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‘A couple of million? Surely someone would have noticed?’

‘VP authorised well over a billion in payments to contractors last year, chief, and their own profits were very healthy. The invoices were VAT exempt, apparently, so there was no discrepancy in the VAT returns. They were bound to surface eventually, of course, but by then Sandy Clarke was the only partner left to worry about it.’

They discussed what they should do next, Brock allocated tasks and the meeting broke up. As she was leaving, Kathy found that she had a text message on her phone, postponing the committee meeting until the following Monday. Her first reaction was relief that she would have time to work with the team on the Verge case, but then irritation as she realised that all the important jobs had now been allocated. She hurried over to Brock and explained the situation.

‘Oh, that’s good, Kathy,’ he said, sounding preoccupied and not overjoyed. She felt marginal, hanging around on the edges. ‘And how is the committee going? I haven’t had a chance to talk to you.’

‘Pretty hopeless. Apart from a day’s workshop on gay rights, we’ve spent the whole time quarrelling about who should be chair.’

‘Maybe you should step in and take over.’ He smiled at the idea. ‘Yes, why not? This may be your opportunity.’

‘I’d rather quit and work on the case full time. Is there anything interesting I can do today?’

‘Interesting? Well…’ he consulted the sheaf of papers on his clipboard, ‘… there’s a lot that needs doing. There’s a list of car numbers from the CCTV cameras needs checking…’ He caught the look that crossed her face and stopped. ‘Or… well, how do you fancy a trip up to Peterborough? That’s where the couple live who thought they saw Verge in Barcelona on the Monday after the murder. We haven’t reinterviewed them yet. It’s always possible they may remember something else.’

A very long shot, Kathy thought, but better that than another list. So the horoscope in the paper had been right. She hid her disappointment and took the details. After a couple of phone calls she had set up meetings with the couple and made for the door, passing Tony and his fraud team. DI Bren Gurney was with them, chuckling at a joke someone had cracked. He looked alert and cheerful in the unfamiliar company of the Fraud Squad officers, and Kathy thought, that’s where I should be, I’ve worked with SO6 before, then told herself not to be petty. She took the tube to Finchley to pick up her little red Renault and headed for the Great North Road.

Weaving among the trucks thundering north out of London on the A1 motorway, Kathy experienced a familiar sense of anticipation, of heading towards a foreign country, the one to which she and her mother had moved after her father died-the strange and intimidating Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire where, after her mother, too, had passed away, she had been taken in by her aunt and uncle. She thought guiltily that it was some time since she’d been up to see them, elderly now and frail in their little Sheffield terrace house. From Peterborough she’d be halfway there; she considered continuing north after she’d seen the McNeils, then dismissed the idea.

She followed the directions Audrey McNeil had given her, turning off the A1 at the first Peterborough sign and coming to an area of new detached houses on the outskirts of the city. From the welcome that Mrs McNeil gave her, she got the impression that the excitement caused by their possible sighting of the runaway had been thoroughly appreciated. Both women were prepared with documentation; Kathy with a file of the earlier interview transcripts and the plans and photographs supplied by the Barcelona police, and Audrey McNeil with her own collection of holiday snapshots, city guides and souvenirs.

‘It’s a wonderful city, so exciting, so much to see,’ Audrey enthused. She was in her early sixties, Kathy guessed, hair silvering and eyes sharp. ‘Wonderful buildings, the street life, the food… Well, to be honest I think tapas is overrated, and Peter says I do a better paella than any of the restaurants we tried, but anyway…’ She poured tea as she rattled on. ‘I have a Barcelona bridge partner now. We get on like a house on fire. Play practically every day. A grandmother like me, and the same age.’

It seemed Audrey spent much of her days, and nights too, playing bridge on the internet. She handed Kathy her pictures of Barcelona, describing each in turn and eventually coming to the only one that seemed relevant.

‘Now this is the Casa Mila, which is on the same street where Peter saw Charles Verge, the Passeig de Gracia. You see the sculpted shape of the balconies, almost like it’s made of clay, or bones? It was designed by Gaudi, the famous Barcelona architect, who was run over by a tram. Peter is a great fan of Gaudi. He took pictures of all his buildings, including the great church of the Sagrada Familia of course, dozens of them.’ She turned to another packet but Kathy stopped her and guided her attention back to the Casa Mila.

‘That was taken from right outside the building?’

‘Yes. Peter was insistent that we cross the street to try to get further back, to get the whole building in, but the trees got in the way and he didn’t take that shot in the end. So we crossed back over again and continued down to a cafe near the metro station, and it was on our way there that we saw him.’

Kathy unfolded her plans and got Audrey to trace the route. ‘We worked out that it must have been this block here that we saw him, going into the entrance on the corner, there.’

‘Okay, now in your earlier statement it’s Peter who really describes the figure you saw, and you agree with him. I wondered if you could try to picture the scene again now and tell me what you saw.’

‘Well, the trouble is that I took no notice until Peter said something like, “Oh, look at that chap over there, it’s the famous architect Charles Verge”, and then I looked and just caught a fleeting glimpse of him as he disappeared into the shadow of the entrance. I wouldn’t remember it at all if Peter hadn’t gone on about how important he was, and I got a bit irritated because frankly I’d never heard of him, not then. Now, of course, everyone has.’

‘All the same,’ Kathy persisted, sure she was wasting her time, ‘could you close your eyes and picture the scene, and just replay it in your mind? Don’t say anything, just try to visualise it, then tell me what you see.’

Audrey closed her eyes and sat motionless for a moment. Her lips pursed as if recalling the memory of her irritation with her husband, then her face relaxed a little and she made a gesture with her hand, as if tracing a movement in front of her. She opened her eyes and shrugged.

‘Not much help, I’m afraid. I got a glimpse of someone dressed in black, that’s all.’

‘Black jacket?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Peter said afterwards it was a black leather jacket.’

‘Forget about what Peter said, Audrey. I just want your impressions.’

‘Well he was probably right. I think it may have been a bit shiny in the sunlight, just before he disappeared inside the building. And black trousers and black hair.’

‘Length of hair?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Just now, when you had your eyes closed, you moved your right hand to the right, as if you were following his movement. Is that what you were doing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Only, if you were walking down the Passeig de Gracia here…’ Kathy pointed to the map, ‘…on the same side as the Casa Mila, surely he would have passed in front of you going from right to left, from the kerb to the building, that way, yes?’