June.’
The week when Sandy Clarke’s DNA result had slipped through the cracks, Kathy remembered.
‘Something happened,’ he went on. ‘I was forced to take a hard look at myself. Since then things haven’t been the same, with us. I thought… I hoped they could be. But while you were away this time it all blew up again…’
Was that how it was? She couldn’t remember things being different when she returned from the course at Bramshill, apart from the usual mild strangeness after a period apart. A small glimmer of hope came to Kathy. ‘This hasn’t got anything to do with that forensic report that wasn’t followed up, has it?’
‘In a way,’ he said gloomily. ‘Yes.’
‘You’re not in trouble over that, are you? Oh God, darling, why didn’t you say? You know I’d back you up.’ She reached her hand across the table to his, but he drew back. ‘Is it Brock?’ she asked, mystified. ‘Is he giving you a hard time?’
‘Has he spoken to you?’
‘Not about this, no, but I can talk to him. You know it wasn’t your fault. It was that other bloke who took over from you, wasn’t it? What was his name? The one who went abroad. Are they trying to blame you for his mistake?’
Leon shook his head. ‘Paul Oakley, that was his name. He’s back in the UK now, and Brock’s spoken to him.’
‘Well then…’
‘It isn’t the forensic report that’s the problem, Kathy. It’s Paul.’
‘He’s the problem?’ Leon was being frustratingly slow and halting in his explanation. She felt like shaking him, and had to force herself to be patient. She was supposed to be expert in interviewing techniques. She mentally checked off the stages of the formula for questioning suspects- prepare, engage, explain, account, closure and evaluation. Which one had they reached?
‘He’s gay, Kathy.’
‘So?’
‘While you were at Bramshill I had to brief him on the material for the Verge inquiry. We spent a fair bit of time together.’
Kathy recalled the entries in his diary, PO. ‘Yes, so?’
‘So he told me I was too.’
‘What?’ Kathy stared at him, then started to laugh, but Leon looked devastated. ‘Leon, that is crazy. Of course you’re not gay.’
‘Yes, I am,’ he said softly. ‘I knew, all the time. I just didn’t want to face up to it.’
Kathy blinked in disbelief, running through the possible things she could say, but Leon’s obvious sincerity and conviction stopped her dead. ‘Are you telling me you had an affair with this Paul Oakley?’ The impossible words froze in her throat like ice cubes.
‘No…He wants to, but I had to clear things up with you first.’
‘Leon, this is nonsense. Some bloke appears, and out of the blue. ..’
‘It wasn’t out of the blue, Kathy. I told you, I’ve had these feelings before. I knew, as soon as he began talking about it, that he was right.’
Kathy sat back in her chair, speechless. She was aware of the murmur of normality from the tables around her intruding into the unreality of the thoughts going through her head, the phrases about outrage and betrayal and deceit. But she couldn’t voice them, not yet. She wasn’t prepared to move on to ‘closure’ and ‘evaluation’.
Finally she broke the silence between them. ‘Does your mum know?’
‘No.’ His voice was almost inaudible. ‘I just said we were splitting up. I wanted to speak to you before I told them.’
I’d like to be a fly on that wall, Kathy thought, then corrected herself. No, actually she wanted nothing to do with it, any of it. She got abruptly to her feet and walked out. Her last image of him was sitting, head bowed, in front of two untouched glasses of white wine.
It probably wasn’t a good way to leave, she reflected, as she walked blindly down dark, rain-swept streets. Too impulsive. But what was a good way?
She found herself on the Victoria Embankment, standing at a stone wall facing the dark river. It seemed unbelievable that she could have been living with him for six months and not have known, not have had some inkling. She remembered the conversation with Brock, when he had asked her to get inside Charles Verge’s head; she had privately doubted if this was possible, because she sometimes felt that she had no idea what was going through Leon’s head even though she was living with him. Well, you got that right, girl. You just didn’t realise how ignorant you were. She began to laugh quietly to herself, the rain diluting her tears.
20
The following morning, Brock called a team meeting to wind up the Verge inquiry. As they sat waiting for him to appear, the others read the accounts in the morning papers, passing them round with the offhand shrugs of insiders who know the real story, for the information released to the press had been carefully pruned. A senior member of the Verge Practice, Andrew Christopher Clarke, had been found dead in circumstances that suggested suicide. Certain new information had come into the hands of the police, who were now satisfied that Charles Verge was not responsible for the murder of his wife Miki in May, and was himself a victim of her assailant. Police were continuing to search for his remains, but did not expect to lay charges against any other parties. An inquest would be held into the death of Clarke. The Home Office meanwhile confirmed that the official opening of Marchdale Prison, Charles Verge’s last masterpiece, would take place as scheduled on the following Thursday.
The team debriefing should have been a buoyant occasion, marking the conclusion of a successful investigation, but it was clear as soon as Brock swept into the room that self-congratulation was not on the cards. For some reason that was not immediately apparent, the old man was grim. A hangover, some speculated, or maybe the mysterious lady friend they’d begun to hear rumours of was giving him a hard time.
In a rapid delivery which suggested that meandering from the point would not be tolerated, Brock outlined the main directions of their investigations and then invited each person in turn to summarise their progress. Bren began, describing the hunt for Charles Verge’s body in the vacant government landholdings. He knew Brock’s aversion to lists presented on overhead transparencies, and wisely kept the slides of the schedules and classifications of the sites in his file. Wisely, too, he decided to forego the Power-Point presentation of site photographs on which he’d worked late into the previous evening, on the sensible assumption that, the way the old man was, the computer would undoubtedly screw up. Instead he concentrated on the core facts. The Verge Practice had looked at forty-six sites for the DTLR, covering a total of three hundred and fifty-two hectares, many of them overgrown and inaccessible, and including extensive derelict structures, several of which had collapsed or flooded basements. The police teams had so far eliminated fourteen of the sites. In the process they had lost two men due to muscle injuries and one dog with a damaged paw. They had discovered several animal corpses and one human, that of an abandoned baby in a carrycot. But no sign of Charles Verge.
‘Thank you, Bren,’ Brock said heavily. ‘Is there anywhere you haven’t been to yet that you were desperate to check?’
‘Not really, chief.’
‘Officially we go on looking. In reality, we stop as of now.’
‘Right.’ Bren sat down with relief.
They moved on to the money trail, the hunt for the assets of Martin Kraus and TQS Limited, which had gone cold somewhere between the Marshall Islands and Nauru. By now it was apparent that Brock, far from trying to wrap up the whole thing neatly, seemed more intent on goading them into self-criticism, prodding them into suggesting weaknesses in their approach and lines of inquiry that they may have missed along the way. Some time during the course of this the door opened and Leon Desai walked in. Kathy watched him, unblinking, as he gave a little nod of acknowledgement to Brock and slid into a seat at the back of the room. As he turned his head to scan the people present she dropped her eyes and stared unseeing at her notes.
