining the model of the new Home Office prison, or helping his wife out of their silver Ferrari. The accompanying articles made much use of phrases like
cutting edge
and
precocious talent
, and described him variously as domineering, passionate and obsessive.

‘He’s dishy, isn’t he?’ Suzanne said, offering him a glass of wine.

‘Looks a bit full of himself to me,’ Brock grunted, and read the headline of an article obviously written before the lethal termination of his marriage,
My wife is my greatest critic: Charles Verge reveals all
. Brock took a sip of the wine and gazed out to sea. It was placid, empty, a light breeze ruffling the low swell. Gulls wheeled overhead. There was something voyeuristic, ghoulish even, about sitting on that spot, poring over these pictures of the missing man.

‘You’re quite convinced he didn’t really drown?’ he asked the boy.

‘Oh yes. Look . . .’ Stewart flicked through the pages to an article cut from a local paper, featuring interviews with local fishermen and sailors discussing currents and tides, all agreeing that the body would have been washed ashore further along the south coast within forty-eight hours of a drowning.

What most disconcerted Brock was that the kids had never once mentioned to him their fascination with the case, or asked him for inside information.

‘I had no idea you were doing all this,’ he said.

The lad hung his head guiltily. ‘We wanted to ask you about it, but we thought you’d be cross, because it wasn’t your case.’

‘I see. Well, I think you’ve done a very professional job.

In fact, I’d like to borrow this for a while, to show some people at Scotland Yard. Would you mind?’

Stewart’s face lit up. He gave a whoop and ran to tell his sister who was tracking a small crab along the water’s edge.

There were pictures of the victim, too. Verge’s wife was a Japanese architect, Miki Norinaga, who had come to work for him five years earlier, a couple of years after his divorce from his first wife. The articles made much of her looks (
svelte
,
waif-like
and
willowy
) and the fact that she was only thirty, twenty-two years his junior. She gazed unsmiling from the pictures, dressed invariably in black, looking very self-possessed.

‘After you’ve caught him, the trial will be such an anticlimax,’ Suzanne said. ‘I mean, there’s not a lot he can say, is there?’

Brock smiled at her confidence. ‘I suppose not.’ He recalled the photographs of the bedroom scene.

‘They don’t like her very much, the press . . .’ Suzanne pointed to a picture of Miki on her husband’s arm. ‘They always show her looking sulky and imply that she was a gold-digging bitch. Look . . .
A family friend is reported as describing the dead woman as manipulative and possessive.

“Charles adored her, and she had him wrapped round her little finger.”
But it wouldn’t necessarily have been easy for her, being married to someone like that, do you think?’

They packed up their picnic things and made their way back to the road, where Stewart pointed out where Verge’s Land Rover had been parked, and the spot nearby where he had found the ice-cream wrapper, which he had preserved in a plastic ‘evidence bag’. He handed this solemnly to Brock, whose phone rang as he accepted it. The voice was that of an elderly woman, speaking too loudly into the receiver.

‘Hello? Who is that?’ she demanded.

‘Who are you after?’ Brock parried.

‘I want Detective Chief Inspector Brock.’

‘That’s me.’

‘My name is Madelaine Verge. I am the mother of Charles Verge. I am told that you have been given charge of the investigation into the murder of my daughter-in-law.

It is imperative that I speak to you.’

‘How did you get this number, Mrs Verge?’ Brock saw the others prick up their ears at the name.

‘I have many friends, Chief Inspector, and this is urgent.

I have important information which you must know before you go any further. We must meet this afternoon.’

‘I’m afraid . . .’ Brock began, but the imperious voice cut him off.

‘I am confined to a wheelchair, so it would be convenient if you were to come to me. I live in Chelsea. When can you get here?’

‘Can you give me some idea of the information you have, Mrs Verge?’

‘Not on the telephone.’

‘Very well.’ He checked his watch. ‘I can get to you at five. What’s the address?’

As he drove them back to Battle, Suzanne said, ‘I’d hoped you might have stayed over with us tonight, David.’

It was the first time she had said it openly in front of the children, and Brock felt she was making a point.

‘Sorry. I’d have liked that, but I’ve got a lot to do.’

‘He’s got to get on with catching Charles Verge,’ Stewart chipped in.

‘I’ll visit again soon,’ Brock added. ‘I promise.’

3

M
adelaine Verge occupied the ground floor of a discreet Edwardian brick residential block in a leafy back street. There were unobtrusive indications that the resident was wheelchair-bound in the ramped approach to the front door where steps had once been, and the keyhole at waist height. Brock spoke into the intercom and she opened the door, a frail but belligerent grey-haired woman sitting bolt upright in the chair as if challenging comment. Inside the hallway it was clear that the whole interior had been gutted and remodelled to a light and spacious open plan.

She led him through into the lounge area, then wheeled about and peered at him intently for a moment through bright, alert eyes, as if trying to assess whether he was worthy of the task he’d been given. Then she invited him to sit, on a modern stainless-steel and black leather chair.