‘But you proved that we were right!’
Kathy was particularly struck by the look on George’s face, tight-lipped, bright-eyed, as if suppressing some inner elation. She thought she could appreciate his feelings, the convict as an honoured guest at a party of police and prison bigwigs.
‘It was a difficult thing for people to accept, Mrs Verge.’
Brock spoke deliberately, without a trace of pleasure at her praise. ‘Even today there are some who find it hard to believe that your son is not still alive.’
‘What?’ She released his hand. ‘How can they possibly do that?’ She jerked her head back angrily. ‘Well, you must make it your job to persuade them that they’re wrong, mustn’t you!’
‘We would all feel much happier if we could find his body.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Madelaine Verge’s face recovered its composure. ‘I have reconciled myself to the possibility that that may never happen. Do you know Sir Christopher Wren’s epitaph in St Paul’s? Si monumentum requiris, circumspice.
“If you want a monument, look around you.” That shall be my son’s epitaph, Chief Inspector.’ She lifted an arthritic hand in a wide arc. ‘Look around you . . .’
As she swept away, Kathy said to Brock, ‘Is there really anyone who thinks he’s still alive?’
He said nothing for a moment, staring after the departing group, then murmured, ‘Yes, Kathy. I rather think there is.’
They joined the last departing group, and passed through the door into a narrow tunnel, walls, ceiling and floor coloured dark blue, which led abruptly into a lobby of dazzling white light. Kathy noticed that the comments and humorous asides quickly died away as they followed their guide through the quarters of Blue Square. It was so stark, so depersonalised, so minimal in its design, that it had a numbing effect on the brain. It took her a while to notice the most telling detail, the complete absence of any of the plethora of controls—plugs, sockets, switches, handles, taps—which are scattered over the walls of any normal room. Here, everything was operated remotely, by men with electronic controls. There was nothing on the smooth bare walls that an inmate could touch to make anything work, to cause a door to open, a toilet to flush, a light to glow.
By the time the party reached the courtyard at the centre of Blue Square, their minds had so adjusted to the purgative effects of all this visual absence that the foliage of the blue larches in the sunlight seemed extravagantly artificial. Conversations began to revive, if cautiously, when they had passed up the ramp to Green Square, where some muted colours were allowed. There was even a light switch or two. But it wasn’t until Yellow Square that they were given a narrow glimpse of the outside world, the first time their eyes had been able to focus further than a few metres, and the sight of fens stretching to the distant horizon had a disturbingly agoraphobic effect.
When they finally reached Red Square, the whole group, both sceptics and believers, seemed to recover their spirits. Kathy saw it on the faces of other groups they met there, a sense of relief and of a return to normality. Here were armchairs, newspapers, coffee-making facilities and large picture windows, some of which actually opened to admit the boggy breeze. People were checking their watches, commenting that it had been only an hour, but felt like a lifetime.
On the way back, following a strung-out line of expensive motors across the fen, Brock’s phone rang. He grunted into it, agreed to something and shoved it back in his pocket. ‘Your friend Mr Oakley wants to speak to me again.
With his solicitor this time.’
Kathy felt a knot of anxiety form in her gut.
Paul Oakley and his lawyer wore similar striped ties, as if they belonged to different houses of the same public school.
‘Mr Oakley’s purpose in requesting this interview is to clarify his statements to you yesterday and answer openly any further questions you may have. But before we begin, he has asked me to make three points.’ The solicitor slipped on a pair of gold-framed glasses and consulted his notes.
‘First, he feels he was unfairly treated yesterday in that he was allowed to believe the purpose of the meetings was an innocent business contact when in fact it was to gather information about him relating to a possible criminal matter.’
‘He was cautioned,’ Brock objected.
‘But only at the second meeting. In his first meeting there was no indication of the real purpose, and he feels this amounted to deception and entrapment.’
‘Go on.’ Brock picked up a pen and began doodling, looking bored.
‘Secondly, he believes this underhand treatment was inspired by one of your officers who has a personal grudge against my client, and that any suspicion of wrongdoing on his part is malicious, completely unjustified and grossly unfair. And thirdly, he would like it to be known that, if any of your officers denigrates his reputation to any third party, then I am instructed to seek legal redress against that officer.’
‘His reputation?’ Brock said softly. ‘Your client told Sergeant Gurney and myself several very significant lies yesterday. What do you want us to say? That he’s an honest man?’
Kathy examined Oakley’s face on the screen, apparently unperturbed by this. He had been a copper, after all, and knew the importance of not getting riled.
‘He was confused by your unexpected questions about matters in the past, and was provoked to speak without due consideration.’
‘The past? He denied knowing a woman he went out of his way to visit just days ago.’
‘Phil, may I?’ Oakley broke in smoothly, talking to his solicitor as if wanting to borrow his partner on the dance floor.
‘Be my guest, old chap.’
‘Chief Inspector, I didn’t tell you about visiting Ms Langley because I did that as part of an internal procedural review by the laboratories, and I didn’t see, frankly, what business it was of yours. I still don’t.’
‘You weren’t asked to assist that review, you got someone else to falsely witness the signature you obtained by deception from Ms Langley, and you lied to us about it. In fact, you behaved exactly like someone trying to cover up the fact that the original loss of important forensic information was your responsibility, not Ms Langley’s.’
‘Not true. The original mistake was Debbie’s, there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind about that. Ask the other clerks at the lab, ask her supervisor. She was famous for her cock-ups.
She was always getting flustered and distracted and losing her place. Look at the notes in her personnel file, the record of warnings and complaints. She was in the wrong job, and as soon as they decently could the lab got rid of her.’
Poor Debbie, Kathy thought, listening to Oakley’s hatchet job. But it would be too easy to check for it not to be true, and, remembering the young woman wringing her hands in the front room of her mother’s house, Kathy could see it all too clearly.
‘But the lab didn’t want to turn it into a major industrial relations issue. Debbie was gone, and everyone just wanted to move on. Someone at the lab told me that it would help to have some kind of statement from her, and I volunteered to have a word with her. We’d always got on well, and I was outside the loop, less threatening. Okay, I may have cut a corner or two getting her signature, but it was in everyone’s interests, including hers. What was the point of rubbing her nose in it? No hurt feelings, no claims of wrongful dismissal, no problems.’
Oakley sat back, exchanging a look with his lawyer, who nodded at him as if to say, couldn’t have put it better myself, old chap.
‘Let’s turn to your meeting with Sandy Clarke on the twenty-third of May,’ Brock said. ‘Why did you lie about that? Was that none of our business too?’
Oakley took his time. He put his hand to his mouth in the same gesture Kathy had seen him use the previous day, then stroked his chin and said, ‘No, I genuinely didn’t remember it.’
Liar, thought Kathy. Too smooth, too bland.
‘There was so much going on that week, and, frankly, he didn’t make that much of a
n impression on me.’
‘But you remember now, do you?’
Oakley drew a desk diary from his briefcase. ‘I checked my old work diary, and found a reference.’ He opened it to a marked page and passed it across to Brock, who read the entry aloud.
‘“Eleven a.m. S. Clarke, partner Verge, his request— purpose? Pen—he to advise Chivers.” Would you interpret that for us?’
‘Well, as far as I can. First of all, the meeting was at his request—he’d phoned me the previous day to arrange it.
And at the end of the meeting I was still unclear what the purpose had been. He talked about the effects of the publicity on his business and the morale of staff, etcetera, but I told him that he should speak to Superintendent Chivers about all of that. Then he asked how long the forensic tests would take, and when they could have access to the apartment again, and I described our progress in general terms. I seem to remember he asked about the DNA samples we’d taken from some of the staff, including him, and whether they’d be destroyed after the case was over. It was all rather vague, and I got a bit impatient, as I had things to do.’
‘What’s this reference to “Pen”?’
‘Yes, he slipped that in at the end. I didn’t really follow what he was saying at first. It seems that when he discovered the body he had a few minutes alone in the bedroom while the other person with him went to raise the alarm, and during this time he noticed a pair of his glasses and a pen of his lying in the room. He showed them to me, a silver pen and reading specs. He said he’d had no idea what they were doing there, and that either Verge or his wife must have picked them up by mistake. Anyway, he’d pocketed them, because there was no doubt they were his, and he wondered now if he’d done the wrong thing. I said he should tell Chivers, and he agreed. Then he asked if there were any other unexplained objects in the apartment that the police were interested in, and I said again that he should speak to Chivers, but I wasn’t aware of any. He seemed, I don’t know, over-anxious about the whole thing. I put it down to delayed shock.’
‘Did you report this to Superintendent Chivers?’
‘No, I left that to Clarke. There was too much else on the boil.’
‘Your memory seems to have made a remarkable recovery, Mr Oakley. Anything else?’
‘That’s the lot.’
‘Pity you didn’t tell us all this yesterday.’
‘Yes, well, like Phil said, if you’d gone about things differently I might well have been able to. No hard feelings, eh?’
‘One last thing. We’d like an account of your movements on the Monday before last, the seventeenth.’
‘What?’ Oakley looked shocked and his solicitor began to protest, but then Oakley stopped him, face grim.
‘Doesn’t matter, Phil. We’ll give the gentlemen what they want.’ He pulled his electronic diary out of his briefcase and began to tap. In the event, his alibi for the evening on which Sandy Clarke had died could hardly have been more solid.
The previous evening, Sunday, he and a friend had flown to Dublin, where Oakley had grown up. They had stayed there two nights, returning on the Tuesday morning. The friend was a police officer, Sergeant Leon Desai.
Another envelope with her name in the familiar handwriting was waiting for Kathy at her desk. She steeled herself and opened it this time with hardly a tremor. Another forensic report form. Two samples, identified by number and a brief description, were listed at the top of the sheet, and beneath, in someone else’s handwriting, the words ‘Positive match’.
This must have been meant for someone else, she thought, then recognised her car number in the description of one of the samples. She read the descriptions again, then a third time as realisation came. One was the trace of material found on the broken glass in her car window, smashed on the fourteenth of September, and the other was the leather fibres found on the adhesive tape attached to the hosepipe used to gas Sandy Clarke on the seventeenth of September. Fibres from the same source, a pair of gloves most likely, three days and twenty miles apart.
25
‘I’ve just spoken to the local police,’ Kathy said. ‘They had nothing to tell me.’
‘Take me through that day again,’ Brock asked. On the desk in front of him he had the report sheet that Leon had sent to Kathy, together with the original forensic reports on Clarke’s suicide and Kathy’s car.
Kathy consulted her notebook. ‘Friday the fourteenth, the day you interviewed Sandy Clarke, and he thought you’d discovered that he was the father of Charlotte’s baby because of his DNA. You asked me to go out to Buckinghamshire to speak to Charlotte, to check his story. I phoned her to say I was coming, and drove out there in my own car, the Renault. I got there about two-thirty p.m., and stayed for half an hour. She was angry that Clarke had told us about Atlanta and the baby, and seemed keen to keep it a secret, but she confirmed his account. On my way back to London, I stopped at a new supermarket outside Amersham and did some grocery shopping. I suppose I was inside for about twenty minutes, and when I came out I found the side window smashed and things missing from my car—the CD player, sunglasses and my briefcase containing the transcript of Clarke’s interview. I noticed that another car next to mine had been broken into as well. It was about the same age as mine, a blue Ford, and didn’t have an alarm. I went back into the supermarket to report it to the manager, who admitted they’d had a few similar breakins.’
She turned the page of her notebook. ‘While I was in the car park I got a phone call from Robert, the administrator for the committee I’m on, wanting me to meet him urgently at headquarters, so I didn’t hang around to talk to the local cops. I left my details and returned to London.’
‘What else was in your briefcase?’
‘There was a small calculator . . . some notepaper, envelopes and stamps. The Clarke transcript was in a red plastic folder. There was a London A-Z. And I think there may have been the book that goes with my Spanish language tapes. I haven’t seen it since. The local police said nothing’s been recovered.’ Something else niggled at the back of Kathy’s mind, but she couldn’t pin it down. Then she remembered. ‘There was something else. The scrapbook you gave me to look at, Stewart and Miranda’s. It was in my briefcase too.’
Brock looked up sharply.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, thinking of all the work they had put into it.
He shrugged. ‘Not your fault. I’ll make it up to them.
You must have been followed from Charlotte’s house to the supermarket.’
‘Yes.’ Kathy looked glum. ‘Though I can’t imagine how they could have done it without me spotting them. The lanes are narrow and twisting around there, and they would have to have stayed close not to lose me. And as far as I can remember, there’s nowhere near the cottage that they could have waited in a vehicle out of sight.’
‘You didn’t discuss going to the supermarket with Charlotte?’
‘No, but her grandmother was there, Madelaine Verge.
It was she who recommended it. She gave me some sauce she was making, and suggested I buy some fish to go with it. I told her I needed some groceries anyway, and she told me about the new supermarket.’
‘And Charlotte heard this conversation?’
‘I think so. Yes, I’d forgotten that. They both would have known I was going there.’
‘But did they know about the Clarke transcript— assuming that’s what the thief was after?’
‘Charlotte certainly did. I referred to it while I was talking to her, and she wanted to read it. I said she couldn’t.
I don’t think she would have told her grandmother about it.
She seemed anxious to keep it secret.’
‘Well, I don’t believe that Madelaine Verge was capable of driving after you and breaking into your car, but I suppose it’s just conceivable that Charlotte might. Or alternatively one or other of them could have contacted someone else who came after you. Sandy Clarke, perhaps.
That would explain the same gloves
being used in both places. Except that we never found the gloves at Clarke’s house.’
‘Why would he want to rob my car? He already knew what was on the transcript, and could ask for a copy any time he wanted.’
‘He might have been after something else. Perhaps he thought you had the whole file on him. This was at a time when he knew he was under suspicion. Maybe Charlotte phoned him and said you’d just been there, brandishing a file on him, and he saw a chance to find out how much we knew or suspected.’
‘We can check her phone records for that day.’
Brock lifted the phone and made a short call, then replaced the receiver and began turning the pages of the reports in front of him, reading them again. Finally he asked, ‘What did you make of Oakley this afternoon?’
Kathy’s mind filled with one thought, a thought she had been suppressing with considerable force since watching Oakley’s interview—that Leon had gone to Dublin with him on the same day she had left for Spain, when he had been so desperate for time to finish his university assignment. The thought burned so brightly that she couldn’t see past it to answer Brock’s question.
‘I . . . I’m not sure.’
‘Did he sound plausible, do you think?’
Yes, she thought, this time he had seemed plausible, and she sensed that Brock and Bren had felt that too, becoming less aggressive in their questioning. ‘Some bits, certainly.
The bits we can check.’
‘Yes. How about the meeting he had with Clarke?’
Kathy forced herself to concentrate, wondering what Brock was leading to. ‘That seemed inconclusive. I thought there must have been more to it than he was saying.’
‘What did you make of the bit about Clarke’s pen and glasses?’
‘That didn’t make much sense.’
‘Can we believe Oakley?’
Kathy thought. ‘Probably. I mean it doesn’t do him any credit, does it? He should have reported it to Chivers.’
‘Exactly. He probably thinks Clarke did tell Chivers, and that now we’re wondering why he didn’t report it himself, so he decided to come clean. But if Oakley is telling the truth about that, what does it mean?’
The Verge Practice Page 28