The verge practice

2

Brock marched quickly along Queen Anne’s Gate, head thrust forward, a preoccupied frown on his face, and crossed onto Broadway. The September morning was sunny and warm, but he hardly noticed it. His current investigations were bogged down, there was a problem with his budget, and the summons to headquarters had been disturbingly vague. The bland office block was only a couple of hundred yards away from the converted terrace annexe in which his team was based, but in his mind the distance was much greater. He reached the entrance to New Scotland Yard and unconsciously straightened his shoulders as he presented his identification, signed the book, accepted a pass and took a lift to the sixth floor.

Commander Sharpe was standing at the window of his office when Brock was shown in. As the figure turned from contemplating the panorama of the city northward across St James Park, Brock was once again struck by the way his boss seemed to fulfil the promise of his name. The same height as Brock, six foot two, he was much leaner in build and thinner of feature, and in appearance, dress and manner he was, decidedly, sharp. This impression was reinforced by his excellent memory, by the intensity of his gaze and his precise form of speech. The effect on Brock was to make him feel vaguely crumpled. He tried to remember when he’d last had his hair cropped and beard trimmed.

‘Morning, Brock. I see our friends are patching their roof again.’ Sharpe gestured towards the window, and Brock looked out to see which particular friends he might be referring to. Close by there was the Art Deco headquarters of the London Underground, beyond it the Wellington Barracks, and in the distance the rooftops of Buckingham Palace.

‘Home Office,’ Sharpe said, referring to the building to the right of the barracks. Further to the right again, Brock could make out the chimneys and rear windows of his own outpost, and was uncomfortably aware that, with a powerful telescope, Sharpe would probably be able to read the correspondence on his desk. ‘That’s the reason I wanted to see you.’

The Home Office roof? Brock wondered, but said nothing.

‘Coffee?’ Sharpe went over to a cabinet and poured boiling water into two individual coffee plungers. He carried them to the circular table on a tray with cups, sugar and cream.

‘I find this is the best way to get a decent coffee in this place. How’s the knee?’

‘Much better,’ Brock replied, automatically rubbing the joint as he took the offered chair.

‘Physio?’

‘Yes. That seemed to sort it out.’ It was over six months since he’d been attacked by a mob of skinheads in the East End, but the leg still ached at night.

‘The commendation was well deserved, Brock, well deserved.’

‘Thank you, sir. It was much appreciated. And by DI Gurney.’

‘Bren Gurney, yes. And your DS, Kathy Kolla, she also performed extremely well, didn’t she? In difficult circumstances.’

Brock shifted uneasily in his seat. Sharpe’s memory for names was well known, but still, it sounded as if his boss had been checking up on his team.

‘Couple of important things I need to discuss with you, Brock. You’re familiar with the Verge inquiry, I take it?’

Of course he was-the whole country had been following it avidly since May, when the body of Miki Norinaga had been found in her bed, naked and stabbed through the heart. Her husband, prominent architect Charles Verge, had not been seen since, and the international hunt for the missing man had become a national obsession. The press carried regular reports of sightings from around the world, but none had yet resulted in an arrest.

‘It’s one of those cases that just won’t go away.’ Sharpe stirred his coffee vigorously. ‘Tabloids love it. Today he’s seen in Sydney, last week in Santiago. He’s Ronnie Biggs, Lord Lucan and the Scarlet Pimpernel all rolled into one. And he’s not just any architect. High profile, international reputation, knighthood pending-the very epitome of Cool Britannia.’ Sharpe snorted and sipped at his coffee.

‘It’s all very embarrassing,’ he continued. ‘He had some extremely important clients. Significant buildings for the German and Saudi governments, for instance, neither of which are pleased to find that their glossy new landmarks are the work of a murderer. And our friends in the Home Office are particularly cheesed off. Their new Verge masterpiece is nearing completion, a Category A prison as luck would have it-Marchdale, out in the fens. The Prince was going to do the opening, but that’s in doubt now, and the Home Secretary has been taking a lot of stick in the House. You can imagine what the press’ll make of the unveiling.

‘What particularly galls our friends isn’t just that their golden boy is a killer, but that the world believes he’s got away with it. If they can’t hush the whole thing up, which they can’t, then they want some kind of resolution-either his arrest and incarceration in one of their grubbier institutions, or, better still, proof of his innocence.’

‘Is that possible?’

‘Hardly, but you can’t blame them for hoping. The point is that after four months we haven’t been able to deliver on either option, which is a major embarrassment for the Met. So…’ Sharpe deliberately placed his cup in its saucer and sat back, fixing Brock with one of his scalpel stares, ‘… it’s been decided that we need a fresh approach. A new team.’

A move of desperation, Brock thought, not liking the sound of this one bit. ‘Superintendent Chivers has been leading the inquiry, hasn’t he?’

‘Dick Chivers, yes. The proposal is that he now hands the reins over to you.’

‘I see.’ Hell, Brock thought… a trail gone cold, all avenues exhausted, the press watching every move, bosses demanding miracles.

‘You sound less than thrilled.’

‘Chivers is a thorough detective. I doubt he’ll have overlooked much.’

‘There’s no suggestion that he has. In fact, I’m certain that he’s conducted himself impeccably. But without result. What the inquiry needs now is a fresh mind to rejuvenate it, and you have a reputation for coming out of left field and getting results. It’s not a criticism of Chivers, but it is an expression of confidence in you, Brock.’

Or of panic, Brock thought, but saw that he would have to make the best of it. He tried to look pleased. ‘Thank you, sir. When exactly is the prison due to be opened?’

‘Three weeks. The Palace will make a final decision on their involvement one week beforehand.’

Brock began to frame an objection, but Sharpe went on. ‘Form your own team. Take any of Chivers’ people you want. He’s waiting to brief you now. Room 413, two floors down. All right? Now, the second matter …’ He sprang to his feet, reached for a glossy document lying on his desk and slapped it onto the table in front of Brock.

‘You’re familiar with this, of course.’

Protect and Respect: Everybody Benefits. Diversity Strategy of the Metropolitan Police. Brock recognised the cover. Everybody in the Met had received one and there had been extensive reports in The Job, but he hadn’t got around to reading it. There had been a series of briefing sessions for line managers, but he’d always been busy elsewhere.

‘What do you think?’

‘Well…’ Brock said cautiously. ‘A positive move, post-Macpherson …’

‘Yes, yes. But more than that. In the Deputy Commissioner’s words, this is a core business imperative.’

Sharpe paused to let that sink in, then tapped the document with his fingertips and went on severely, ‘It’s that important, Brock, and we all have to embrace it.’

Brock was wondering now whether this was some kind of reprimand. Had his absence from the briefings been noted, or had he inadvertently committed some error somewhere along the line? Had he been reported for political incorrectness?

‘The Diversity Strategy includes a six-point action plan, as you know. Six strategic areas, right?’

For an awful moment Brock thought he was going to be tested, but Sharpe lifted his left hand, fingers outstretched, and ticked the points off with his right index finger, one by one, for emphasis. ‘Leadership, crime, processes, workforce, training and communications. And to help stimulate debate and develop policy in each of these strategic areas, six Strategy Working Parties are being established. One which will be particularly close to your heart, Brock, will be the Crime Strategy Working Party.’

He opened the booklet and read, ‘“Resolving problems, investigating and preventing crime through a more inclusive approach. ..” Now, Human Resources have been charged with bringing forward names, and from our point of view, you will agree, it is crucial that the voice of experienced, serving detectives is heard on these committees.

Especially the Crime Strategy Working Party.’

While Sharpe returned to his desk for another document, a sheaf of A4 pages clipped together, Brock thought, oh no, I’m not going to waste my time on some bloody committee.

‘The name of one of your team has come up, Brock, and I wondered what you thought. DS Kolla.’

Brock hadn’t expected this, and Sharpe saw his surprise. ‘No?’

‘I thought you’d be looking for someone older, sir.’

‘She’s got quite a few years under her belt now, and we’re after new blood. Over the next ten years the Met is going to have to recruit two-thirds of its staff over again, and people at her level are going to be crucial to that process. Besides, she’s got an excellent record at the coalface, both in crime detection and in interacting with ethnic communities. There are a couple of recent letters of appreciation here from community leaders; one from a Mr Sanjeev Manzoor of the Pakistani community in Stepney, and another from Mr Qasim Ali of the Shiite community.’

Brock was familiar with the letters. Sanjeev Manzoor had deemed it politic to be nice to Kathy, hoping to avoid prosecution for making false statements to a magistrate, and Qasim Ali probably fancied her. ‘Yes, I got copies of the letters. They were well deserved. And she’s a woman, of course.’

Sharpe smiled briefly. ‘That too. And with an ethnic partner, I understand.’

‘How did Human Resources get hold of that?’

‘We’ve run a bit of a check on her, and it all sounds good. So what do you think? You don’t look certain.’

‘No, no, I think she would do very well. She’s intelligent and articulate. I’m just being selfish. I don’t want to lose her, especially if we’re taking on the Verge case.’

‘Oh, it would only be a part-time commitment, and you wouldn’t be losing her forever-at least, not unless she performs brilliantly, in which case it could well open up a whole new career path for her. But you would hardly deny her that now, would you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Good, well I’ll speak to her. Keep it to yourself until then, will you?’

‘Bugger,’ Brock muttered under his breath after he had closed the door behind him, and strode off down the anonymous corridor towards the lift.

Dick ‘Cheery’ Chivers was seated in the middle of the small conference room on the fourth floor, staring dolefully at a pile of unopened files on the table in front of him. He looked up as Brock came in and rose unsmiling to his feet. He was a veteran cop of the same generation as Brock, and had a morose look at the best of times. Clearly this wasn’t one of those. ‘Brock,’ he acknowledged grudgingly, and took the offered hand.

‘Sharpe’s just told me,’ Brock said. ‘I’m sorry, Dick.’

‘He dropped it on me at nine this morning. No warning. Out of the flaming blue.’

‘He made a point of saying that it was no reflection on the way you’ve been running the case.’

‘Bollocks. Course it is. Got to be.’

‘If it’s any consolation, I like it as little as you.’

‘Yeah, well, it puts you in the firing line, doesn’t it?’ Chivers said. The thought seemed to cheer him up a little. ‘I sent back to my office for these to help you get started.’ He placed his large fist on top of the files as if reluctant to give them up. ‘I’ve put a lot of hours into this case over the past four months, Brock. We all have. We’ve covered every angle. It’s bloody ridiculous changing jockeys at this stage in the race. Sheer bloody foolishness. And bloody insulting to me.’ His face was becoming darker as his anger found voice.

‘What reason did he give you?’ Brock asked gently.

‘He needs fresh blood!’

‘That’s what he said when he told me he was taking one of my best young detectives from me to put her on a committee. He must have blood on the brain.’

‘Bloody vampire,’ Chivers growled, but the anger had faded as quickly as it had bloomed. ‘I told him, with a case like this, you’ve got to have patience. If you haven’t caught the runner within the first week then you have to be prepared to wait until he becomes careless or homesick or unlucky, and gives himself away.’

‘So you have no doubt that Verge was the killer?’

‘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.

When she had gone he repeated softly, ‘Something like that…’ What did that mean, exactly? Something unresolved? He shook his head and hoped that Leon Desai knew what he was playing at.

On the way home through South London he stopped at a supermarket and stocked up for the weekend with some precooked lasagne, a pork pie, salad, eggs, bread, coffee and a couple of bottles of Chilean red. That evening he began with the crime scene file, and eventually fell asleep in his armchair over a copy of the pathology reports.

By the following evening he felt he had a reasonable overview of the case. Although he had been given only a small part of the huge volume of material that had been generated, it was enough to confirm his earlier expectation that Chivers’ team had done a very thorough job. Once he had become convinced that Verge had indeed bolted, Chivers had set about constructing a huge spider’s web of tripwires that spanned the globe. Phones were tapped, mail intercepted, bank accounts monitored, passenger lists scanned, in the hope that one day, somewhere, a contact would register. Given the celebrity of the runaway and the crime, foreign police forces had been glad to assist, and liaison officers in over thirty countries had been identified, in addition to normal Interpol links. Particular effort had gone into working with the police in Spain and in a number of Latin American countries.

Brock couldn’t fault the investigation, assuming the initial assumptions were correct, and there seemed nothing to suggest otherwise. The only thing that niggled was a certain vagueness about the forensic evidence, an absence of information, which Brock found unusual. The handle of the murder weapon had revealed no fingerprints or DNA traces of the assailant; the victim’s body showed no signs of injury apart from the fatal wound; the bedding on which she lay had been recently changed, and offered no forensic data; and neither did a single driving glove, found on the floor of Verge’s car. It was almost as if the murder setting had been sterilised, wiped of drama and significance.

He sighed, poured himself a glass of wine and opened the file containing a summary of each of the 1863 reported sightings of Verge from around the world which had been officially logged up to and including the previous Sunday, quite apart from the thousands more that had been recorded on the various Verge websites that had sprung up.

He was interrupted by the phone ringing at his elbow.

‘I thought we were going to meet this weekend.’

Brock recognised Suzanne’s voice, sounding slightly peeved.

‘Yes, I’m sorry. I was about to phone. Something came up yesterday, and now I’m up to my ears in files. I don’t think I’m going to make it.’

‘Oh dear. A new case?’ Her voice softened, prepared to be mollified.

‘An old one, but they’ve decided it needs a fresh look, and they’ve dumped it on me.’

‘It must be important. It’s not the Verge case, is it?’

Brock was astonished. ‘Well… yes, it is actually.’

‘Oh David, that’s fantastic! And you’re in charge of it now?’

‘Well, yes…’

‘Just wait till I tell the kids. They’ll be thrilled. Stewart thinks he got away in a submarine, and Miranda’s sure she’s seen him in our shop. Of course, they both think you should have been on it from the start.’ Then a thought struck her. ‘But you don’t mean to say you’ve been down here without telling us?’

‘No… Why?’

‘Well, to see the place where he disappeared. Bexhill. The kids are sure he would have come through Battle on his way down to the coast.’

Brock hadn’t really registered the fact that Verge’s jumping point had been quite close to where Suzanne lived with her two grandchildren. ‘No, I hadn’t got that far yet.’

‘Well obviously you must. We’ve been down there to look for clues. We can show you exactly where the car was found. Stewart found an icecream wrapper that he thought should have been dusted for prints, but our local nick weren’t much interested. No doubt he’ll give it to you. And we worked out how Verge could have got to the Channel ports from there, that is if he wasn’t picked up by a passing submarine.’

‘You seem to know a lot about this.’

She laughed. ‘Of course we do! David, this is the biggest thing since Princess Di. The beautiful couple, the crime of passion, the disappearance. We follow every move. Stewart’s got a map of the world on his bedroom wall with pins stuck in for each sighting reported in the papers.’

More than I’ve got, Brock thought.

‘Anyway, you’ll have to come down. Why not make it tomorrow? The forecast is fine. We can have a picnic on the very spot.’

Brock looked around at the papers piled around his feet and said, ‘You know, I think that’s an excellent idea. I’ll be there by noon, and you can give me a briefing.’

And so the following day Brock found himself sitting on a tartan travelling rug laid out on the patch of beach just below where Charles Verge’s car had been abandoned, holding a chicken drumstick in one hand and in the other the bulging scrapbook which Stewart and Miranda had compiled of the crime. He found their information a good deal more readable than the police files, especially concerning the principal characters. There was an amazing number of cuttings from magazines and newspapers, many recent, but some dating back years, scavenged by the children from junk shops and doctors’ surgeries. Verge appeared most often, a short, stocky figure with a Napoleonic gleam in his dark eyes, a good tan, close-trimmed black hair and rather large nose, at the controls of his own helicopter about to fly his plans of the German Ministry to Berlin, or with a beaming Home Secretary examining the model of the new Home Office prison, or helping his wife out of their silver Ferrari. The accompanying articles made much use of phrases like cutting edge and precocious talent, and described him variously as domineering, passionate and obsessive.

‘He’s dishy, isn’t he?’ Suzanne said, offering him a glass of wine.

‘Looks a bit full of himself to me,’ Brock grunted, and read the headline of an article obviously written before the lethal termination of his marriage, My wife is my greatest critic: Charles Verge reveals all. Brock took a sip of the wine and gazed out to sea. It was placid, empty, a light breeze ruffling the low swell. Gulls wheeled overhead. There was something voyeuristic, ghoulish even, about sitting on that spot, poring over these pictures of the missing man.

‘You’re quite convinced he didn’t really drown?’ he asked the boy.

‘Oh yes. Look…’ Stewart flicked through the pages to an article cut from a local paper, featuring interviews with local fishermen and sailors discussing currents and tides, all agreeing that the body would have been washed ashore further along the south coast within forty-eight hours of a drowning.

What most disconcerted Brock was that the kids had never once mentioned to him their fascination with the case, or asked him for inside information.

‘I had no idea you were doing all this,’ he said.

The lad hung his head guiltily. ‘We wanted to ask you about it, but we thought you’d be cross, because it wasn’t your case.’

‘I see. Well, I think you’ve done a very professional job. In fact, I’d like to borrow this for a while, to show some people at Scotland Yard. Would you mind?’

Stewart’s face lit up. He gave a whoop and ran to tell his sister who was tracking a small crab along the water’s edge.

There were pictures of the victim, too. Verge’s wife was a Japanese architect, Miki Norinaga, who had come to work for him five years earlier, a couple of years after his divorce from his first wife. The articles made much of her looks (svelte, waif-like and willowy) and the fact that she was only thirty, twenty-two years his junior. She gazed unsmiling from the pictures, dressed invariably in black, looking very self-possessed.

‘After you’ve caught him, the trial will be such an anticlimax,’ Suzanne said. ‘I mean, there’s not a lot he can say, is there?’

Brock smiled at her confidence. ‘I suppose not.’ He recalled the photographs of the bedroom scene.

‘They don’t like her very much, the press…’ Suzanne pointed to a picture of Miki on her husband’s arm. ‘They always show her looking sulky and imply that she was a gold-digging bitch. Look… A family friend is reported as describing the dead woman as manipulative and possessive. “Charles adored her, and she had him wrapped round her little finger.” But it wouldn’t necessarily have been easy for her, being married to someone like that, do you think?’

They packed up their picnic things and made their way back to the road, where Stewart pointed out where Verge’s Land Rover had been parked, and the spot nearby where he had found the ice-cream wrapper, which he had preserved in a plastic ‘evidence bag’. He handed this solemnly to Brock, whose phone rang as he accepted it. The voice was that of an elderly woman, speaking too loudly into the receiver.

‘Hello? Who is that?’ she demanded.

‘Who are you after?’ Brock parried.

‘I want Detective Chief Inspector Brock.’

‘That’s me.’

‘My name is Madelaine Verge. I am the mother of Charles Verge. I am told that you have been given charge of the investigation into the murder of my daughter-in-law. It is imperative that I speak to you.’

‘How did you get this number, Mrs Verge?’ Brock saw the others prick up their ears at the name.

‘I have many friends, Chief Inspector, and this is urgent. I have important information which you must know before you go any further. We must meet this afternoon.’

‘I’m afraid…’ Brock began, but the imperious voice cut him off.

‘I am confined to a wheelchair, so it would be convenient if you were to come to me. I live in Chelsea. When can you get here?’

‘Can you give me some idea of the information you have, Mrs Verge?’

‘Not on the telephone.’

‘Very well.’ He checked his watch. ‘I can get to you at five. What’s the address?’

As he drove them back to Battle, Suzanne said, ‘I’d hoped you might have stayed over with us tonight, David.’

It was the first time she had said it openly in front of the children, and Brock felt she was making a point.

‘Sorry. I’d have liked that, but I’ve got a lot to do.’

‘He’s got to get on with catching Charles Verge,’ Stewart chipped in.

‘I’ll visit again soon,’ Brock added. ‘I promise.’