The Verge Practice (19 page)

‘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.

‘Kraus? How do you spell that?’

‘K-R-A-U-S. Martin Kraus.’

‘No,’ Clarke sounded offhand. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘He’s listed as the sole director of Turnstile Quality Systems.’

Clarke withdrew his diary and pen from his pocket again and wrote the names in the inside cover of the book.

‘Doesn’t mean a thing, I’m afraid. But I’ll check through my address book and email directory if you like, just to make sure.’

‘Good idea,’ Brock said, not mentioning that they had already done that.

11

T
he front door of the cottage swung open before Kathy’s hand had touched the brass horse-head knocker, her approach betrayed by the sound of her feet crunching up the gravel path. Charlotte Verge stared intently at her visitor, then stepped forward across the threshold into the sunlight, followed by a rich whiff of cooking. She was wearing no make-up, her elfin features childlike, and Kathy recalled Clarke’s reference to her as Lolita.

‘What did you mean on the phone,’ she demanded in a whisper, ‘that you wanted to see me in private? What’s it about?’

‘It’s about Sandy, Charlotte. Sandy Clarke.’

The dark eyes widened as she stared fixedly at Kathy, then blinked as her grandmother’s voice called from inside the house, ‘Who is it, Charlotte?’

The young woman frowned at Kathy, indicating for her to go inside. Madelaine Verge was seated in her wheelchair at the kitchen table, a knife in her hand, skinning tomatoes.

‘Ah, Sergeant, what a nice surprise.’ She wiped her hands on a towel and propelled herself across the room.

‘That smells good.’

‘We’re making romesco sauce for our dinner tonight.

It’s a Catalan speciality. My mother-in-law taught me when I lived in Spain with Charles’s father.’

‘I’ll have to get the recipe.’ Kathy thought guiltily about the pizzas they’d been living off recently. Maybe that was why Leon was so down, still in withdrawal from his mother’s cooking.

‘Of course. And what brings you here? Is there news?’

‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Verge. I just have to ask Charlotte a few questions.’

‘Charlotte? Well, if you must.’ Madelaine Verge looked displeased, but began to move forward as if to lead them into the sitting room.

‘She wants to see me alone, Gran,’ Charlotte said. ‘It’s because she didn’t interview me properly the last time.

It’s not important.’

Kathy was surprised by the effortless way Charlotte told her lie. She raised the transcript of Clarke’s interview that she was carrying as if it were some official document that spoke for itself. ‘Just some paperwork to tidy up, Mrs Verge.’

Madelaine seemed reluctant to accept this, but Charlotte went on, ‘We’ll go outside. I could do with some fresh air.’

She led the way to the sitting room, and through the French window onto a brick-paved terrace overlooking the back garden. ‘What about Sandy?’ she asked quietly.

‘He’s told us that he’s the father of your child.’

‘What?’ Her voice rose in a suppressed yelp. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘He misunderstood something we said to him. He thought we already knew. He assumed you’d told us.’

Charlotte looked horrified. ‘No! You tricked him, didn’t you? You told him lies about me.’

‘It wasn’t like that. It was an innocent mistake. We told him you hadn’t said anything to us. But it is true, isn’t it? He is the father?’

Charlotte looked away, towards the vegetable patch in front of which the handyman, George, was on his hands and knees, painstakingly positioning bricks on a bed of sand to form a new path. After a moment she turned back to Kathy. Her lips were pouted like those of a stubborn child.

‘No one must know, you understand?’ she said fiercely.

‘Sandy was a fool to tell you. I don’t know what got into his stupid head.’ She was trembling and clutching her hands across her front as if to hold herself physically together.

Then suddenly she froze, her eyes looking past Kathy to something behind her and low down. Kathy turned and made out Madelaine Verge’s foot just visible through the bottom pane of the French window.

‘Come on,’ Charlotte muttered, and took off diagonally across the lawn, Kathy hurrying after. When they reached the line of apple trees Charlotte stopped and turned to look back. The gardener got stiffly to his feet and gave her a little wave, then wiped his brow with his handkerchief.

‘He’s making a path to the end of the vegetable patch, where he’s going to build a sandpit for my kid. He’s got it all worked out. Sometimes I wish he’d just bloody well piss off and leave us alone. He’s so bossy in his quiet way.’

Him and Gran both, Kathy thought. Between the two of them Charlotte was pretty well chaperoned.

‘Can’t you tell him to go away?’

‘It’s not as simple as that. He feels he owes it to Dad to do what he can for me. He was in prison . . .’

‘Yes, your grandmother told me the story. Are you his only client?’

‘He does Gran’s and Luz’s gardens, too. I don’t know about anybody else. I should be grateful. I’m hopeless at practical stuff like that, and when the baby comes . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘In a funny sort of way it’s a relief to be able to talk about the baby with somebody who knows the truth. But please, for Christ’s sake, you mustn’t let it get out. If Gran heard she’d die. And if it got back to my dad . . . wherever he is.’

An interesting thought, Kathy reflected. Would he come back to punish his partner?

‘How did it happen?’

‘None of your business, is it?’ the young woman said bitterly.

‘No. It was only if you wanted to talk . . .’

They walked a few paces along the row of gnarled old pippins, then Charlotte stopped again. ‘What did he tell you?’

‘He said you were in Atlanta together and your dad had to fly home suddenly. He said the two of you decided to drive to Charleston, and stayed there overnight in a motel . . .’

‘A crummy little place, but he thought it had a tacky charm. I wondered if he just wanted to make sure we wouldn’t bump into anyone he knew.’

‘Did he rape you, Charlotte?

Colour rose up her pale throat. She clenched her jaw. ‘It wasn’t like that. I suppose I encouraged him.’

Why? Kathy wondered. It was hard to believe that Charlotte would find ‘Uncle Sandy’, the long-time family friend, physically attractive, though you could never tell.

Was she punishing her father perhaps, for marrying a woman not much older than herself?

‘After I split with my last boyfriend I decided I wanted a baby, but not a man to go with it. I thought he would do as well as anyone. Only, when it came to the point . . .’

‘But he insisted.’

‘Something like that. It was gross, if you want to know.

The first time he was so excited he came all over the front of me, before we’d managed to get undressed. After that I was so shocked I didn’t argue. But it worked, didn’t it?’ She ran a hand across her belly. ‘I got my baby.’

‘And you told no one else but him?’

‘No one.’

‘Is it possible that he might have told someone?’

‘It’s not likely. When I told him he nearly had a fit.

He was petrified that Denise, his wife, might get wind of it.

He was so grateful when I said I didn’t want anything from him that he actually wept.’ She curled her lip with contempt.

‘Why did you bother to tell him?’

‘Just in case anything happened to me, and the baby needed someone to look out for it.’

‘But surely your father . . . I mean this was
before
your father disappeared, wasn’t it?’

Charlotte shrugged. ‘Yes.’

‘Just for the record, Charlotte, could you give me the dates this happened?’ Kathy turned the pages of Clarke’s statement to check what he had said.

‘Is that what he said to you? Can I have a look?’

‘Sorry, no.’

‘It’s not right, having my private life being photocopied and passed around and I’m not allowed to read it. Anyway, I don’t see why he’d lie. We went to Charleston on the sixteenth of February. That’s when the baby was conceived, but I told the doctor it was the end of January, when I was still going out with my old boyfriend. That’s where the birth date of the twentieth of October comes from, but the baby’ll arrive a few weeks late, I dare say. Why, does it matter?’ She suddenly glowered at Kathy. ‘You think Dad will try to make contact when the baby arrives, don’t you?

That’s what you’re really interested in. You made that perfectly plain the last time.’

‘I’m sorry, I know you’re in an impossible position in all this. But if he does make contact . . .’

‘I won’t tell you!’

Kathy nodded. ‘I understand.’

As they walked slowly back towards the house Kathy said, ‘Sandy mentioned that, on the night before Miki was murdered, he felt that she and your dad were going through some kind of crisis. Were you aware of anything like that?’

She said nothing at first, then spoke softly, as if the handyman or her grandmother might overhear. ‘Yes. I don’t mean to say he’d kill her, but I thought things were coming to a head between them. It had got so she didn’t even pretend to be civil to me, and I could see how it hurt him.

But if it had come to anything physical, she’d have been the first to go for a knife.’

She nodded absently at George, who was getting to his feet. His face was gleaming with sweat and bright red except for the burns on the left side, marbled pale.

‘Getting warm now,’ he grunted.

‘Don’t overdo it, George. Stop and have a cool drink.

There’s some beer in the fridge.’

‘Reckon I will have a bottle, once I’ve finished this bit here.’ He nodded to Kathy and returned to his labours.

They found Madelaine Verge busy in the kitchen.

‘Ah,’ she smiled at them. ‘This is for you, Sergeant.’ She handed Kathy a written recipe together with a plastic container of red sauce. ‘We’ve got plenty, so here’s some for you to try. You can add some wine if you like, and simmer it for a while to reduce it a bit more. Get some nice seafood to cook with it.’

‘That’s really very kind of you, Mrs Verge. I must find a supermarket, I’m out of just about everything.’

‘Try the new superstore this side of Amersham. It’s on your way back. Their seafood is excellent.’ She gave directions as she ushered Kathy towards the front door. ‘And please do call in whenever you’re in the area.’ Then her voice dropped suddenly and she grabbed Kathy’s wrist tight. ‘You’re sure there are no new developments? Tell DCI Brock that I demand to be kept in the picture, all right?’

Kathy disengaged her wrist. ‘I’ll tell him.’

The old lady’s wrinkled face reverted to smiles as Charlotte came into earshot. ‘Bye bye. I do so hope you enjoy the romesco.’

12

T
here was a sting in Madelaine Verge’s bounty, Kathy discovered later, though she could hardly blame her for it. She had spotted the superstore on the road back to the A41, just as she’d been directed, and had driven in to the huge car park, relatively quiet at this time on a Friday afternoon. She filled a trolley with groceries, returned to the car and swore. A side window was smashed, chunks of glass scattered over the tarmac and the seat inside. Looking in she saw that her CD player had been roughly levered out of its housing in the dashboard leaving an ugly gaping hole with wires trailing. Her sunglasses were also gone, and, looking over the back seat, so was her briefcase. They’d left her coat and an umbrella.

‘Damn.’

She felt the crude intrusion like a jolt, and part of her brain observed herself in the role of victim, passing through the stages of disbelief and outrage. She looked around at the peaceful rows of late-model suburban cars, a roof rack on one, a dog in another, warming in the autumn sun, and saw no sign of violence. Then she noticed the car parked on the other side of hers, like hers an older model without an alarm, and saw that it too had been violated, its glass scattered like icy tears across the blacktop.