‘None at all. We considered all the alternatives- business partner, commercial rivals, a possible lover-but there were no other plausible suspects.’
‘And you think he’s still alive?’
‘We’ve no evidence that he is, but I’d say it’s ninety per cent certain. He was last seen on the morning of Saturday the twelfth of May, when he returned from a business trip to the States. His wife’s body wasn’t found until the Monday morning, between forty and sixty hours after the time of death, according to the pathologist, so he had the whole weekend to get clear. Later on that Monday his car was found beside a beach on the south coast, his clothes neatly folded inside, along with a handkerchief stained with his wife’s blood, and a piece of paper bearing the single word “SORRY” in block capitals. There’s been no trace of a body, and the whole business with the car looked dodgy.’
‘Like the Stonehouse case.’ Brock recalled another famous disappearance case, when a British cabinet minister had staged his own apparent death while holidaying in Florida, leaving a pile of clothes on a beach.
‘Exactly. You’d have thought he’d have been a bit more original, wouldn’t you? A bit more creative? I’ve gone over the case with Brian Ridley, who picked Stonehouse up in Melbourne, and there are definite parallels.’
‘And with Lord Lucan.’
‘The murdered nanny, yes. Though of course he’s never been traced.’
‘So you think Verge is hiding out somewhere overseas?’
‘South America is my bet.’ Chivers relaxed his protective grip on the files and sat back with a grim smile.
‘How come?’
‘He’s a fluent Spanish speaker, and he could probably pass himself off as a native. He was actually born Carlos Verges in Barcelona to a Spanish father and English mother, and spent a part of his childhood over there. Then his father died and his mother brought him back to England and Anglicised the name. He’s still got family there, cousins and the like, and my bet is that he went there first and they helped him move on. We had one possible sighting in Barcelona a few days after he disappeared, and we’ve been working closely with the Barcelona police. I’ve been over there a couple of times, and though we couldn’t shake anything out of the family, I’m pretty certain that’s where he went. He had to have had help.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Must have. This murder couldn’t have been premeditated. I mean, this wasn’t some loser doing a bunk. This bloke was at the peak of his success, a worldwide reputation, featured on TV and in weekend colour supplements, an ego as big as his bank account. Killing her must have been a moment of blind fury, and it finished him as surely as it did her. From that moment the good life was over. We’ve been monitoring every bank account and possible source of funds, and there’s been no contact. Apart from what he had in his pockets, he must be relying on friends for everything. And that must be a pretty shattering thing for someone in his position, yeah? It’s going to get to him, especially in about six weeks’ time.’
‘What happens then?’
‘He has one daughter, dotes on her. She’s pregnant and he knew it. Baby’s due towards the end of October. That’s what I told Sharpe. I’m betting she’ll have heard from him between then and Christmas, and that’ll give us the chance we need. But that’s not soon enough, apparently. Politics. Too many red faces. So, good luck, old son. You’re going to need it.’ A sudden thought struck him. ‘I don’t suppose we could bring the birth forward, eh? Have the baby induced?’ He seemed to consider this seriously for a moment.
‘I think that may be beyond our powers, Dick.’
Cheery Chivers shrugged gloomily and pushed the pile of files across to Brock, and they set about making arrangements for the handover. They continued over a lunchtime sandwich and coffee, then Brock had himself a haircut and beard trim on the way back to his own office. There he worked through the afternoon, sleeves rolled up, reorganising case loads, reassigning tasks within his squad. It was a Friday, and they had agreed that Chivers would give a full briefing to a joint meeting of both their teams on the following Monday morning. That would give Brock the weekend to go through the files himself and try to form some initial ideas of where they might go from here, and also to make up his mind which of Chivers’ people he would need to poach. By six he was finished with the rescheduling, all except the irritating blank against the name Kolla. He was staring at this when there was a knock, and she put her head around his door.
‘Have you got a moment, Brock?’
‘The very person,’ he said. Getting to his feet, he stretched stiffly and waved her in.
She was crisply turned out in a black suit he couldn’t recall seeing before, and the effect with a white shirt and her short, straight blonde hair was very smart, he thought approvingly. Sharpe would have been impressed, certainly a good deal more so than with himself in his perennial crumpled charcoal job. ‘How did it go?’
‘You knew? About the committee?’
‘Sharpe spoke to me this morning.’
‘What do you think I should do?’
‘Didn’t you decide on the spot?’
‘I asked him to give me the weekend to think about it.’
In the reflected glow of the pool of light shining from the lamp over the desk he noticed a small, unfamiliar scar on the side of the bridge of her nose. Had she acquired this on one of the cases they’d worked on together? Why had he never noticed it before? She was gazing at him steadily, waiting for his answer. He looked away and thought, this is how we end up lying to our friends, wanting to do the right thing by them.
‘Of course you should do it. It’s an honour to be picked, and it’s a great opportunity. If nothing else, it’ll look good on your CV.’
‘But I hate committees. I never know what to say. I hate listening to people who love the sound of their own voices.’
‘You just do what we do on the job-you sit quiet and listen and observe, and when the moment comes you put the boot in.’
She smiled, but still watched him carefully. ‘So you recommended me?’
‘He asked my opinion and I told him you’d be excellent.’
‘And you want me to take it?’
‘No, I’d rather have you here to be honest, but that’s not the point. Look…’ he added brusquely, ‘… you make up your own mind, but if you ask me I say you’d be mad to turn it down.’
‘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.
