Part 29 (1/2)

'Did he sound plausible, do you think?'

Yes, she thought, this time he had seemed plausible, and she sensed that Brock and Bren had felt that too, becoming less aggressive in their questioning. 'Some bits, certainly.

The bits we can check.'

'Yes. How about the meeting he had with Clarke?'

Kathy forced herself to concentrate, wondering what Brock was leading to. 'That seemed inconclusive. I thought there must have been more to it than he was saying.'

'What did you make of the bit about Clarke's pen and gla.s.ses?'

'That didn't make much sense.'

'Can we believe Oakley?'

Kathy thought. 'Probably. I mean it doesn't do him any credit, does it? He should have reported it to Chivers.'

'Exactly. He probably thinks Clarke did tell Chivers, and that now we're wondering why he didn't report it himself, so he decided to come clean. But if Oakley is telling the truth about that, what does it mean?'

'I don't know. Why would Clarke mention it? It could only tend to place him at the scene and incriminate him.'

'And why didn't he refer to it in his confession, when he did mention his lost driving glove? Suppose he was genuinely mystified by it, and worried enough to try to pursue it. Imagine for a moment that he didn't kill Miki and Charles. He's called up to the bedroom, to the shocking scene of Miki's corpse. Then, while he's waiting for help to arrive, he notices things that belong to him. He thinks he must have left them there on the Friday night, and he doesn't want to have to explain what he was doing in her bedroom then, so he s.n.a.t.c.hes them up and looks around desperately for anything else incriminating. But later, he becomes increasingly certain that he never had that pen and that pair of gla.s.ses with him on the Friday night. How had they got there? Had someone deliberately planted them?'

'The murderer,' Kathy said. 'Charles Verge.'

And catching the expression on Brock's face, she understood for the first time his odd detours around the fens of that morning, and his sense of expectancy when they reached Marchdale. 'You've been thinking this for some time, haven't you? You do think he's still alive.'

'Just a private doubt, Kathy. Let's keep it that way.'

'You've thought this all along?'

'I wasn't sure, but when I spoke to Gail Lewis she seemed to confirm my doubts. And then I became worried.

If Verge really is the killer then she may be at risk too, and perhaps others. It depends how rational he is.'

'Did you really think he might show up at the Marchdale opening?'

'It seemed too good an idea to ignore. But perhaps he had other eyes and ears there to witness the event for him.

Because, if he is here among us, I think it's a fair bet that he's got help, don't you?'

'And Oakley is in the clear?'

'I believe he is. Oh, if he'd been better at his job he might have picked up Debbie Langley's error, and he should have made a report of his meeting with Sandy Clarke. I'm sure Leon would have done. I doubt if it goes further than that.' Then he added, 'Leon did well to pick up this match between the two traces. Did you ask him to chase it up?'

'No, he must have done it off his own bat.' Neat Leon, efficient Leon, badly needing to prove something, Kathy thought.

Brock said, 'Odd that he should be such good pals with Oakley. I'd have thought they'd be opposites, really. No?'

They were interrupted by Brock's phone. He listened for a moment, then thanked the caller and hung up.

'They've checked Charlotte's phone records. It wasn't used within an hour of your visit. We'll have to find out Clarke's movements that afternoon, but if it wasn't him, who else could it have been? Someone Charlotte could confide in, someone in the neighbourhood.'

'Someone like George . . .' Kathy said softly.

'Who?'

'The gardener. We saw him at Marchdale, remember?

Helping with Madelaine's wheelchair. He was working in the garden the day I spoke to Charlotte. He would have seen how upset she got-he might even have overheard some of what we said. He certainly seems to be devoted to her. She could have got him to follow me and steal the transcript.'

'And then kill Clarke?'

They both thought about that, chilled by the idea of Charlotte, fragile and pregnant, arranging the death of the father of her child. And for what reason? To stifle the scandal of the child's parentage? To restore her adored father's reputation? And they both made the same calculations- armed with the information in Clarke's transcript, the person who broke into Kathy's car had three days in which to concoct the suicide message, perhaps taken to Clarke's house as a typed letter on which they planned to plant his fingerprints and a scrawled signature, but instead transferred it to the convenient laptop. Would they both have gone to visit Clarke that evening, Charlotte to gain entry, drug Clarke and type the note, George to do the heavy work of arranging the death scene?

'What do we know about this George?'

'Almost nothing. He was there the first time I went to Orchard Cottage, and Madelaine Verge told me that he had been sort of adopted by Charles when he was doing the research for Marchdale. He was either an inmate or an excon, and Charles took him on as a handyman and gardener.

I don't even know his surname.'

'I don't remember any reference to d.i.c.k Chivers' team interviewing him.'

'I suppose he wouldn't have seemed relevant. He's sort of invisible, in the background, doing odd jobs and the garden, keeping an eye on things. Charlotte spoke of him almost as if he were a kind of chaperone, like her grandmother, who seems to spend most of her time there now.'

Brock recalled Gail Lewis's comment about Verge appearing to have established a haven for his daughter in Buckinghams.h.i.+re, 'an alternative happy little family' she'd called it. And now here was another player, George the handyman.

Kathy was thinking of the lizard doctor, Javier Lizancos, and his clinic behind the gym at Sitges. You automatically a.s.sumed, of course, that the purpose of plastic surgery was to restore, to beautify, to make younger, but presumably it could equally do the opposite, disfigure and age. And she also thought of the look of triumph on George's face that morning at the opening of the prison.

'This may sound a bit far-fetched,' she said, 'but George is the same height and build as Verge, wouldn't you say? I don't suppose it's possible . . .' She hesitated to put the idea into words, sure that Brock would find it absurd. But she looked up and saw that he was nodding.

'Can't be difficult to find out,' he said.

Brock filled his lungs. 'Lavender, cows, autumn foliage.

This is a real haven, Ms Verge. A bower.'

Charlotte wasn't impressed. She eyed him over the swell of her belly and said, 'What exactly did you want?'

She hadn't put on any electric lights, and the evening glow from the small window barely penetrated the shadows of the far corners of the room. Most of the wall surfaces were covered with shelves of books, with the tall volumes on art, design and architecture at the bottom.

Brock raised his chin towards the novels packed up to the low ceiling.

'You're a great reader, I see. You obviously appreciate fiction.'

No response.

'You must excuse me,' Brock went on with a deep sigh.

'It's been a long day, and this armchair is very comfortable.