so on.’
Brock frowned, head bowed, as if profoundly disappointed. He glanced up at Tony, who gave a slight shake of his head.
‘It’s true,’ Clarke insisted.
‘No, it won’t do. Here you are working alongside Miki Norinaga for, what, five years? Then she seduces you and within a couple of months she’s murdered, possibly on the night that you last share her bed, according to the medical evidence.’
‘No!’
‘And at the same time her husband disappears,’ Brock pressed on, voice hard now, ‘and you’ve made it quite clear that he had very good reason to hate you, his closest business partner, who had seduced both his wife and his daughter. Is that how it was, Mr Clarke? Did Charles learn what you’d been up to when he returned that Saturday morning, and call you up to the apartment to confront you? What happened then?’
‘No! No!’ Sandy Clarke was on his feet now, his chair crashing back onto the floor. ‘This is insane. I won’t say another word, not a word. I want to leave now.’
Brock looked coldly at him for a moment, then said, ‘I’ll repeat that I’m not satisfied with your account, Mr Clarke. Before you rush off you might like to consider how it will look if you refuse to cooperate at this point.’ Then, voice becoming milder, he added, ‘I’ll suspend this interview now and we’ll leave you alone with a cup of tea to collect your thoughts. Maybe you’d like to call a legal advisor?’
Brock and Tony gathered up their papers and left the room. On their screen Kathy and Bren watched Clarke stare blankly at the closed door. For a moment it looked as if he would storm after them, but then he shook his head in a gesture of despair or disbelief, and began to pace up and down.
‘What do you think?’ Brock came into the observation room, Tony in his wake.
‘He sounds plausible,’ Kathy suggested, ‘but he’s the type that would.’ She looked at his clothes, expensive understated casuals-windcheater, slacks and leather loafers. He had come to a halt in the middle of the interview room, hands in pockets, head bowed, deep in thought.
‘I’d like you to talk to Charlotte Verge again, Kathy,’ Brock said. ‘See what her version is. The timing of her announcement to Clarke about the baby sounds significant, so close to the murder. Maybe she did say something to her father or stepmother. But be discreet. Take a copy of the transcript of this interview with you. You might find some discrepancies.’
On the screen Clarke looked up as an officer came into the room with a cup of tea. As he left again, Clarke sat down at the table, took out a diary and began to make notes.
‘Tony, I can see you’re anxious to get on to the money matters,’ Brock went on. ‘We’ll do that next, if he decides to cooperate.’
A tray of polystyrene cups of tea was brought for the watchers, who waited in silence as the figure in the room tapped a silver pen in agitation against the pages of his diary, kneading his forehead with his other hand as if to squeeze memories out of his brain. Finally, he got to his feet and strode over to the door, where he spoke to the officer who stood outside. A moment later this man put his head around the door of the observation room.
‘He’s ready to talk to you again, sir.’
‘Good.’ Brock and Tony picked up their files and made for the door.
‘I suppose,’ Clarke began, when they were seated again around the interview table, ‘that panicking people is part of your technique, is it? Throwing wild accusations at them and seeing what they let slip.’ He was calm again, in control of himself, determined not to be fazed. ‘The problem with that is it can just create confusion. I’ve been going over that evening in my mind again, the last time I saw Miki, that Friday night, and I don’t think I’ve really made clear to you what it was like.’
He waited for Brock to challenge him, but the DCI only nodded in a vague sort of way, as if not greatly interested.
Clarke drew a small circle in the margin of his diary with his silver pen, then drew a straight line through it. ‘You see, her whole manner that evening was odd, out of character. When she insisted I go up to the apartment for a drink after we’d finished our work, I felt there was something in the wind, something involving Charles, presumably, that was preoccupying her. I assumed she wanted my support in some scheme or other, but she seemed to have difficulty getting to the point. She talked about the past, before she arrived on the scene, about Charles’s relationship with his first wife, Gail, but I couldn’t make out where she was heading. At one point she made some cryptic remark about having married the wrong partner, but I didn’t really follow. And then, when she started to get amorous, I thought to myself that she was just trying to soften me up so she could share this big confidence, whatever it was, about Charles, and all I could think was how grotesque it was, because amorous seduction just wasn’t her style at all.’
Clarke paused, looking questioningly at Brock, who still said nothing.
‘Well, don’t you see? I think she knew that there was this big row brewing with Charles, when he got back from the States, and she’d been hoping to get some sort of ammunition or support from me. But when it came to the point, she just couldn’t bring herself to confide in me.’
He fell silent, the tip of the silver pen hovering over the page.
‘Hmm. That’s it, is it, Mr Clarke?’ Brock said at last. ‘Nothing else you’d like to tell us?’
‘No, that’s it.’ Clarke snapped the diary shut and slipped it and the pen into his jacket pocket.
‘Only we’d like to move on to other matters now. Tony?’
Tony cleared his throat and leaned forward, tracing his finger across an item on the page in front of him. ‘Ahem, yes,’ he began softly, diffidently even, as if broaching a delicate subject. ‘I’d like to ask you about a payment made to a company called Turnstile Quality Systems Limited, or TQS, on the first of March of last year, in the sum of twenty-three thousand, one hundred and eighteen pounds and sixty-five pence.’
Clarke looked at him in astonishment for a moment, then turned to Brock. ‘Are you serious? What is this?’
‘Quite serious, Mr Clarke,’ Tony said.
Clarke turned his gaze back to his lugubrious interrogator and gave a little snort of amusement. ‘You sound like a quantity surveyor,’ he said. ‘How the hell should I know?’
‘Well, you did authorise the payment, Mr Clarke, and nobody else seems to know anything about this company.’
‘What?’ Clarke shook his head, becoming annoyed. ‘What was the name again?’
‘Turnstile Quality Systems.’
‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’
Tony turned the page and ran his finger down the next. ‘In the following month, sixteenth of April last year, you authorised a second payment to TQS,?86,453.27p. Do you remember that one?’
‘No,’ Clarke’s voice was insistent, ‘I don’t.’
‘Or a third in May, larger again-?156,978.50p.’
‘No! They’re obviously a contractor of some kind. Stage payments on a contract. The name means nothing to me, but someone must know. What contract number is it set against? What does it say on the payment certificates?’
‘Well, that’s the thing, Mr Clarke. There were no job certificates issued for these payments, no contract number quoted, and the funds were drawn from the Verge Practice working account, on your signature.’
‘What?’ Clarke looked startled.
‘That’s a quarter of a million pounds in just over three months, and the payments went on, right up to April of this year, a grand total of?1,932,786.90p drawn from Verge Practice funds in favour of a company that nobody knows anything about.’
Clarke frowned, thinking. ‘I… I don’t know. We invest working capital and surplus income in various ways- property, funds, cash management accounts, I don’t know. And last year was a very strong year. Surely the accountants, our bookkeepers…?’
‘They know nothing about it.’
‘That’s impossible. No, look, you’ve made a mistake. What are you suggesting, anyway?’
‘Does the name Kraus mean anything to you, Mr Clarke?’
Brock, who, despite appearances, was watching Sandy Clarke closely at this point, saw the man become very still. There was silence for a long moment.
