Robert looked mildly surprised to be brought into the scrap, but he smiled benignly and said, ‘Well, I rather think that the argument is that this whole exercise is being carried out by the Metropolitan Police in order to improve its performance and level of service to the community at large. So it is essentially a police process, informed by the highest possible level of input from community representatives, whose contributions will of course be absolutely crucial. The chair of each committee must have an understanding of the context within which new policies will be framed. In other words, the chairs must understand how the police service operates, and must be able to present the ideas of their committees in a way that the police hierarchy can understand and take on board.’
Rex suddenly rose to his feet, snatched up the newspaper report of the weekend riots and threw it onto the table in front of Robert. ‘I think we all understand very well how the police service operates, thank you. And if the police hierarchy is so bloody stupid that they can’t understand the words of ordinary members of the community without having them dressed up and interpreted, then I’m not interested in having my name associated with this bit of whitewashing.’
He turned and marched out of the room.
The meeting sat in stunned silence for a moment, then Desmond got hurriedly to his feet and ran after the departed Rex. Robert looked shocked, unused, perhaps, to displays of naked anger in his usual line of work, or possibly contemplating a committee-selection disaster. Everyone else was silent, reluctant to speak out now in front of the bureaucrat. Robert must have sensed his isolation, and with an embarrassed little cough rose to his feet. ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured, and made for the door.
‘Well,’ Jay said, ‘maybe this’ll be more interesting than I expected.’
Brock’s visit to Charles Verge’s doctor was less contentious. The surgery was in a quiet cul-de-sac mews in Belgravia, and the doctor had a grave dignity to suit. ‘I made a statement some months ago, Chief Inspector. I don’t really see what I can add.’
‘We’re going back over some of the old ground just to make sure nothing was missed.’
‘You’re still no nearer to finding Charles, then? I really don’t think I can throw any light on where you might look.’
And as Brock took the doctor back over his earlier statement, he tended to agree. Charles Verge had been his patient for over ten years, during which time he had seen his doctor two or three times each year, for an annual check-up and for other minor ailments-a recurring tennis elbow, some lower back pain, a couple of viral infections, and a spell of about a year following his divorce when he had been prescribed an anti-depressant. The only remotely unusual thing about the record was the fact that Verge hadn’t seen his doctor at all in the twelve months leading up to his disappearance, a longer gap than any previously.
‘I put that down to everything going well-with his marriage I mean.’
‘You noticed a difference when he remarried?’
‘Certainly. He seemed rejuvenated.’
‘You were Ms Norinaga’s doctor, too, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, since their marriage. The last time I saw her was a month before the tragedy.’
Brock consulted his notes. ‘That was for a prescription for a contraceptive pill, wasn’t it? Did she discuss her sex life with you?’
‘Very little. She was a woman of few words, and it wasn’t a language problem. She was very articulate and spoke English fluently. She was just very private.’
‘There was no suggestion of any difficulties with her husband?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Tell me about this period when you prescribed antidepressants for Mr Verge.’
The doctor consulted his file. ‘It was seven years ago, around the time of his divorce. I do recall him saying that he had experienced periodic spells of what he called “despair” before, when he lost confidence in himself, but this instance was clearly related to the breakdown of his marriage.’
‘I’m surprised. I mean, the picture I’ve been getting is of a man with supreme confidence in himself.’
‘Mmm, he certainly gave that impression, but the marriage breakdown took its toll. His symptoms were classic-sleeplessness, lack of energy, poor appetite. I had him on Zoloft for fourteen months, moderate dose, then he came off it and the symptoms didn’t recur.’
‘And nothing more recently?’
‘No.’
As he showed Brock out, the doctor seemed to feel a sudden surge of sympathy for the policeman with his rather weary stoop and disappointed frown. ‘Haven’t been much help, have I? But to be honest, you’re not likely to catch him now, are you? He’s probably sunning himself on some distant beach, and really, what good would be served by dragging him back here and going through all the trouble and expense of a trial and a gaol term, eh? He did a terrible thing, and he’s lost everything as a result. He’s no danger to anyone now.’
Brock guessed that a lot of people shared the doctor’s opinion. Large sections of the press seemed to mask this view with only the barest of nods to notions of justice.
‘I doubt if the victim’s family feels that way, doctor. Thanks anyway for your help. Oh incidentally…’ a thought seemed to strike him, ‘… you wouldn’t know if Charles Verge had a doctor in Barcelona, would you? He visited there quite frequently.’
‘Sorry, no idea. But it’s not likely that there’s a medical explanation for any of this, is it?’
‘No, you’re probably right.’
Brock turned and strode away, taking a deep breath of the warm afternoon air and catching just a hint of the tang of turning leaves and approaching autumn.
When he got back to his office he opened the book that Clarke had given him on the work of the practice. It was obviously a high-quality production, printed on thick paper with a fine satin surface. The greater part consisted of beautifully printed photographs and plans, with a couple of introductory essays-the first, according to the dust jacket, an analysis of Verge’s work by an internationally acclaimed author of numerous seminal works on architectural theory. If Brock had hoped for enlightenment from this he was quickly disappointed, for the text was, to him at least, largely incomprehensible. He had always held that, if the giants of modern theory-Darwin, Marx and Freud-could write lucid prose, then so should everyone else, but he realised that he was in a minority. After struggling to comprehend the private meanings and convoluted phrasing of the first couple of paragraphs, he gave up and, like most other people he assumed, turned his attention to the pictures. The essay was peppered with little images-a Mongolian yurt, a Zeppelin airship, grain silos, a Japanese teahouse, a seashell, a glider-but what these had to do with Verge’s philosophy of architecture Brock wasn’t certain. He noticed a phrase that Madelaine Verge had used, ‘hybrid architecture’, which apparently had something to do with yin and yang and postmodernism and generally having the best of all possible worlds. He turned with relief to the photographs and plans of Verge’s buildings. The sequence of plans was introduced by a quote from Le Corbusier, ‘The plan is the generator’, and although Brock found it impossible to interpret how they worked, for there was no lettering on them to identify the function of the rooms, he was struck by their abstract beauty, like densely worked cartoons or X-rays, some long and spiky, others gridded and square. The accompanying photographs were impossibly ravishing, like images from a fashion magazine or cookbook.
Leon was cooking when Kathy returned to her flat in Finchley that evening. He had been doing this a lot lately, and despite the resulting debris that made the small flat seem even more crowded, she’d encouraged it, although it made her feel bad, since she only provided takeaway pizza. Also, she wasn’t sure of his motives. Sometimes she felt he was trying to prove that living so long with his parents hadn’t left him incapable of looking after himself, but at other times she wondered if it was insurance, in case it didn’t work out between them. His own explanation was that it was therapy, and tonight she could believe it. He’d had another sticky day, he said, his black hair flopping forward over his eyes, voice barely audible above the thump of the knife chopping the parsley. Two kids, pre-teen, found with some syringes under a pile of cardboard boxes that someone had set alight. With some alarm, Kathy realised that he was preparing roast chicken.