Barry Maitland - The verge practice

‘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?’