He found a chair diagonally opposite the desk, a vantage point which enabled him to study her without drawing attention to himself. Becky was good at her job, no question of it. Her telephone manner was faultless and each patient who arrived was greeted with a personal word. Could she be an adulteress who wanted her husband dead? It seemed inconceivable. Yet he had the evidence of his own ears as well as the experience to know that crime was not the prerogative of the charmless and that while beauty might be only skin deep, lust and greed permeated the whole heart and mind. Even pretty children could kill.
The doll’s eyes opened wide each time a patient spoke to her, as though she were fascinated simply to learn a new name. He began to notice that whenever she spoke to a man, however aged or pasty-faced, she would brush from her face an imaginary strand of hair. Once, when an old fellow made a feeble joke about ‘Telemedics’, she even permitted herself a mischievous wink. Maybe, Harry thought, she was in permanent practice for her secret affair.
One by one, the people ahead of him in the queue were despatched for their encounter with one of the doctors and Harry caught Becky sneaking a glance at her watch. A Pakistani doctor emerged from the area which housed the consulting rooms and gave her a cheerful smile. ‘Tell Faith and Ted that I’ll see them later. We must talk about the health visitor budget before the end of the week.’
‘I’ll certainly do that. Goodbye, Dr Mir.’ A buzzer sounded and she treated Harry to a brisk smile. ‘Dr Jelf is ready to see you now. Through the door and it’s the first on the left.’
Theo Jelf nodded as Harry limped into his room. Even in his own surgery he was immaculate as if he had just turned away from facing the cameras. The walls were covered with framed photographs taken on the set of ‘Telemedics’ and on a bookcase stood a group of family portraits. Theo was married to a woman who had once earned fame as the glamorous sidekick of a Lancastrian chat show compere.
He gestured to the swollen ankle. ‘What have you been doing to yourself?’ His curt manner suggested that he’d had a busy morning and was in no mood for small talk.
‘My keep-fit campaign went sadly astray.’
‘Let me have a look at it.’ He examined the damage briskly before putting on a new bandage and pronouncing that Harry would live. ‘But take as much rest as you can for a little while. No dashing up and down stairs until you’re back to normal.’
Harry struggled to his feet. ‘Thanks for seeing me. I hope it’s a long time before I trouble you professionally again. Though at least I had the pleasure of meeting your receptionist at last.’
Theo shook his head. ‘You’d better keep your paws off. As I told you the other day, she’s a married woman.’
With ambitions to become a widow, mused Harry. Aloud, he said, ‘That’s my trouble. Unrequited lust. I always fancy what I can’t get.’
‘If you got it,’ Theo said grimly, ‘you wouldn’t be any happier. Take it from me, you’re better off behaving yourself.’
‘I’m not like you,’ Harry said. ‘I don’t have any public image to protect.’
‘I do get rather tired of being portrayed as a kind of Cliff Richard plus stethoscope.’
Liar, Harry thought, you lap it up. ‘So you haven’t been tempted?’ he enquired amiably.
Theo coloured and Harry realised he had overstepped the mark. ‘It’s no laughing matter. As you well know, one needs to be very careful with staff these days. Look at the compensation tribunals are doling out to women claiming sexual harassment. It’s so easy to make a hell of a fuss in public. And bear in mind that Becky knows all about her rights. Until recently she worked in a solicitor’s office round the corner. Rosencrantz and Fowler.’
‘They’re part of a firm called Boycott Duff nowadays. They were taken over after Ed Rosencrantz died.’
‘Yes, that was a bad business.’
The demise of Oswald Fowler’s late partner had come as no great surprise to Harry. Ed Rosencrantz had been a ruddy-faced high liver seldom seem without either a drink or a cigar in his hand. As a lawyer, he’d been a cheerful blusterer who on occasion burst into a violent temper when outmanoeuvred by an opponent who knew his subject. Harry had not spent too much time mourning his passing, but the bleakness of Theo’s tone caught his attention. ‘You knew Ed Rosencrantz?’
‘He was a patient of mine.’
‘Do I get the impression there was something odd about his death? It was all very sudden. A heart attack, everyone said, but I have heard whispers that there was more to his death than met the eye.’
Theo shook his head. ‘It was a damn shame. A genuine tragedy. I felt very sorry about Ed – and for his wife Beryl. She’s a lovely woman. If I were you, Harry, I wouldn’t listen to rumours.’
It was a dismissal and Harry nodded his farewell. As he stepped gingerly into the bright sunshine, he acknowledged to himself that Theo was impeccably discreet. And yet he was now sure that the rumour-mongers were right.
Chapter Ten
Harry’s arrival at the office was greeted with much hilarity. Suzanne started it by saying merrily, ‘Looking for some pocket money for your holiday, Mr Devlin?’
‘What?’ He was in no mood to see a joke. Although he had managed to drive the short distance from Empire Dock, his ankle was still throbbing badly enough to push any speculation about the death of Ed Rosencrantz to the back of his mind. As for holidays, Suzanne was due to set off with her boyfriend in the second week of August for a fortnight in Rimini; his own ambitions did not extend beyond a long weekend in the Lake District, probably spent under cover in Bowness, watching the rain bounce off Lake Windermere.
‘I expect you’ll be issuing a writ this very morning,’ said Lucy, who had been chatting to the receptionist. ‘Dodgy paving stone, was it? I hope you had your protractor and tape measure in your pocket when you fell.’
Enlightenment dawned and a reluctant smile spread across his face. ‘If I hadn’t already confessed to the doctor that I’d slipped on the stairs at Empire Dock last night, I’d be very tempted to dash off particulars of claim.’
‘Why not? The city council has paid off everyone else in Liverpool who so much as missed their footing during the past few years.’
He couldn’t deny it. When statisticians said that tripping was the biggest growth industry in Merseyside, they were not referring to hallucinogenic drugs or the tourist trade. Anyone who took the figures at face value would have concluded that the local population was the least sure-footed in the kingdom. Every week of the year, a startling number of people claimed to have suffered accidents as a result of slipping on uneven pavements. If a paving stone was shown to be an inch or more out of true, the claim was worth money to victims of the highway authority’s failure to meet its statutory obligation to repair and maintain.
‘Don’t knock it,’ he said. ‘The work pays your wages.’ She laughed, knowing he was right. He was one of many Liverpool lawyers who had risen to the challenge posed by an ingenious if accident-prone clientele; section 41 of the Highways Act was the one snippet of legislation that he knew by heart. The fee income more than offset the cost to Crusoe and Devlin in business rates of the vast sums the city reluctantly paid out every year to its litigious serial stumblers.
‘That reminds me,’ Suzanne said, ‘you have a message to call Jacqui Taylor back from last night.’
Harry groaned. The success of the tripping claims had bred a hard core of luckless men and women who could scarcely step out from the safety of their own home without pitching head over heels. The appearance on the streets of Merseyside of the slightest sign of subsidence caused by defective drains, let alone an open cellar flap or a mound of earth left unguarded by roadwork contractors, was enough to attract the professional plaintiffs like lemmings to a cliff-face. Jacqueline Taylor was an unemployed twenty-year-old fall girl whose social security was handsomely supplemented by a regular inflow of compensation. Her back and neck were seldom out of the wars and her legs had buckled so often that the gloomy lawye
rs who worked for the local authority nicknamed her Jacqui The Tripper.
‘Later,’ he said. Suzanne looked at his swollen ankle. ‘So are you going to tell us what happened?’
He related his tale of woe. ‘Theo Jelf reckons it’s no more than a sprain which should heal in a few days.’
‘Is he your GP?’ Lucy sighed. ‘You lucky thing. I ought to ask you for a signed photograph.’
‘He’s a bit old for you, surely?’
‘Mature is the word I’d use.’ Lucy smiled. ‘He can give me a check-up any time.’
‘I’ll have you know he’s a respectable married man.’
‘There’s no such thing.’
Jim Crusoe walked into the reception as she spoke. ‘Do you hear that?’ Harry asked. ‘I reckon you should sue for slander.’
His partner ignored the quip and jerked a thumb towards Harry’s swollen ankle. ‘Someone found your Achilles heel?’
‘I refuse to repeat the whole embarrassing story. Let’s just say that I was healthier before I took up keep-fit.’
He limped to his office and was gloomily contemplating a desk piled high with legal aid paperwork when a call came through from Steven Whyatt. Whyatt explained that he’d received an enquiry from a prospective client out in Shropshire whom he would need to visit that afternoon.
‘Unfortunately, it means I’ll have to break our appointment, but I simply can’t lose the chance of a decent paying job. I have another tape for you, incidentally. I haven’t listened to it yet, but I’d like you to hear it. If I have time, I’ll drop it in at your office today before I set off to see the client.’
‘You’re fully recovered, then?’
‘What? Oh, you mean the food poisoning?’ There was an odd, almost triumphant note in Steven Whyatt’s voice. ‘A ghastly experience, I can tell you, but I am feeling much better now. I only hope it’s a long time before I go through something like that again. For a few hours I thought I was dying. That’s the last time I let Becky experiment with a seafood cocktail.’
‘You both suffered?’
‘No, she hates seafood, but she knows I love it. Prawns, oysters, you name it. Typical, isn’t it? The one time in her life she does something to please me, it turns into a disaster.’
‘Any idea about the precise cause of your illness?’
Whyatt seemed ready for the question. ‘Not at all. The people at Casualty were run off their feet. They had no time to bother with any sort of analysis. I was glad simply to crawl away from there in one piece. I – I suppose it was just one of those things. It’s just as well I only ate a mouthful. Becky flew into a rage when I said I didn’t like the taste, but God knows what would have happened if I’d polished off the lot just to please her.’
Yes, Harry thought after ringing off, God only knows. And God only knows what she may do next. He had begun to believe that Becky was planning to make her fantasy come true. Should the police be told? In theory, yes, but they would ask for evidence to substantiate the allegation – and what evidence was there? There would be no trace left of the dodgy seafood cocktail and doubtless she would explain away the telephone conversations with Dominic as silly lovers’ talk. The legal aid forms were still suffering from neglect when the phone rang again and Suzanne put Dame through.
‘Marvellous news!’ she announced. ‘Justice has not only been done, it’s been seen to be done.’
‘Doesn’t that usually mean that it needs to be seen to be believed?’
‘You old cynic. Obviously you’ve forgotten that today was the day of Paul’s court case.’
‘And?’
‘The charges were withdrawn at the fifty-ninth minute of the eleventh hour. Strauli’s exhibit as improved by Paul has just been sold for a small fortune to an American collector!’
‘Words fail me.’
‘Paul’s considering a claim for a share in the proceeds.’
‘He sounds like a man who will always keep the lawyers in business.’
‘Who are you to complain about that? Anyway, why don’t you join us? On Thursday evening we plan to throw a big party and you really must cancel all engagements to be there. In the meantime, we’re about to start celebrating at the Ensenada. Paul believes that expense account lunches should give rise to great expense.’
‘Well, I …’
‘Kim will be there.’
‘You’re twisting my arm.’
‘Old mud wrestling habits die hard. Besides, I can’t think of a more important social skill. Can you be with us in twenty minutes?’
The grainy photograph of Paul Disney which appeared at the top of his newspaper column had not prepared Harry for the size of the man: six feet five and seventeen stone, with a squashed nose and a laugh that sounded like a bomb blast. No wonder Dame had bumped into him that night when he was lurking in her landlady’s back garden. She would have found it easier to sidestep Liverpool Cathedral.
‘He walked out of court without a stain on his character,’ Dame said proudly, after regaling Harry with an account of the morning’s events. ‘Proved innocent.’
‘I don’t think that’s a description of me which my detractors would recognise,’ her lover said.
‘A lot of people are afraid of Paul,’ Dame told Harry. ‘Those who have something to hide.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ he asked.
Kim said quickly, ‘A waiter is hovering. Are we ready to order?’
She had been quiet since Harry’s arrival, as if disconcerted by his presence. From her reaction when he had walked through the door, he guessed that she had not realised he would be there. She had glanced sharply at Dame, who responded with a wink and a broad smile.
‘So you don’t care for Chaz Strauli’s work?’ Harry asked.
‘I don’t know much about art, but I know what I hate – and that’s hypocrisy,’ Paul Disney said. ‘Strauli’s a supreme self-publicist, but if he’s a major talent, then my second name is Cézanne. Anyway, it will make a good story, fill up a few column inches until the next scandal breaks.’
‘And what will that be?’
Disney grinned and changed the subject. Harry enjoyed the meal. Kim had little to say for herself, but the sheer exuberance of Dame and her boyfriend offered ample conversation. He rocked with laughter at the stories Disney told about investigations that had failed to make it into print, stories of the everyday life of Liverpool folk, tales about tarts and vicars, footballers and feminist theologians so improbable that he was strongly inclined to believe that every word was true. At the end of one particularly bizarre anecdote about a safely pensioned-off former chief inspector, Disney said, ‘I reckon that’s why the police have been gunning for me for a long time. Hence this farce today.’
Kim made an effort to join the conversation at last. ‘Here’s hoping they show more sense from now on. Trouble is, they can’t seem to get it into their heads that Paul is a journalist. He needs to bend the rules from time to time. It’s in the public interest.’
‘Tell me,’ Harry said impishly, ‘did the public interest entitle the police to entrap Norman Morris over the Scissorman murders?’
‘That’s entirely different,’ Kim snapped.
Knowing her hatred of miscarriages of justice, he realised he was touching a tender spot. But he couldn’t help himself. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I am sure! I’m surprised the comparison even crossed your mind. How can you possibly justify such underhand tactics by a gang of detectives? You’re spouting infantile nonsense!’
‘Come on, now,’ Dame said hurriedly as the pause in the conversation became a smouldering silence. ‘Let’s not get so serious. Another glass of champagne, anyone?’
The damage had been done, though, and within a couple of minutes Harry had decided the time had come to make his excuses and leave. Kim did not speak; Paul Disney waved amiably but Dame cast her eyes up to the ceiling and shook her head. It was unnecessary: he had already got the message. He’d blown it.
Ho
bbling through the packed restaurant towards the door, he bumped into a tubby and diminutive figure who greeted him like a long lost son. ‘Harry!’ cried Pino Carrea, ‘where have you been hiding lately? I’ve been worried about you.’
‘I’ve been saving up to afford another visit here.’
Pino, who owned the Ensenada, showed his disdain for the pettifogging subject of money with an extravagant gesture of the arm. ‘With such an elegant lady friend as Miss Lawrence, cost should be no object, surely? I tell you, Harry, faint heart never won fair lady. Nor did sharing a bag of the most disgusting chips in Merseyside. Ah yes, do not deny it. I have seen you when driving home along the Strand, queuing inside the Baltic Takeaway. Pah! You would not fill your filing cabinets with junk, why cram it inside your stomach?’
‘You’re wrong about the filing cabinets, I’m sorry to say, and as it happens I’ve been trying to see a little less of my stomach recently. This last couple of weeks I’ve started on keep-fit, but so far the only physical effect is this busted ankle. Perhaps too much clean living can damage your health.’
‘The inner man,’ Pino said, ‘he is the fellow you must take care of. These fitness fanatics, pah! What do they know? They add five years to their lives through jogging but they have to spend ten years jogging to achieve it. Anyway, I am glad to see you. It is so long since you were here, I thought perhaps in some way we had offended you.’
‘Far from it.’ An idea occurred to Harry. ‘As a matter of fact, I was telling Dominic Revill only the other day that I meant to pop round sometime soon. He was singing your praises, of course.’ He adopted a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I gather he’s been a good customer of yours during the past few weeks.’
Pino beamed. ‘Ah, Mr Revill, yes. I had not realised he was a friend of yours.’ A deliberate pause. ‘Well, I must be discreet.’
This was rather, Harry thought, like the Marquis de Sade expressing a wish to stay at home and play ludo with the kids. He pressed home his advantage. ‘I must say I admire Dominic’s taste. In companions as well as in food.’
‘So – you are familiar with the young lady?’
Eve of Destruction: A Harry Devlin Mystery Page 10
