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The team debriefing should have been a buoyant occasion, marking the conclusion of a successful investigation, but it was clear as soon as Brock swept into the room that self-congratulation was not on the cards. For some reason that was not immediately apparent, the old man was grim. A hangover, some speculated, or maybe the mysterious lady friend they’d begun to hear rumours of was giving him a hard time.

In a rapid delivery which suggested that meandering from the point would not be tolerated, Brock outlined the main directions of their investigations and then invited each person in turn to summarise their progress. Bren began, describing the hunt for Charles Verge’s body in the vacant government landholdings. He knew Brock’s aversion to lists presented on overhead transparencies, and wisely kept the slides of the schedules and classifications of the sites in his file. Wisely, too, he decided to forego the Power-Point presentation of site photographs on which he’d worked late into the previous evening, on the sensible assumption that, the way the old man was, the computer would undoubtedly screw up. Instead he concentrated on the core facts. The Verge Practice had looked at forty-six sites for the DTLR, covering a total of three hundred and fifty-two hectares, many of them overgrown and inaccessible, and including extensive derelict structures, several of which had collapsed or flooded basements. The police teams had so far eliminated fourteen of the sites. In the process they had lost two men due to muscle injuries and one dog with a damaged paw. They had discovered several animal corpses and one human, that of an abandoned baby in a carrycot. But no sign of Charles Verge.

‘Thank you, Bren,’ Brock said heavily. ‘Is there anywhere you haven’t been to yet that you were desperate to check?’

‘Not really, chief.’

‘Officially we go on looking. In reality, we stop as of now.’

‘Right.’ Bren sat down with relief.

They moved on to the money trail, the hunt for the assets of Martin Kraus and TQS Limited, which had gone cold somewhere between the Marshall Islands and Nauru. By now it was apparent that Brock, far from trying to wrap up the whole thing neatly, seemed more intent on goading them into self-criticism, prodding them into suggesting weaknesses in their approach and lines of inquiry that they may have missed along the way. Some time during the course of this the door opened and Leon Desai walked in. Kathy watched him, unblinking, as he gave a little nod of acknowledgement to Brock and slid into a seat at the back of the room. As he turned his head to scan the people present she dropped her eyes and stared unseeing at her notes.

By the time the report on financial matters was finished, Brock was drumming his fingers with impatience. ‘Leon,’ he called out, ‘we need a little illumination in all this fog. Can you help us?’

‘Yes, I think I can.’ Leon rose to his feet with a ghost of a smile. The sound of his voice, soft and so familiar, made Kathy’s insides shrivel. ‘We’ve pretty well completed the forensic examinations relating to Clarke’s death, and they’re unambiguous.’

He summarised the autopsy results and the examination of the death scene. The fingerprint evidence in particular was overwhelming. He passed a book of photographs to Brock, showing ringed and numbered fingerprints in various locations in the dead man’s house.

‘The trail is very clear,’ Leon said. ‘The computer, the door to the garage, the doors and window of the car, the tape on the hose, the brandy bottle, the CD in the car player, all clearly printed.’

‘Hell,’ Brock growled. ‘I asked for a little illumination, not a bloody searchlight. It’s almost too blindingly clear. So there’s absolutely no indication of anyone else being present?’

‘No. There are some extraneous traces, but they’re probably irrelevant.’

‘Like?’

‘There’s a heel mark on the step down into the garage from the kitchen, not made by Clarke’s shoe. Probably made at an earlier date. And there are some organic fibres adhering to the adhesive on the tape used to secure the hose to the exhaust pipe which we haven’t been able to match.’

‘Organic? What kind of organic?’

‘We’re not certain. Possibly fibres of leather.’

‘Well, make sure, Leon. Make bloody sure.’

Leon frowned at the tone in Brock’s voice. ‘Yes, of course.’ Then he added tentatively, ‘And there’s one negative result. Clarke’s widow has confirmed that the driving glove left in Charles Verge’s car did belong to her husband. It was a new pair, a birthday present from his grandson. Only they’ve run the tests on it again, everything they can think of, and they still can’t find any traces on the inside. The lab people would argue it’s never been worn.’

Brock stared at him, expression indecipherable. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I don’t know.’

Tony from Fraud, bolder than the rest, piped up. ‘What’s the deal, chief? According to the press statements we’re totally satisfied that the case is closed. Is there a doubt?’

‘There’s always a doubt,’ Brock said balefully.

‘But the confession, chief,’ Tony persisted. ‘No one knew all that about Clarke apart from Clarke himself-and us, of course.’

‘Even so, I want your reports to spell out what we haven’t done, as much as what we have, okay?’

‘Fire insurance?’

‘Something like that.’

When the meeting finally broke up, the word went out for a celebratory drink after work at the pub around the corner. Kathy overheard someone ask Leon if he’d be there, and his reply that no, he was tied up that evening. She went off to write up her report feeling bleak. It was Friday, and the void of a lonely weekend loomed ahead. It seemed incredible that it had been only last weekend that she’d flown to Barcelona. Between then and now, the whole world had changed. Then she began to feel angry with herself. Self-pity was a waste of time. There were lots of things she could do this weekend. Probably. She could get the car window repaired for a start. Then it occurred to her that Leon had left behind the door key to her flat, but not to her car. Was it a Freudian slip, she wondered? Was there some rebellious part of him that knew he was making a fool of himself and wanted her to know that?

Shortly before five p.m. Kathy was standing on a corner opposite the nondescript office block where he worked, near to the Forensic Science Laboratories. She hesitated, trying not to feel furtive. She asked herself, why not phone? Why not march across to reception and demand her key back? But she did neither. Soon a stream of people began to emerge from the building, Leon among them. She watched him turn to his left and pace away, yet still she held back. He seemed so self-contained. The thought of a scene made her feel sick. She began to follow, thinking, now I’m stalking him. If he turned around he’d recognise her pale blonde hair immediately, but he strode on, oblivious, until he came to a pub she remembered, where they’d had a drink once, long ago. He took the door with ‘Saloon Bar’ etched on its frosted glass panel, she the one marked ‘Public Bar’.

It was busy with Friday night office drinkers, and she had to work her way through the crowd before she could see him. She had no sooner caught sight of him talking to a man standing at the bar, when he looked over and spotted her. She was aware of him staring at her, disbelieving, as she pushed through to where they stood.

‘Hello, Leon.’

He looked angry and embarrassed. ‘What are you doing here, Kathy?’ he asked in a low voice.

‘I needed to speak to you. Aren’t you going to introduce me?’

The man standing at Leon’s shoulder smiled. ‘This isn’t the amazing DS Kolla, is it, Leon?’ He offered her his hand. ‘Paul Oakley.’