'So you know him very well. How would you describe him?'

'Oh . . . totally committed, pa.s.sionate about his work, tremendous energy, inspirational, a great persuader, very imaginative . . .' The adjectives trailed off.

Brock said, 'I heard someone describe him as an egotistical b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

Clarke allowed himself a little smile. 'He would probably have accepted that, a necessary part of the job.

You see, to arrive at a design concept with absolute clarity, and then to sustain it through the years of challenges and difficulties of getting it built, you need a certain single-mindedness, a confidence in your own judgement that might be interpreted as arrogance. And we all accept that.

Anyone coming to work here knows that they have to do things the Verge way.'

'Yes, but in personal matters . . . a pa.s.sionate man, you said. Capable of a crime of pa.s.sion?'

'Pa.s.sionate about his work, I said. But he didn't allow his emotions to run away with him. He was much more deliberate. That's what I found so inexplicable.'

'And you didn't notice any changes in his behaviour in the months leading up to the murder?'

'I've thought a lot about that. I mentioned that I'd seen him taking pills a couple of times, but I understand his doctor wasn't prescribing anything, so they were probably just aspirin or vitamins or something. As for his manner, I thought he did seem more agitated lately, less inclined to concentrate, which I put down to overwork. And I was aware, the whole office was, of some undercurrent between him and Miki. More on her side, actually. She seemed less dependent on him, less willing to defer.'

'Ms Norinaga was strong-willed too, was she?'

'Oh yes.'

'How did that work, if he was so used to being number one?'

'At first she was his devoted disciple, hung on his every word. Then later, after they were married, he indulged her, encouraged her to express her own ideas.'

'Well, I suppose it was natural that she'd want to do that. She was an architect in her own right, wasn't she?'

'It was hardly the same,' Clarke retorted. 'Charles was immeasurably more experienced, and talented. I mean, Miki had only been out of architecture school for a few years.'

'Do you think he might have been losing his touch?

I suppose architects can go off, like soccer players?'

'It doesn't usually work like that. Architecture is a long game, and architects tend to get better with age and experience. Frank Lloyd Wright designed one of his greatest masterpieces in his eighties. Charles wasn't even approaching his peak . . .' Clarke paused as if struck by some thought.

'What's the matter?'

'It just occurred to me-Wright's second wife was murdered, too. Their servant went berserk with an axe, if I remember rightly, killed her and burned the house down.'

Brock sucked his mouth doubtfully. 'You're not suggesting a parallel?'

'No, no, of course not. Only . . .' He shook his head.

'Goodness . . .'

'What?'

'Well, Miki Norinaga was the niece of a client of ours in j.a.pan-that was how she came to work for us here in the first place, as a young graduate. And Frank Lloyd Wright's second wife-I'm trying to remember this from history lectures and I'm not even sure if they ever married- anyway, she was the wife of one of his clients. Wright had this breakdown, burnt out when he turned forty, and he ran away with her to Europe. They told n.o.body, just took flight and disappeared. Then later, after they'd returned to America and he'd built this house, she was murdered . . .'

Clarke took a deep breath and seemed to pull himself together. 'I'm sorry, this isn't relevant. What else can I tell you?'

Brock fished inside his suit pocket for his half-rim gla.s.ses, propped them on his nose and began to turn the pages of his notebook as if looking for something. Clarke waited for him with a frown.

'How was his s.e.x life?'

Clarke looked startled. 'Frank Lloyd Wright's?'

'Charles Verge. Were there any difficulties in that area?'

Clarke's face darkened. 'I wouldn't know. We didn't talk about that sort of thing.'

'Really? Not even a hint? Is there any possibility she might have had a boyfriend?'

'No,' Clarke said flatly. 'I went through all this with the last people. We would have had some inkling if she had.'

'And you noticed nothing odd in his manner that Sat.u.r.day morning?'

'I've gone over that hour in my mind a hundred times.

He seemed absolutely normal, a bit tired from the flight, but untroubled.'

Brock seemed unhappy with this reply. 'From his photographs I got the impression that he'd lost a bit of weight recently, let his hair grow.'

'You're right. It's sometimes difficult to notice small changes when you see someone almost every day, but Denise, my wife, commented that he'd lost weight. She thought he was looking younger.'

'Was he drinking more?'

'I hadn't noticed . . . He certainly wasn't affected by drink that morning.'

Brock said nothing for a moment, studying his notes, then asked, 'So there was no sign, looking back, that anything was wrong?'

'Premeditated?' The word burst abruptly from Clarke, who seemed almost as surprised by it as the detectives. He flushed and added, 'Is that what you're thinking? That Charles planned it?'

It wasn't what Brock had meant, but he was intrigued by Clarke's response. 'Is that a possibility, would you say?'

Clarke shook his head firmly. 'No, I'm sure it isn't.' He swung his chair round to face the gla.s.s wall overlooking the river. 'How could it be?' He stared out at a gang of pigeons wheeling in the sky as if he would have liked to join them.

Honest men, Kathy thought, trained as boys to tell the truth, and despite a lifetime of contrary experience, can betray themselves in small ways. They begin fiddling with paperclips or suddenly avoid a questioner's eyes, as Clarke had just done. Curiously, she found it harder to spot the same signs in women.

Brock seemed to have had the same perception. He stared thoughtfully at Clarke for a moment, then turned to the information manager. 'What about you, Ms Mathieson? Did you notice any change in his manner?'

'Well, you're right about him losing weight. I think it was stress. And I did think he'd lost interest a bit lately. Do you remember the last awards night, Sandy? We were up against the other big London names-Foster, Rogers, Wilford-for the annual design awards, and that usually brought out the compet.i.tive side of Charles. But he seemed almost indifferent last time.'

Clarke shrugged and glanced at his watch. 'I'm rather pressed for time at present, Chief Inspector. Do you think I might hand you over to Jennifer to show you the flat, and Charles's office too, if you wish?'

'Just one more thing, Mr Clarke. I understand you were also the last person to see Ms Norinaga alive, on the Friday night?'

'Yes, that's right. We were working late on the presentation for the Chinese on the following Monday. The others finished about eight, but Miki and I went on till eleven.'

'That's late.'

'Yes, there was a lot to do to get everything ready so the media team could finish the video for Monday.'

'How was Ms Norinaga when you left her?'

'Tired, but quite cheerful. Excited about the project.'

'She didn't mention anyone coming to visit her that weekend?'

'No, she didn't say what her plans were.'

'And you didn't go up to her apartment that evening before you left?'

'No.'

Kathy knew that the autopsy hadn't been able to establish the time of death more closely than the twenty-four hours between the Friday and Sat.u.r.day evenings.

Brock nodded, and he and Kathy got to their feet and followed Jennifer Mathieson, leaving Clarke contemplating the pigeons whirling outside his window.

'There are two penthouse apartments,' Mathieson explained as they waited for the lift. 'The idea was that the senior partners would live there and share a housekeeper and cook, but in the end only Charles moved in. Sandy and Denise couldn't face living on top of the shop, I suppose.'

'So the other flat was unoccupied at the time of the murder?'

'That's right. There were people working down on the office floors over that weekend, but this lift gives independent access to the penthouse floor from the street and the bas.e.m.e.nt car park, where Charles kept his Landy.'

Kathy looked at the floors stacked like bookshelves around the atrium. There were people working at computers and drawing boards, a group cl.u.s.tered around a table, but not as many as she had expected.

When she commented on this, Mathieson lowered her voice and said, 'Our staff has shrunk by a third in the last four months. It's been a catastrophe.'

The lift arrived and they stepped in. When the doors closed she went on, voice normal again, 'In fact, I'm moving on myself. It became pretty clear in the months after Charles disappeared that things were going to change, with projects being cancelled and no new ones coming in.

Sandy puts a brave face on it, but I'd be surprised if they're still in this building a year from now.'

There was little in the apartment to add to what they had already learned from the police video and still photographs of the crime scene, except that it could now be appreciated in the context of the whole building, with the same steel and gla.s.s detailing carried through into its bathrooms and kitchen and furnishings generally. It occurred to Kathy that the j.a.panese kitchen knives looked as if they could have come from this same kit of parts, so that it was almost as if Miki Norinaga had been killed with a splinter of the building itself. The only colourful element in the whole flat was a large painting in the living room. It was an abstract with geometric figures, squares and segments of circles, in vivid primary colours, and the contrast between it and the severe constraint of the rest of the interior hadn't been apparent on the video. The signature in the bottom corner meant nothing to Kathy, but those on the black outfits in Miki's wardrobe certainly did.

After they'd had a good look round, each taking notes, Jennifer Mathieson took them back to the lift and down to the level of Clarke's office, but this time she led them to the opposite side of the atrium, where Charles Verge had had his office. She opened the door with a key.

'Apart from his computer and his diary, which your people took away, everything is exactly as it was last May.'

There were a desk and chairs identical to those in Clarke's room, bookshelves, a drawing table and another low table on which a model stood. On the drawing table lay an open book, a roll of yellow tracing paper and a pencil abandoned on some rough sketches, as if Verge had only just stepped outside. Despite the similarity to Clarke's office, the atmosphere seemed quite different, more sombre and purposeful. There were no framed certificates on the walls, but just one etching, of what looked like some gigantic ancient crypt, with iron rings attached to huge stone piers. It was hung directly over the model, which was a large grey and white construction beneath a clear Perspex cover. Kathy looked back up at the etching, trying to work out if there was supposed to be a connection, when a voice behind her said, 'Piranesi, eighteenth century.'

She turned and saw Sandy Clarke at the door, observing her.

'He drew fantastical prison scenes, terrifying and sublime. And that . . .' Clarke pointed at the model, '. . . is Charles's last masterpiece, the Home Office project; not quite so terrifying, perhaps, but possibly sublime.'

'It's a prison, isn't it?'

'Yes, a radically new kind. Designed not just to punish or rehabilitate, but to change the man. I paraphrase, I'm not altogether au fait with the theory, but that's the essence of it. The building, along with the regime, the training programs, the medications and so on, is designed to reconstruct personalities, to make new men.' He said this with a slight sceptical lift of the eyebrow. 'Charles was fascinated by the idea. No, more than that, obsessed with it. He even spent some time in gaol as part of his research.'

'Not new women?'

Clarke smiled. 'This one is just for men. I believe they represent the bigger problem and the more testing subjects.'

Brock had been listening to this in silence. Clarke's words reminded him of a report he'd read about a new Home Office program, a radical response to an ever-expanding and recalcitrant prison population. He hadn't realised it had been taken so far.

Clarke had a book in his hand, which he offered to Brock.'If you want to know more about our work you should have a look at this.'

'Thanks.' Brock examined the glossy hardback, thick and square, t.i.tled The Verge Practice: Complete Works and Projects, 1974 1999.

He had been skimming another book lying open on Verge's drawing board. On one page was a set of plans, t.i.tled 'Ledoux, Prisons, Aix-en-Provence, 1787. Engravings from Ramee.' The plans were each a perfect square divided into four quarters, and looked remarkably similar to the basic arrangement of Verge's Home Office model. Turning the page he had come across a section underlined in pencil.

He had read it, then taken notes.

'I know what you're thinking,' Clarke said. 'You're thinking how ironic it would be if Charles ended up as the first inmate of his own masterpiece. I think we've all had that thought.'

'You don't see him as a suicide then?'

Clarke shook his head firmly. 'No. Never.'

It wasn't until they were back in the car that Kathy realised that she was going to be late for her committee. Well, there was nothing to be done about that, and the Verge case was much more interesting anyway.

'Odd that Clarke should have thought I was implying some kind of premeditation on Verge's part,' Brock said. 'I hadn't meant that at all, but that was the way he took it.'

'Yes, I noticed that too. Almost as if he'd been expecting someone to raise it.'

'Or half believed it himself. What kind of man would that make Verge?'

'Cold-blooded, sick? But as everyone keeps telling us, killing her like that was so much against his own interests.'

'Self-destructive as well as obsessive . . .' Brock pondered, pulling his notebook out of his pocket. 'Did you notice that book lying on his drawing table? There was a pa.s.sage there that was underlined.' He searched through his notes. 'I hate it when people mark beautiful books like that,' he grumbled. 'Yes, here . . . Sometime in the 1780s the architect Ledoux was doing research for a prison he was designing. He was studying all the latest theories of incarceration, and he paid a visit to a Doctor Tornotary, a scientist, anatomist and amateur criminologist, who collected the bodies of dead criminals for dissection. This is what he wrote: He sat me down in the middle of a select collection of heads, ranged in order. 'You who are an artist, who have studied the conformation of the human body and its relations to the brain and stomach,' he said, 'judge the characters, vices, and crimes of these humiliating remains of the dignity of man.'

After having reflected, I a.s.sembled my thoughts: 'The first and the second,' I said, 'were a.s.sa.s.sins; the third died of anger.' This was enough. He ran to his records, leafed through them: 'Ah,' he cried, 'I am not indeed mad.'

'What do you make of that? Why did Verge mark that pa.s.sage?'

'Perhaps I should put it to my committee.' Kathy checked her watch. A jam had formed around the road-works at London Bridge.

'I think I'll have a talk to his doctor,' Brock said.

5.