The Verge Practice

by Barry Maitland

  ‘I don’t know. Why would Clarke mention it? It could only tend to place him at the scene and incriminate him.’

  ‘And why didn’t he refer to it in his confession, when he did mention his lost driving glove? Suppose he was genuinely mystified by it, and worried enough to try to pursue it. Imagine for a moment that he didn’t kill Miki and Charles. He’s called up to the bedroom, to the shocking scene of Miki’s corpse. Then, while he’s waiting for help to arrive, he notices things that belong to him. He thinks he must have left them there on the Friday night, and he doesn’t want to have to explain what he was doing in her bedroom then, so he snatches them up and looks around desperately for anything else incriminating. But later, he becomes increasingly certain that he never had that pen and that pair of glasses with him on the Friday night. How had they got there? Had someone deliberately planted them?’

  ‘The murderer,’ Kathy said. ‘Charles Verge.’

  And catching the expression on Brock’s face, she understood for the first time his odd detours around the fens of that morning, and his sense of expectancy when they reached Marchdale. ‘You’ve been thinking this for some time, haven’t you? You do think he’s still alive.’

  ‘Just a private doubt, Kathy. Let’s keep it that way.’

  ‘You’ve thought this all along?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure, but when I spoke to Gail Lewis she seemed to confirm my doubts. And then I became worried.

  If Verge really is the killer then she may be at risk too, and perhaps others. It depends how rational he is.’

  ‘Did you really think he might show up at the Marchdale opening?’

  ‘It seemed too good an idea to ignore. But perhaps he had other eyes and ears there to witness the event for him.

  Because, if he is here among us, I think it’s a fair bet that he’s got help, don’t you?’

  ‘And Oakley is in the clear?’

  ‘I believe he is. Oh, if he’d been better at his job he might have picked up Debbie Langley’s error, and he should have made a report of his meeting with Sandy Clarke. I’m sure Leon would have done. I doubt if it goes further than that.’ Then he added, ‘Leon did well to pick up this match between the two traces. Did you ask him to chase it up?’

  ‘No, he must have done it off his own bat.’ Neat Leon, efficient Leon, badly needing to prove something, Kathy thought.

  Brock said, ‘Odd that he should be such good pals with Oakley. I’d have thought they’d be opposites, really. No?’

  They were interrupted by Brock’s phone. He listened for a moment, then thanked the caller and hung up.

  ‘They’ve checked Charlotte’s phone records. It wasn’t used within an hour of your visit. We’ll have to find out Clarke’s movements that afternoon, but if it wasn’t him, who else could it have been? Someone Charlotte could confide in, someone in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Someone like George . . .’ Kathy said softly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The gardener. We saw him at Marchdale, remember?

  Helping with Madelaine’s wheelchair. He was working in the garden the day I spoke to Charlotte. He would have seen how upset she got—he might even have overheard some of what we said. He certainly seems to be devoted to her. She could have got him to follow me and steal the transcript.’

  ‘And then kill Clarke?’

  They both thought about that, chilled by the idea of Charlotte, fragile and pregnant, arranging the death of the father of her child. And for what reason? To stifle the scandal of the child’s parentage? To restore her adored father’s reputation? And they both made the same calculations— armed with the information in Clarke’s transcript, the person who broke into Kathy’s car had three days in which to concoct the suicide message, perhaps taken to Clarke’s house as a typed letter on which they planned to plant his fingerprints and a scrawled signature, but instead transferred it to the convenient laptop. Would they both have gone to visit Clarke that evening, Charlotte to gain entry, drug Clarke and type the note, George to do the heavy work of arranging the death scene?

  ‘What do we know about this George?’

  ‘Almost nothing. He was there the first time I went to Orchard Cottage, and Madelaine Verge told me that he had been sort of adopted by Charles when he was doing the research for Marchdale. He was either an inmate or an excon, and Charles took him on as a handyman and gardener.

  I don’t even know his surname.’

  ‘I don’t remember any reference to Dick Chivers’ team interviewing him.’

  ‘I suppose he wouldn’t have seemed relevant. He’s sort of invisible, in the background, doing odd jobs and the garden, keeping an eye on things. Charlotte spoke of him almost as if he were a kind of chaperone, like her grandmother, who seems to spend most of her time there now.’

  Brock recalled Gail Lewis’s comment about Verge appearing to have established a haven for his daughter in Buckinghamshire, ‘an alternative happy little family’ she’d called it. And now here was another player, George the handyman.

  Kathy was thinking of the lizard doctor, Javier Lizancos, and his clinic behind the gym at Sitges. You automatically assumed, of course, that the purpose of plastic surgery was to restore, to beautify, to make younger, but presumably it could equally do the opposite, disfigure and age. And she also thought of the look of triumph on George’s face that morning at the opening of the prison.

  ‘This may sound a bit far-fetched,’ she said, ‘but George is the same height and build as Verge, wouldn’t you say? I don’t suppose it’s possible . . .’ She hesitated to put the idea into words, sure that Brock would find it absurd. But she looked up and saw that he was nodding.

  ‘Can’t be difficult to find out,’ he said.

  Brock filled his lungs. ‘Lavender, cows, autumn foliage.

  This is a real haven, Ms Verge. A bower.’

  Charlotte wasn’t impressed. She eyed him over the swell of her belly and said, ‘What exactly did you want?’

  She hadn’t put on any electric lights, and the evening glow from the small window barely penetrated the shadows of the far corners of the room. Most of the wall surfaces were covered with shelves of books, with the tall volumes on art, design and architecture at the bottom.

  Brock raised his chin towards the novels packed up to the low ceiling.

  ‘You’re a great reader, I see. You obviously appreciate fiction.’

  No response.

  ‘You must excuse me,’ Brock went on with a deep sigh.

  ‘It’s been a long day, and this armchair is very comfortable.

  Why we’re here, yes. We’re required to prepare a report for the coroner who’ll be conducting the inquest into Sandy Clarke’s death. We have to outline his life in the days leading up to his death, and, as far as we can, any indications of his state of mind. We interviewed him on the morning of Friday the fourteenth of September, but unfortunately we have very little information about his movements after that time. His wife left him alone at their Greenwich Park house on that Friday evening to go to stay with her mother, and she didn’t see him alive again. Nor did any of his work colleagues or neighbours, as far as we’ve been able to establish. Now, we know that you and your baby must have been very much in his thoughts at that time, and we wondered if he had been in contact with you at all over that weekend.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re quite sure? You may remember that Friday was the day that Sergeant Kolla here came to speak to you about Mr Clarke’s claim that he was the father of your child.’

  ‘Yes, of course I remember, and no, I didn’t have any contact with him at that time.’

  ‘What about other people here? Is your grandmother still with you?’

  ‘She’s in her room. She was very tired after the trip to Marchdale this morning, and she’s gone to bed early. I don’t want you to disturb her. She would have told me, anyway, if Sandy had called.’

  ‘All right. Anyone else? Do you have a cleaning lady?’

  ‘No.�
��

  Kathy said, ‘What about your gardener, Charlotte? Is he here at the moment?’

  ‘No. He drove us back from Marchdale, then left. But he wouldn’t know anything.’

  ‘All the same, we might check. What’s his name and address, Ms Verge?’

  She seemed on the point of refusing, but then relented with a frown of irritation. ‘George Todd, but there’s no point to this. He lives in the village.’ She gave an address and phone number.

  ‘Thanks. How long have you known him?’

  ‘Since I moved in. The end of June.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you came here before your father . . . before he disappeared.’

  ‘He bought the cottage for me in March, but there was a lot needed doing to it. George worked on it for about three months.’

  ‘And did you see him during that time, while he was working on the house?’

  ‘No, Dad said it was always a disaster for the client to visit their building while it was being refurbished. George contacted me at the end of June, when it was ready, and helped me move in.’

  ‘So you didn’t actually see George in person till the end of June?’

  ‘That’s right. What are you getting at?’

  ‘It’s not important.’ Brock tucked his book back in his jacket pocket. ‘Looks as if we disturbed you for nothing.

  Impressive ceremony this morning. Were you all pleased with how it went?’

  Charlotte eased herself to her feet with difficulty.

  ‘Except for what you said to Gran, about some people thinking my father is still alive.’ She glared accusingly at Brock. ‘What did you mean? You really upset her.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I certainly didn’t intend that. I was just making a general point, that she should be prepared for the fact that some people will never be satisfied until Mr Verge’s body has been found, that’s all.’ He gave her a bland, sympathetic smile, and watched the frown of distrust deepen on the young woman’s brow.

  As they were walking down the front path, she called after them, ‘Oh, and there’s no point you trying to talk to George anyway. He’s gone away.’

  ‘Away?’ Brock turned. ‘Where to?’

  ‘I don’t know. He mentioned it when we got back from Marchdale. He said he was going away for a few days.’

  There were lights on in the front room of the house, the end of a row of old brick terraces on the edge of the village.

  The woman who answered the door wiped her hands on her apron and looked at Brock’s identification anxiously.

  ‘Oh dear. George rents the attic room, but he’s not here just now. Why?’

  ‘We’re anxious to talk to him. We understand he’s gone away for a few days. Do you know where?’

  ‘He didn’t say. He’s a private sort of person. He’s not got into trouble again, has he? I know he’s on parole, but he’s never been the slightest bother to us.’

  She agreed to take them up to his room, which confirmed her claim that George Todd was the cleanest tenant she’d ever had. Everything was spotless. The few clothes in the wardrobe, including the suit they’d seen him wearing that morning, were immaculately folded and creased. The kettle and toaster on top of a small food cupboard were spotless. The small fridge was empty, wiped clean. On a shelf stood an orderly row of books concerned with horticulture, looking as immaculate as when they’d left the shop. The room reminded Kathy of a prison cell, ready for inspection.

  When they were back in the car, Brock said, ‘This is making me feel very uneasy, Kathy, but let’s not jump to conclusions too soon. We’ll keep your theory to ourselves for the moment. We’d better get it right. I’ve a feeling no one’s going to be happy about this.’

  ‘One malicious wounding with intent to resist arrest, two woundings with intent to do grievous bodily harm, three aggravated assaults with intent to rob, sixty-seven convictions for theft, five for handling stolen goods.’ Brock paused, scanning the piece of paper in his hand. They were all staring at an enlarged photograph of a tough, battered face, the left side covered by livid scar tissue. Kathy barely recognised the gardener or the man pushing Madelaine’s wheelchair at the Marchdale opening.

  ‘So approach with caution,’ Brock continued. ‘Aged fifty-five years, of which eighteen have been spent in gaol, twelve in category A prisons. George Todd is currently on parole. An alert was issued last night, but so far we have no idea of his current whereabouts. We believe he may have information relating to the Verge case, and we want to know his whereabouts on the afternoon of September fourteenth, when DS Kolla’s car was broken into, and the evening of September seventeenth, when Sandy Clarke died. We are also looking for a pair of black leather gloves, traces of which have been found at both scenes.

  Apart from the rented room where he lives, we also have warrants to search the two places where he is known to work regularly as a gardener and handyman—Orchard Cottage, belonging to Ms Charlotte Verge, and Briar Hill, owned by Ms Luz Diaz—and also the house of Mrs Madelaine Verge in Chelsea, which Todd also visited. Apart from gloves, we are interested in tools that might have been used to break the car window, any written notes resembling Sandy Clarke’s suicide statement, and anything which might belong to, or indicate recent contact with, Charles Verge.’

  People looked puzzled. ‘You mean recent as in before May twelfth, chief? When he died?’

  ‘No, I mean since May twelfth. I mean like in the last few weeks.’

  This produced a murmur of consternation. Brock’s raised hand restored an expectant hush. ‘The coroner will expect us to be thorough. In the absence of Verge’s body, we’ll be expected to be able to say categorically that he’s left no recent traces, and these women are the people who would have been closest to him, the ones he’d most likely have tried to contact, if he’d still been alive.’

  ‘We’re to search the whole properties, sir? Not just the outbuildings where Todd might have kept his tools?’

  ‘Everywhere, but do it tactfully. If they ask, explain that you’re looking for something Todd might have hidden or mislaid. Don’t tell them you’re looking for traces of Verge— that’ll only upset them.’

  You can say that again, Kathy thought, picturing the reaction of the three women to this violation. It was as if Brock were planning to put his hand into a beehive. The team looked doubtful too, perhaps imagining trying to explain to Madelaine Verge that they were searching her underwear drawers for something that her gardener might have hidden or mislaid. For once Kathy was glad that she would be tied up all that day with her committee.

  The Crime Strategy Working Party was going well under Kathy’s chairmanship, so everyone agreed, and she could only assume it was one of those cases of something going right when you’d paid it no attention, because she’d hardly given it any serious thought since Leon had left. She sat through the rest of the day half listening to the others excitedly discussing institutionalised racism and homophobia, and wondered how she was going to get through another weekend, and how Brock and the rest of the team were making out. When Jay spoke to her in the lunchbreak about the arrangements for Saturday night, it took her a while to remember what the other woman was talking about.

  ‘Do you know the pub on the corner of Old Compton

  Street? I thought we could all meet up there. What do you think?’

  ‘Oh, fine. Yes, that would be fine.’

  Jay lowered her voice, and looked sheepish. ‘I know you’re a copper and everything, but when you’re off-duty, you’re off-duty, right?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ But Kathy knew exactly what she meant.

  ‘Well, some of my friends like . . .’ Jay stopped as Shazia, balancing a paper plate of sandwiches and a cup of orange juice, joined them. They didn’t get a chance to finish the conversation, and afterwards Kathy wondered what she was getting herself into.

  Brock rocked forward on the balls of his feet, absorbing the confrontation between stubble fields and hedgerows out there, and stainless steel and leather
cushions in here. It was a platitude of modern architecture, he knew, but it still had the power to shock, the unmediated impact of room and landscape through a sheet of naked glass.

  Luz Diaz stood with her back to him, arms folded, smoking angrily. ‘I cannot believe that this is permitted in this country. It is worse than Franco.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Diaz. But the coroner . . .’

  ‘Fuck the coroner!’ She spun around to face him.

  ‘That’s just an excuse. You know what I think? I think you enjoy breaking into people’s houses and turning over their private things. I think you are no different from criminals.’

  ‘Did you know that your gardener had an extensive criminal record?’

  ‘George? Yes, of course I knew. Charles told me all about George, ages ago, before I even came here. He met him in prison, when he was working on the Marchdale project. Is that all you see? A man has a record, so that’s it? Do you look beyond that? Do you know anything about him?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He was a model prisoner, doing a degree in horticulture with the Open University. No, he was the model prisoner, that is what the prison governor told Charles—the best, the most responsive prisoner he had ever met. And he had had a terrible life. Did you know that he witnessed his father murder his mother when he was five? Did you know that he was shockingly abused by the relatives who took him in, and then again when he was put into care?’

  The blaze of anger in her eyes died a little as she took in Brock’s look of concern. ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Well, you should do better research, Chief Inspector.

  George is probably the most trustworthy and honest man I know. What do you suspect him of doing?’

  ‘I can’t say at present. But your assessment of his character is very helpful.’

  ‘You’re just saying that to calm me down, yes?’ But despite her words, Brock saw that her stabs at her cigarette were less violent. ‘You believe that once a thief, always a thief, right?’