This was met with polite but restrained applause. The woman’s tone had been just a little too confident for such a sweeping and unproven claim, like the building itself perhaps. Half the audience, Kathy suspected, didn’t believe a word of it. But Madelaine Verge clearly did, sitting upright in her chair with eyes bright. This was a vision worthy of the brilliant son now brilliantly vindicated. Did they give out posthumous knighthoods? Kathy wondered. Maybe they’d need to see a body first.
The speeches over, the guests were invited to attach themselves in groups of a dozen to one of the many black-suited men and women who were available to take them on a conducted tour. Brock and Kathy hung back, watching the lines of dignitaries file through the connecting doorway to Blue Square, like oversized children on a school outing, passing whispered jokes about doing time and not bending over in the showers.
‘Ah, Chief Inspector!’
They turned at the sound of Madelaine Verge’s voice, sharp as a warder’s. Her chair was cutting through the crowd, the others in her party following in her wake. From the fierce look in her eye, Kathy thought they were about to be taken to task, but when she was close enough Mrs Verge took hold of Brock’s right hand in both of hers and squeezed it hard.
‘I am so very grateful to you. I felt certain, that first time we met, that you would bring an end to our nightmare, and you did. I told you then that my son was dead, do you remember? An innocent victim. No one but us believed it then…’ She gestured with her head to the group behind her, all staring intently at Brock as if to gauge his reaction. ‘But you proved that we were right!’
Kathy was particularly struck by the look on George’s face, tight-lipped, bright-eyed, as if suppressing some inner elation. She thought she could appreciate his feelings, the convict as an honoured guest at a party of police and prison bigwigs.
‘It was a difficult thing for people to accept, Mrs Verge.’ Brock spoke deliberately, without a trace of pleasure at her praise. ‘Even today there are some who find it hard to believe that your son is not still alive.’
‘What?’ She released his hand. ‘How can they possibly do that?’ She jerked her head back angrily. ‘Well, you must make it your job to persuade them that they’re wrong, mustn’t you!’
‘We would all feel much happier if we could find his body.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Madelaine Verge’s face recovered its composure. ‘I have reconciled myself to the possibility that that may never happen. Do you know Sir Christopher Wren’s epitaph in St Paul’s? Si monumentum requiris, circumspice. “If you want a monument, look around you.” That shall be my son’s epitaph, Chief Inspector.’ She lifted an arthritic hand in a wide arc. ‘Look around you…’
As she swept away, Kathy said to Brock, ‘Is there really anyone who thinks he’s still alive?’
He said nothing for a moment, staring after the departing group, then murmured, ‘Yes, Kathy. I rather think there is.’
They joined the last departing group, and passed through the door into a narrow tunnel, walls, ceiling and floor coloured dark blue, which led abruptly into a lobby of dazzling white light. Kathy noticed that the comments and humorous asides quickly died away as they followed their guide through the quarters of Blue Square. It was so stark, so depersonalised, so minimal in its design, that it had a numbing effect on the brain. It took her a while to notice the most telling detail, the complete absence of any of the plethora of controls-plugs, sockets, switches, handles, taps-which are scattered over the walls of any normal room. Here, everything was operated remotely, by men with electronic controls. There was nothing on the smooth bare walls that an inmate could touch to make anything work, to cause a door to open, a toilet to flush, a light to glow.
By the time the party reached the courtyard at the centre of Blue Square, their minds had so adjusted to the purgative effects of all this visual absence that the foliage of the blue larches in the sunlight seemed extravagantly artificial. Conversations began to revive, if cautiously, when they had passed up the ramp to Green Square, where some muted colours were allowed. There was even a light switch or two. But it wasn’t until Yellow Square that they were given a narrow glimpse of the outside world, the first time their eyes had been able to focus further than a few metres, and the sight of fens stretching to the distant horizon had a disturbingly agoraphobic effect.
When they finally reached Red Square, the whole group, both sceptics and believers, seemed to recover their spirits. Kathy saw it on the faces of other groups they met there, a sense of relief and of a return to normality. Here were armchairs, newspapers, coffee-making facilities and large picture windows, some of which actually opened to admit the boggy breeze. People were checking their watches, commenting that it had been only an hour, but felt like a lifetime.
On the way back, following a strung-out line of expensive motors across the fen, Brock’s phone rang. He grunted into it, agreed to something and shoved it back in his pocket. ‘Your friend Mr Oakley wants to speak to me again. With his solicitor this time.’
Kathy felt a knot of anxiety form in her gut.
Paul Oakley and his lawyer wore similar striped ties, as if they belonged to different houses of the same public school.
‘Mr Oakley’s purpose in requesting this interview is to clarify his statements to you yesterday and answer openly any further questions you may have. But before we begin, he has asked me to make three points.’ The solicitor slipped on a pair of gold-framed glasses and consulted his notes. ‘First, he feels he was unfairly treated yesterday in that he was allowed to believe the purpose of the meetings was an innocent business contact when in fact it was to gather information about him relating to a possible criminal matter.’
‘He was cautioned,’ Brock objected.
‘But only at the second meeting. In his first meeting there was no indication of the real purpose, and he feels this amounted to deception and entrapment.’
‘Go on.’ Brock picked up a pen and began doodling, looking bored.
‘Secondly, he believes this underhand treatment was inspired by one of your officers who has a personal grudge against my client, and that any suspicion of wrongdoing on his part is malicious, completely unjustified and grossly unfair. And thirdly, he would like it to be known that, if any of your officers denigrates his reputation to any third party, then I am instructed to seek legal redress against that officer.’
‘His reputation?’ Brock said softly. ‘Your client told Sergeant Gurney and myself several very significant lies yesterday. What do you want us to say? That he’s an honest man?’
Kathy examined Oakley’s face on the screen, apparently unperturbed by this. He had been a copper, after all, and knew the importance of not getting riled.
‘He was confused by your unexpected questions about matters in the past, and was provoked to speak without due consideration.’
‘The past? He denied knowing a woman he went out of his way to visit just days ago.’
‘Phil, may I?’ Oakley broke in smoothly, talking to his solicitor as if wanting to borrow his partner on the dance floor.
‘Be my guest, old chap.’
‘Chief Inspector, I didn’t tell you about visiting Ms Langley because I did that as part of an internal procedural review by the laboratories, and I didn’t see, frankly, what business it was of yours. I still don’t.’
‘You weren’t asked to assist that review, you got someone else to falsely witness the signature you obtained by deception from Ms Langley, and you lied to us about it. In fact, you behaved exactly like someone trying to cover up the fact that the original loss of important forensic information was your responsibility, not Ms Langley’s.’
‘Not true. The original mistake was Debbie’s, there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind about that. Ask the other clerks at the lab, ask her supervisor. She was famous for her cock-ups. She was always getting flustered and distracted and losing her place. Look at the notes in her personnel file, the record of warnings and complaints. She was in the wrong job, and as soon as they decently could the lab got rid of her.’