The Verge Practice

by Barry Maitland

  ‘A medical matter?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘Then I don’t understand how I can help you. Perhaps I should speak to Captain Alvarez.’

  ‘We are trying to trace a man who went missing in May of this year, Dr Lizancos. We have received a report that he was seen going into Passeig de Gràcia 83 on the morning of the fourteenth of May, so we’re talking to the people who work in that building.’

  ‘Ah.’ The lizard head nodded with understanding. ‘But as you see, I am now retired. I very rarely go to the consulting rooms.’ The slit of his mouth stretched a little in a smile. ‘But how curious. They send two lady policemen from London. This missing person is not dangerous?’ He gave a dry cackle.

  Neither woman smiled back. Kathy said, ‘Is it possible you were at Passeig de Gràcia 83 on the fourteenth of May, doctor?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Could you check your diary?’

  ‘I no longer have need of a diary,’ he replied, the smile gone.

  ‘Do you know a Barcelona family by the name of Vergés, by any chance?’

  ‘I can’t recall anyone of that name.’

  Kathy handed him the photograph of Charles Verge.

  ‘Have you ever seen this man?’

  He studied it for quite a long time, then handed it back.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘You must have an address book . . .’ Kathy began, but he snapped across her sentence.

  ‘If such a book existed, I should not consider showing it to the police without official authorisation at the highest level. Perhaps I will telephone Captain Alvarez.’

  Kathy realised that he had sensed that this was the way to get rid of them. ‘I don’t think we need to bother you further, doctor,’ she said reluctantly, and they all got to their feet.

  Linda suddenly gushed, ‘This is just an amazing house.’

  The old man eyed her. ‘Do you know anything of Catalan Modernismo?’ he asked in a superior tone.

  ‘Very little,’ Linda replied, and Kathy thought, but I’m sure we’re about to learn.

  ‘Did you notice the Hospital de la Santa Creu i de Sant Pau near here? Yes? This is by the same architect, Domènech i Montaner—in my opinion the greatest Catalan architect after Antoni Gaudí. It was designed as the house for the hospital superintendent.’

  If Charles Verge had ever met this man, Kathy wondered what they would have made of each other’s architectural tastes, for it was difficult to imagine anything less like the spare van der Rohe pavilion Verge had so admired.

  ‘Well, it is remarkable.’ Their eyes had become accustomed to the light and they could make out a massive stone fireplace at the end of the room and another extravagant fountain in the courtyard outside like the one in the front garden.

  Lizancos gave a rasping chuckle. ‘You won’t see this in London, eh?’

  ‘Oh, goodness no! And did you work at the hospital, doctor?’ Linda beamed him a big, warm smile.

  ‘I worked in many hospitals, and I had a private clinic.

  Ah, I see what you mean—the superintendent’s house. No, it was sold by the Sant Pau many years before I bought it.

  It’s too big for me now, of course. I should sell and go live in a little apartment.’

  No, Kathy thought, you belong together, you and the house and Maria.

  ‘That would be a shame,’ Linda said, oozing sexy charm. ‘You must have been a wonderful surgeon. The CGP have told us about your brilliant work with their men.

  Don’t you miss it?’

  ‘I’m too old.’ He held up a hand to show them the tremor.

  ‘Oh, I don’t believe that.’

  The lizard couldn’t altogether resist the warmth of that lovely smile. Despite himself, Kathy could see, he wanted to stretch out and bask in it. ‘Ah well, hacer de la necesidad virtud. You know that saying?’

  ‘Make a virtue of necessity.’

  ‘Your Spanish is good.’

  ‘I know one too. La mujer y el vidrio siempre están en peligro.’

  ‘Ah!’ Lizancos’ face creased in a leer. Linda giggled and spun round, knocking a glass figurine from the table at her elbow. As it spun towards the edge of the table Lizancos’ hand flashed forward and caught it cleanly.

  ‘Oh! I’m so sorry.’

  Lizancos scowled with irritation, the spell broken.

  ‘Maria will see you out,’ he snapped, replacing the ornament carefully on the table.

  ‘You did that deliberately,’ Kathy said, when they were back in the taxi, heading for the city centre again.

  ‘Yeah, I wanted to test his reactions. I didn’t go for that shaky hand crap.’

  ‘You thought he was faking it, too? I noticed the trembling stopped when I mentioned the Vergés.’

  ‘Yeah, and when he held Verge’s picture his hand was steady as a rock.’

  ‘What did you say to him just before you knocked the figurine?’

  ‘A woman and glass are always in danger. It’s a saying.

  Lapped it up, didn’t he? So, what do we do now?’

  ‘I’d like to check out the private clinic that he mentioned. See if he really has retired.’

  ‘You think he may have done a nose job on Charles Verge?’ Linda asked.

  ‘It’s a possibility. I didn’t like the way he answered my questions. Do you think he really doesn’t keep a diary?’

  ‘Probably summons up his appointments by black magic. Will Jeez help us?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘That’ll make things difficult. I could try talking nicely to him. He fancies me.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘Yeah, he told me. And I told him I don’t go out with married men. Currently he’s pissed off with me, because I’ve been going around with Tony, who is married.’

  Given time, Kathy thought, they’d probably manage to alienate the whole Spanish police force. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t involve Jeez.’

  Linda stared out of the cab window as they came again to the Sagrada Família, its spires rising above the incomplete structure like remnants of some lost and arcane culture.

  Then she began to thumb through her notebook. ‘The girl gave us two phone numbers for Lizancos. Here . . . They’re both 93 numbers, which is the Barcelona region. The first one starts 93 487, which I’m pretty sure is a city number. They’re usually in the 93 200s, 300s or 400s, so that’s probably his spooky home. The other one starts 93 894, and I’d guess that must be outside the city. We might try that one.’

  She fished her mobile phone out of her bag and pressed in the numbers. After a moment she began a rapid conversation, taking notes as she spoke. She said ‘Muchas gracias,’ rang off and sat back. ‘It’s a fitness club, called Apollo-Sitges, and it’s in Sitges, which is about twenty miles down the coast. When I asked if Dr Lizancos was there she got cagey and asked who wanted to know. I said I was from his consulting rooms at Passeig de Gràcia 83, and the woman became more friendly. Dr Lizancos isn’t there today, she said, but they are expecting him first thing in the morning.

  It sounded as if he goes there regularly.’

  ‘A fitness club? Why there? There must be others a lot closer.’

  ‘Maybe it has other attractions,’ Linda said thoughtfully. ‘They call Sitges the gay capital of Spain. Maybe Doctor Creepy has some special interest down there.’

  16

  Jeez greeted them in the corridor as they made their way to the office they had been given. He seemed in a good mood.

  ‘Ah, ladies! Did you have a good lunch? While you were having the long lunch, we were working hard, as always, and we have results!’

  ‘Well, that’s wonderful, Jeez.’ Linda switched on her heat-lamp smile.

  ‘Yes indeed. A photograph of your Martin Kraus, no less! London will be pleased, yes?’

  ‘Ecstatic.’

  ‘Tony will show you, Kathy. I just want to have a word with Linda.’

  ‘Oh, sure.’ The two women exchanged
a look and Kathy left them to it.

  Tony was seated at his desk, shirt-sleeved, tie pulled open, looking as if he needed a good, long sleep. ‘Oh, hi, Kathy. Linda with you?’

  ‘She’ll be along in a bit.’ Kathy thought she noticed the slightest hint of relief in Tony’s expression, as if fatigue might be winning over passion. ‘You got something?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Our pals have got us something at last.’ He gathered up a sheaf of papers and began sorting through them, a sly look on his face, as if he wanted to hoard the revelations he was privy to. He began with a couple of photocopied documents.

  ‘Seems our Martin Kraus was born in Barcelona in 1949, same year as Charles Verge.’ He waved one of the sheets. ‘Birth certificate. Then he died, aged two and a half.

  He’s buried in the Sant Roc cemetery.’ He handed the second piece of paper to Kathy. ‘Death certificate.’

  ‘Right.’ Kathy ran her eyes over the pages. ‘When did the resurrection happen?’

  ‘Early last year someone applied for a copy of the birth certificate, and shortly afterwards Mr Kraus applied for a passport . . .’ Tony clutched the next sheet as if he didn’t want to hand it over.

  ‘So we have his photo,’ Kathy prompted.

  ‘Exactly.’ Tony beamed smugly and slowly handed it across. Kathy was aware of him watching her expression closely as her eyes focused on the picture of Sandy Clarke.

  ‘Well, well. What do you make of that?’

  Tony sat back in his chair, pressing his fingertips together as if in prayer. He seemed disappointed with Kathy’s lack of reaction. ‘A couple of possibilities come to mind.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Theory one, and most likely in my opinion, it was a tax avoidance scheme, and probably all three partners were in on it. Excess profits are paid to a phantom debtor, Turnstile Quality Systems, registered offshore and with an imaginary proprietor.’

  ‘Why was Clarke’s photo used?’

  ‘So that he could provide identification to open and access bank accounts on behalf of his partners. One of them had to, and Clarke was the one who authorised most contract payments.’

  ‘Was he in Barcelona on the fourth of October when the Barclays account was opened?’

  ‘Must have been.’

  ‘What’s the other option?’

  ‘Theory two, the other two partners weren’t aware of it.

  That means it was some kind of scam that Clarke was pulling alone.’

  Kathy thought about this. ‘But Verge knew about Martin Kraus and the Barclays account in Barcelona, didn’t he?’

  ‘So Clarke says.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that it was Clarke, not Verge, who closed the account on the fifteenth of May, and withdrew his own money that he’d transferred from London?’

  ‘In theory two, who else could have?’

  ‘Then Clarke would have had to come to Barcelona on the fifteenth of May.’

  ‘Not necessarily. The transfer of funds was instructed electronically.’

  ‘But why would Clarke pretend to send money to Verge, if he didn’t?’

  ‘Yes, interesting question. To make it look as if Martin Kraus was really Charles Verge, presumably, who conveniently isn’t around to deny it.’

  ‘Has this been sent to Brock?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘As we speak. It’ll be interesting to hear what Mr Clarke has to say for himself, yeah?’

  At that moment the door flew open and Linda marched in. She looked slightly flushed, her eyes bright. ‘Well! So what’s been happening?’ she cried.

  Later she caught up with Kathy at the water cooler. ‘I’ve agreed to go out clubbing with Jeez tonight,’ she said in a dramatic whisper.

  ‘What about Tony?’

  ‘He’s got a lot of work to catch up on with this Clarke business. He wants a quiet night in his hotel room.’

  ‘And what about your principles?’ Kathy persisted.

  Linda grinned. ‘It’s for the sake of the investigation. I’ll persuade Jeez to do a check on that fitness club.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Kathy said. She didn’t add that she’d already taken her own steps in that direction, having arranged a hire car for the following morning.

  ‘Jeez has to have dinner at home, so he can’t pick me up till ten. Why don’t we eat together tonight, if you’re not doing anything else?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

  They met in the lobby of the hotel at six-thirty and wandered out to the Plaça and then south through the old town and into the narrow winding streets of the Barri Gòtic, the Gothic Quarter, around the cathedral. Linda led them to a bar with outdoor tables where she ordered sangria and tapas.

  Kathy looked around her at the evening sun glowing on ancient stonework, smart young couples parading across the square, kids roller-skating, old folks lined up on benches, the men conversing together on one, the women on another. ‘This is magic,’ she said.

  The waiter brought a glass jug of cool pink liquid, and warned them about the children who stole handbags through the low hedge at their backs.

  ‘I feel guilty,’ Kathy went on. ‘I just phoned my bloke at home, and he sounded cheesed off, and here I am swanning around enjoying myself, sipping exotic drinks in foreign parts.’

  ‘Oh, we did try to do some work today,’ Linda said, lazily eyeing three young men wandering by.

  ‘Didn’t amount to much really though, did it? Not after the stuff that Jeez got on Clarke—a dubious entry in a visitors’ book and a creepy old man.’ As she spoke, Kathy realised just how much she had wanted at least one of those leads to amount to something.

  Linda laughed. ‘You don’t have to feel guilty, for God’s sake. What else could you have done?’

  ‘I don’t know. I feel frustrated all the same. I’ve hired a car to drive down to Sitges tomorrow, but it seems pointless now. Don’t fancy a drive down the coast, do you?’

  ‘I’ll have to stay here in case Tony needs an interpreter to talk to the bank people again. But you should go and see a bit more while you’re here. You can get there and back in plenty of time to pick us up for the flight home. Tell them you want to return the car to the airport.’ She raised her glass. ‘Cheers. Are you married to this bloke, then?’

  ‘Leon? No, we’ve been living together for six months now.’

  ‘Sounds serious.’

  ‘Sometimes it feels like no time at all; other times it feels like he’s been there for ever.’

  ‘I always seem to lose interest before then. How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty-four.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Kathy imagined a checklist of basic questions in Linda’s mind. It would be simpler if they all just carried cards of essential life data they could exchange. What stereotype are you? She’d be asking if Kathy wanted children next.

  ‘Does he want kids?’

  ‘We haven’t discussed it.’

  ‘Really?’ Linda raised her eyebrows as if that were very significant.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve found that usually comes up in month three or four, which is probably why I drop them at the end of month two.’

  Kathy smiled. ‘So you don’t want kids?’

  ‘My family was so utterly nuclear, so solid, that I think it put me off the whole idea. How about yours?’

  Here we go, Kathy thought. ‘I lost both my parents when I was in my teens.’

  ‘Oh dear. But that didn’t make you want to found a new dynasty?’

  ‘The opposite, really. I suppose I got nervous of forming attachments, in case I lost them, too.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ Linda sipped thoughtfully at her drink.

  That’s enough of the amateur psychology, Kathy thought. The tapas arrived, the sun slipped below the rooftops and they changed the subject.

  When they had finished their drinks and tapas they moved on to a small restaurant hidden in a back street of the old quarter, where Linda told Kathy she should try black rice, the mo
st famous rice dish of Catalonia. And it was after this, strolling back towards the hotel, that Kathy’s phone rang. She pulled it out of her bag and recognised Brock’s voice.

  ‘Kathy? How are you?’

  ‘Great. Did you get my fax?’

  ‘The entry in the visitors’ book? Yes, thanks. Very ingenious. I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your imagination.’

  He sounded grim and preoccupied, and not greatly impressed by her discovery. ‘Can they analyse the handwriting from the fax, or do you need the original?’

  ‘You haven’t seen my fax to you this afternoon? I sent it to the CGP number.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah, well, you might want to get hold of it. It should make interesting reading.’

  ‘Okay. Is it about Clarke?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll go and pick it up now. We’ve also tracked down a retired plastic surgeon who may have been in the building that the McNeils now think they saw Charles Verge disappear into. I may need you to talk nicely to Captain Alvarez to get him to do a proper check on the man. He’s reluctant . . .’

  ‘Read my fax,’ Brock said enigmatically. ‘You’re flying back tomorrow? Fine. See you soon.’ He rang off.

  When the passport photograph of Martin Kraus had arrived from Barcelona, Brock had immediately obtained a warrant and taken a couple of cars to the house near Greenwich Common. According to Sandy Clarke’s secretary he hadn’t been into the office that day. Apparently he had done this a couple of times lately, taken paperwork home to deal with in peace. Then she had added, hesitantly and with the proviso that she hoped the Chief Inspector would treat this as confidential, that he may not know about Mr Clarke’s wife leaving him. He had told her the previous day, and he’d obviously been very upset and had said he might take the next day or two off.

  Bees were humming among the hollyhocks that Denise Clarke had grown in the small cottage garden at the front of the house, a protective buffer against the city whose fumes nevertheless seemed to hang around the place. The house was silent and no one answered the doorbell. They went around to the back, where an officer broke a windowpane in the back door and so gained entry to the kitchen.

  A bottle of brandy, almost empty, stood on the scrubbed pine table next to an empty glass and a medication packet, also empty. A small ormolu vase of roses stood nearby, its petals fallen in a ring around its base. There was also a laptop computer on the table, power on but asleep, its light winking.