The verge practice

16

Jeez greeted them in the corridor as they made their way to the office they had been given. He seemed in a good mood.

‘Ah, ladies! Did you have a good lunch? While you were having the long lunch, we were working hard, as always, and we have results!’

‘Well, that’s wonderful, Jeez.’ Linda switched on her heat-lamp smile.

‘Yes indeed. A photograph of your Martin Kraus, no less! London will be pleased, yes?’

‘Ecstatic.’

‘Tony will show you, Kathy. I just want to have a word with Linda.’

‘Oh, sure.’ The two women exchanged a look and Kathy left them to it.

Tony was seated at his desk, shirt-sleeved, tie pulled open, looking as if he needed a good, long sleep. ‘Oh, hi, Kathy. Linda with you?’

‘She’ll be along in a bit.’ Kathy thought she noticed the slightest hint of relief in Tony’s expression, as if fatigue might be winning over passion. ‘You got something?’

‘Oh yeah. Our pals have got us something at last.’ He gathered up a sheaf of papers and began sorting through them, a sly look on his face, as if he wanted to hoard the revelations he was privy to. He began with a couple of photocopied documents.

‘Seems our Martin Kraus was born in Barcelona in 1949, same year as Charles Verge.’ He waved one of the sheets. ‘Birth certificate. Then he died, aged two and a half. He’s buried in the Sant Roc cemetery.’ He handed the second piece of paper to Kathy. ‘Death certificate.’

‘Right.’ Kathy ran her eyes over the pages. ‘When did the resurrection happen?’

‘Early last year someone applied for a copy of the birth certificate, and shortly afterwards Mr Kraus applied for a passport. ..’ Tony clutched the next sheet as if he didn’t want to hand it over.

‘So we have his photo,’ Kathy prompted.

‘Exactly.’ Tony beamed smugly and slowly handed it across. Kathy was aware of him watching her expression closely as her eyes focused on the picture of Sandy Clarke.

‘Well, well. What do you make of that?’

Tony sat back in his chair, pressing his fingertips together as if in prayer. He seemed disappointed with Kathy’s lack of reaction. ‘A couple of possibilities come to mind.’

‘Go on.’

‘Theory one, and most likely in my opinion, it was a tax avoidance scheme, and probably all three partners were in on it. Excess profits are paid to a phantom debtor, Turnstile Quality Systems, registered offshore and with an imaginary proprietor.’

‘Why was Clarke’s photo used?’

‘So that he could provide identification to open and access bank accounts on behalf of his partners. One of them had to, and Clarke was the one who authorised most contract payments.’

‘Was he in Barcelona on the fourth of October when the Barclays account was opened?’

‘Must have been.’

‘What’s the other option?’

‘Theory two, the other two partners weren’t aware of it.

That means it was some kind of scam that Clarke was pulling alone.’

Kathy thought about this. ‘But Verge knew about Martin Kraus and the Barclays account in Barcelona, didn’t he?’

‘So Clarke says.’

‘You’re suggesting that it was Clarke, not Verge, who closed the account on the fifteenth of May, and withdrew his own money that he’d transferred from London?’

‘In theory two, who else could have?’

‘Then Clarke would have had to come to Barcelona on the fifteenth of May.’

‘Not necessarily. The transfer of funds was instructed electronically.’

‘But why would Clarke pretend to send money to Verge, if he didn’t?’

‘Yes, interesting question. To make it look as if Martin Kraus was really Charles Verge, presumably, who conveniently isn’t around to deny it.’

‘Has this been sent to Brock?’ Kathy asked.

‘As we speak. It’ll be interesting to hear what Mr Clarke has to say for himself, yeah?’

At that moment the door flew open and Linda marched in. She looked slightly flushed, her eyes bright. ‘Well! So what’s been happening?’ she cried.

Later she caught up with Kathy at the water cooler. ‘I’ve agreed to go out clubbing with Jeez tonight,’ she said in a dramatic whisper.

‘What about Tony?’

‘He’s got a lot of work to catch up on with this Clarke business. He wants a quiet night in his hotel room.’

‘And what about your principles?’ Kathy persisted.

Linda grinned. ‘It’s for the sake of the investigation. I’ll persuade Jeez to do a check on that fitness club.’

‘Good idea,’ Kathy said. She didn’t add that she’d already taken her own steps in that direction, having arranged a hire car for the following morning.

‘Jeez has to have dinner at home, so he can’t pick me up till ten. Why don’t we eat together tonight, if you’re not doing anything else?’

‘Yes, I’d like that.’

They met in the lobby of the hotel at six-thirty and wandered out to the Placa and then south through the old town and into the narrow winding streets of the Barri Gotic, the Gothic Quarter, around the cathedral. Linda led them to a bar with outdoor tables where she ordered sangria and tapas.

Kathy looked around her at the evening sun glowing on ancient stonework, smart young couples parading across the square, kids roller-skating, old folks lined up on benches, the men conversing together on one, the women on another. ‘This is magic,’ she said.

The waiter brought a glass jug of cool pink liquid, and warned them about the children who stole handbags through the low hedge at their backs.

‘I feel guilty,’ Kathy went on. ‘I just phoned my bloke at home, and he sounded cheesed off, and here I am swanning around enjoying myself, sipping exotic drinks in foreign parts.’

‘Oh, we did try to do some work today,’ Linda said, lazily eyeing three young men wandering by.

‘Didn’t amount to much really though, did it? Not after the stuff that Jeez got on Clarke-a dubious entry in a visitors’ book and a creepy old man.’ As she spoke, Kathy realised just how much she had wanted at least one of those leads to amount to something.

Linda laughed. ‘You don’t have to feel guilty, for God’s sake. What else could you have done?’

‘I don’t know. I feel frustrated all the same. I’ve hired a car to drive down to Sitges tomorrow, but it seems pointless now. Don’t fancy a drive down the coast, do you?’

‘I’ll have to stay here in case Tony needs an interpreter to talk to the bank people again. But you should go and see a bit more while you’re here. You can get there and back in plenty of time to pick us up for the flight home. Tell them you want to return the car to the airport.’ She raised her glass. ‘Cheers. Are you married to this bloke, then?’

‘Leon? No, we’ve been living together for six months now.’

‘Sounds serious.’

‘Sometimes it feels like no time at all; other times it feels like he’s been there for ever.’

‘I always seem to lose interest before then. How old are you?’

‘Thirty-four.’

‘Me too.’

Kathy imagined a checklist of basic questions in Linda’s mind. It would be simpler if they all just carried cards of essential life data they could exchange. What stereotype are you? She’d be asking if Kathy wanted children next.

‘Does he want kids?’

‘We haven’t discussed it.’

‘Really?’ Linda raised her eyebrows as if that were very significant.

‘What?’

‘I’ve found that usually comes up in month three or four, which is probably why I drop them at the end of month two.’

Kathy smiled. ‘So you don’t want kids?’

‘My family was so utterly nuclear, so solid, that I think it put me off the whole idea. How about yours?’

Here we go, Kathy thought. ‘I lost both my parents when I was in my teens.’

‘Oh dear. But that didn’t make you want to found a new dynasty?’

‘The opposite, really. I suppose I got nervous of forming attachments, in case I lost them, too.’

‘Ah, yes, of course.’ Linda sipped thoughtfully at her drink.

That’s enough of the amateur psychology, Kathy thought. The tapas arrived, the sun slipped below the rooftops and they changed the subject.

When they had finished their drinks and tapas they moved on to a small restaurant hidden in a back street of the old quarter, where Linda told Kathy she should try black rice, the most famous rice dish of Catalonia. And it was after this, strolling back towards the hotel, that Kathy’s phone rang. She pulled it out of her bag and recognised Brock’s voice.

‘Kathy? How are you?’

‘Great. Did you get my fax?’

‘The entry in the visitors’ book? Yes, thanks. Very ingenious. I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your imagination.’

He sounded grim and preoccupied, and not greatly impressed by her discovery. ‘Can they analyse the handwriting from the fax, or do you need the original?’

‘You haven’t seen my fax to you this afternoon? I sent it to the CGP number.’

‘No.’

‘Ah, well, you might want to get hold of it. It should make interesting reading.’

‘Okay. Is it about Clarke?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll go and pick it up now. We’ve also tracked down a retired plastic surgeon who may have been in the building that the McNeils now think they saw Charles Verge disappear into. I may need you to talk nicely to Captain Alvarez to get him to do a proper check on the man. He’s reluctant…’

‘Read my fax,’ Brock said enigmatically. ‘You’re flying back tomorrow? Fine. See you soon.’ He rang off.

When the passport photograph of Martin Kraus had arrived from Barcelona, Brock had immediately obtained a warrant and taken a couple of cars to the house near Greenwich Common. According to Sandy Clarke’s secretary he hadn’t been into the office that day. Apparently he had done this a couple of times lately, taken paperwork home to deal with in peace. Then she had added, hesitantly and with the proviso that she hoped the Chief Inspector would treat this as confidential, that he may not know about Mr Clarke’s wife leaving him. He had told her the previous day, and he’d obviously been very upset and had said he might take the next day or two off.

Bees were humming among the hollyhocks that Denise Clarke had grown in the small cottage garden at the front of the house, a protective buffer against the city whose fumes nevertheless seemed to hang around the place. The house was silent and no one answered the doorbell. They went around to the back, where an officer broke a windowpane in the back door and so gained entry to the kitchen. A bottle of brandy, almost empty, stood on the scrubbed pine table next to an empty glass and a medication packet, also empty. A small ormolu vase of roses stood nearby, its petals fallen in a ring around its base. There was also a laptop computer on the table, power on but asleep, its light winking.

The smell of city traffic was as strong inside the house as out, as if they were stuck in the middle of a rush-hour jam instead of a leafy backstreet. Brock called out Clarke’s name, but his words sank into muffling silence. ‘Okay,’ he said to the men at his back, and they moved forward to search the house. As he made towards the living room, Brock passed an alcove in one wall of the kitchen, beside the Aga, and he noticed that the traffic smell was especially strong here. Drawing on latex gloves, he went into the alcove and found a small laundry room and beyond it a door. When he opened it he was met by a nauseating gust of saturated exhaust fumes. There was no window, but in the dim light he could make out the dark shape of a car. He shut the door quickly against the stench and called for assistance.

The ignition was on, they discovered after they had opened the garage door to dispel the fumes, but the vehicle had long since stalled or run out of petrol, and the engine was cold. One end of a hosepipe had been neatly taped to the exhaust, the other to the rear passenger-side window, which was cracked open a couple of inches. Sandy Clarke sat slumped in the driver’s seat which had been tilted back, his head cradled by the seat’s headrest and his mouth open, so that he looked rather as if he was in the dentist’s chair, waiting for the drill. The medical examiner would later discover that the larger muscle groups of the chest and thighs were locked in rigor, while the smaller ones in the face and hands were not. On this basis, and a rectal temperature of 13°C, he suggested an approximate time of death twenty-four hours earlier.

When Brock returned to the kitchen he had one of the team, who had more computer skills than he did, bring the machine to life. The man tapped a key and the screen flickered awake to reveal text, headed with the words, in capitals, ‘A CONFESSION’. Afterwards they determined that the document had been saved at seven thirty-six p.m. on the previous day, Monday the seventeenth of September, and a copy of it was found on a disk in the shirt pocket of the dead man. It was this document that formed the bulk of the message that Brock had faxed to Kathy a couple of hours later, while she was exchanging personal insights with Linda over a glass of sangria in the square below the cathedral of Barcelona.