The Verge Practice by Barry Maitland Page B

hoped I wouldn’t mind having her as a neighbour. I said of course not.’
    ‘Did he talk about anything else?’
    ‘About his work, I think. Yes, his prison.’ She arched an eyebrow, catching the small crease in the corner of Kathy’s mouth. ‘You think that’s amusing?’
    ‘No. A bit ironic, that’s all. It’s an unusual project, isn’t it?’
    ‘Charles was very bound up in it . . .’ Now Luz allowed herself a tight smile. ‘Yes, full of irony, I know. But he was really passionate about it. He said no other well-known architect would do such a project. They all want to design what he called safe public buildings—prestigious art galleries, museums, universities. No one had the courage to face such an uncomfortable subject as a prison. But he said that it is the father and mother of all buildings, because it does absolutely what other buildings do only in part. A prison is the building that most fully controls the lives of the people inside it, so the very best architects should design it.’
    ‘Someone in his office said that he had the idea that his building could fundamentally change people. They said he was obsessed with it.’
    Luz Diaz looked thoughtfully at Kathy. ‘Did they say that? Were they laughing at him, do you think?’
    ‘No, I don’t think so.’
    ‘Do they miss him? Or do they hate him for what he’s supposed to have done?’
    ‘I think they’re just trying to weather the storm caused by it.’
    ‘Yes, of course. We’re all trying to do that . . .’ She said it wistfully, looking out through the large window as if she ‘You sound as if it affected you a great deal.’ might catch sight of the missing man somewhere out there in the sunlit fields.
    The woman looked back sharply at Kathy. ‘Not me, no.
    I meant the others. Although I miss him now, more than I would have expected.’
    Kathy watched her reach for another cigarette. Her fingers looked pink and inflamed, as if she were allergic to something in the paint. ‘Are you quite sure you haven’t heard from him, Ms Diaz?’
    Luz snapped the flame off and took a deep breath.
    ‘Quite sure. And I’m quite sure I never shall.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because his mother is right. He is dead.’
    ‘How can you be certain?’
    ‘I feel it. I know it. I am absolutely sure that he didn’t murder his wife. And whoever did has made quite certain that you will never find him. You’re wasting your time looking. Charles Verge doesn’t exist any more.’
    Luz Diaz got to her feet and looked at her watch. ‘I said ten minutes. I’ve given you twenty. Now I must work.’ She rammed the cigarette into her mouth and reached for the yellow gloves.

7
    T he idea of fronting up to another strong woman didn’t appeal to Kathy, but she knew that Leon would have phoned his mother to warn her she might be calling. She rang the Barnet number and when Ghita Desai answered she heard the guarded tone in her voice.
    ‘Yes, dear, Leon said you might call to see us. Is everything all right?’
    ‘Yes, yes. I’m just going to be over your way, so I thought I’d say hello. But only if it’s convenient.’
    ‘Of course. Morarji may be resting. His operation, you know. But that doesn’t matter.’
    Kathy arrived armed with a bunch of flowers at the Desai house, its semi-detached neatness enhanced by some recently fitted double-glazing.
    Ghita answered the door immediately, as if she’d watched Kathy’s approach from behind the net curtains.
    ‘How are you, dear?’ She offered Kathy a cheek. Both she and her husband had the coal-dark eyes that Kathy found so disconcertingly attractive in Leon, but in their sagging faces the eyes gave an impression of deep fatigue, as if recovering from a very long period of watchfulness. Ghita peered at Kathy now through those dark eyes like someone conducting a physical.
    ‘Are you sure everything’s all right? There is nothing wrong?’
    It was the unexpected visit, the rarity of direct contact, and suddenly