Eve of Destruction: A Harry Devlin Mystery

by Edwards, Martin

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  She glanced quickly at the other people in the queue, but they were absorbed in the silent soap. Leaning over the counter, she said in conspiratorial fashion, ‘Those people who were murdered at St Alwyn’s last night. Shaun was the one who found them.’

  ‘What?’

  His amazement gratified her. ‘You’ll read all about it in the paper tomorrow morning. Shaun’s given an exclusive interview, but they only paid him buttons. Carmel is spitting feathers about it.’

  ‘I don’t think negotiating …’

  ‘No,’ she hissed, ‘you don’t understand. You see, Shaun hasn’t quite told them the full story. When they were so mean, he didn’t think it was right and proper.’

  Shaun Quade’s moral code was evidently complex. ‘So what is the full story?’

  She shook her auburn curls and gestured to the queue of customers. A commercial break had interrupted their enjoyment and a couple of them were beginning to fidget. ‘You need to talk to Shaun. I told him, Harry knows about these things – murders and that. Can you have a word with him sometime?’

  ‘I’ll try and see him tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks Harry.’ She peered at the trays in front of her. ‘Just waiting for the chips.’

  ‘When I die, they’ll find that phrase engraved on my heart.’

  After he had eaten, he rang Steven Whyatt to tell him of the latest death. Whyatt was quick to draw his own conclusions and found it difficult to conceal a touch of macabre jubilation. ‘The fellow was obviously unbalanced. You could tell that from the tapes. First the silent calls, then when Becky challenged him, the frantic way he pestered her. That was his trouble, that’s what killed him. He – he simply couldn’t let go.’

  Whyatt, however, seemed to be positively raring to let go. All at once he was in the mood to look ahead and even began to talk about striking a deal with his brother to split the business, so that he could concentrate on landscaping and maze design without further fear of commercial predators. Eagerly, he asked, ‘Does your firm handle that kind of work? Demergers and corporate reconstructions?’

  ‘My partner is the man to speak to,’ Harry said. He could not resist adding, ‘Don’t you think raising this may be a little premature?’

  ‘I really don’t like to say it,’ Whyatt said, although his tone betrayed no reticence, ‘but life must go on.’

  And so it must: Harry had learned that the hard way for himself. After Liz’s death he had wanted to stop all the clocks, but the past was not a healthy place in which to live. Yet Whyatt’s attitude stung him. The dead demanded more respect. Harshly, he said, ‘As far as I know, there’s no reason to connect Roger Phelan with the killings of St Alwyn’s.’

  A scornful noise came down the line. ‘Murderers aren’t considerate. Phelan was deranged. You couldn’t expect him to sit down and write out a full confession before – before he did the decent thing.’

  The decent thing. Harry had to bite back an angry retort. He had not seen the hanging corpse, but he knew there would be nothing decent about the sight of it. For all Lynn’s professional experience of the world’s wickedness, finding the dead body had evidently sickened her. He said bleakly, ‘I gather from the police that they haven’t found the shotgun used in the murders at Phelan’s flat.’

  ‘So he threw it away. I expect it will turn up.’

  Harry was glad to put the receiver down. He was not able to choose his clients and spent much of his life acting for errant spouses and petty villains, but Steven Whyatt was high on the list of people he would gladly never have met. He picked up Approach The Bench, but he was still trying to find his place when the doorbell rang. He raced into the hall, hoping against hope that Kim might have decided to meet rather than talk on the phone and fearing she might change her mind and flee before he could open the door.

  ‘Not disturbing anything, am I?’ Ken Cafferty grinned broadly as Harry gawked at him.

  ‘You may as well come in.’

  ‘You sound as though you’re welcoming the ratcatcher. No, don’t answer that.’ They entered the living room and Ken located the most comfortable chair with the instinct born of long practice. ‘Funny smell in here, if you don’t mind me saying so. Ah, I see the tell-tale newspaper wrappings. What have you been dining on – Moby Dick? Well, Harry, you’re obviously down in the dumps. Let me brighten your evening with a bit of good news. I assume you haven’t heard the latest about Becky Whyatt’s first husband?’

  ‘I’ve been out at Cassar House this evening, as it happens.’

  ‘So you know he’s topped himself?’ Ken was miffed that his thunder had been stolen.

  ‘That’s your idea of good news?’

  ‘So far as your client is concerned,’ Ken said with unrepentant amiability. ‘With one bound, he was free, eh? He wasn’t guilty of the St Alwyn’s murders, his predecessor was. Unless …’

  ‘Unless?’ Harry asked, feeling like a comedian’s stooge.

  ‘I suppose it was suicide?’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘The police seemed quite definite at the initial briefing half an hour ago, but I can’t help wondering. So I thought I’d pop over here for a brainstorming session. I’ve already done some digging into Phelan’s past. I’m not convinced he was a natural born killer. By the way, any chance of a drink?’

  Harry produced a bottle of whisky, then said carefully, ‘The days are gone when you could be committed to a secure unit for stealing a loaf of bread.’

  ‘Admittedly he was an oddball. Thanks, keep pouring. Yes, the magistrates convicted him of wounding one of Becky’s boyfriends at around the time the marriage broke up. That was a first offence, but afterwards he went to pieces. He picked up a drug habit and became moody and aggressive. The local hospital had problems in dealing with him and eventually they passed the buck to Ashworth. But he was no Ian Brady. He seemed to be sorting himself out, he was off drugs and releasing him wasn’t seen as a risk. People I’ve spoken to suggest he’d always been more of a threat to himself than to others. In the past he’d slashed his wrists on more than one occasion when things weren’t going well.’

  ‘So what do you make of it all?’

  ‘Let’s make no bones about it. This has been a very convenient death for everyone concerned. Except Phelan himself, of course.’

  ‘Are you suggesting the suicide was staged?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened.’

  ‘I gather there were no signs that anyone else had been in Phelan’s flat. There was no struggle and I’m told that initial enquiries suggest that none of the neighbours saw or heard anything untoward.’

  ‘Ye-es, that’s right. But even so.’

  ‘Have you put your idea to the police?’

  ‘They pooh-poohed it,’ Ken said in an aggrieved tone. To comfort himself, he drained his glass. ‘Though needless to say, they covered themselves by making it clear that everything depends on the findings of the post mortem.’

  Harry took the hint and poured again. ‘Your theory presupposes a killer who goes on a shooting spree at St Alwyn’s and then, within a few hours at most, drops in at Riversdale Hey and calmly persuades Roger Phelan to participate in his own death without a murmur.’

  ‘It’s not impossible.’ Ken was grumpily defensive.

  ‘It is if you’re casting my client as the villain of the piece. The police were talking to him before midnight. I doubt if physically he had the time to commit so many murders.’

  ‘I don’t necessarily buy that, but let’s accept for a moment that he’s in the clear. You pointed out to me yourself that there is no shortage of other suspects. Revill’s widow, for instance. She and the little boy are still staying with her mother over at Southport. The old lady’s a tartar, but I managed a brief word with her daughter on the telephone. Poor Emma claims to be heartbroken, as you might expect.’

  There were times when Harry’s affection for Ken was tested to the limit, despite prolonged
exposure to journalistic cynicism. ‘You don’t believe it?’

  ‘No need to sound so disapproving. Even her mother made it clear that she wasn’t Dominic’s number one fan. I don’t think Emma was at all surprised to learn that her husband was having an affair. What seems to have taken her aback was the identity of his girlfriend. She thought he was having it off with their nanny. With good reason, perhaps. My sources tell me that Evelyn Bell was in the early stages of pregnancy.’

  Harry swore. ‘If Emma had discovered that, it helps to explain why she sacked the girl on the day of the murders.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Resisting the urge to feign Holmesian omniscience, Harry said, ‘I visited St Alwyn’s that morning.’

  ‘You bugger!’ Ken cried delightedly. ‘I never knew anyone like you for being where the action is. So tell me about it.’

  ‘The two women were at daggers drawn. The nanny had obviously been in tears. I assumed that Emma had accused her of sleeping with that creep Dominic Revill. She wasn’t exactly at her best, but no question, she was a pretty girl.’ He paused. What was it that had jogged his memory when the nanny had led him through to the converted vestry?

  Ken misinterpreted the silence. ‘Could it be that Dominic was indulging in a ménage-à-trois and Emma caught him at it? Apparently the nanny had told Emma that she would be out seeing her boyfriend that evening. The police haven’t been able to trace him yet. But what if the so-called boyfriend didn’t exist, that his supposed existence was to cover for a relationship between the girl and her boss?’

  ‘You reckon that Emma has a case to answer, then?’

  ‘There’s one major snag. Emma’s mum gives her little girl an alibi for the whole of the evening of the murders. The old woman might be lying, but it will take more than my silver tongue to charm her into coming clean. If she’s telling the truth, the only way her daughter could be implicated would be if she had hired someone to do her dirty work for her.’

  ‘Anything’s possible.’

  ‘Anyone who had spent a lifetime in Liverpool would be forced to agree. Even so, there aren’t any leads. So what about alternative suspects? For example, your client’s brother?’

  ‘Jeremy? Managed to dig any dirt on him?’

  ‘Naturally. It’s a core skill in my job. You were right about the German episode – he was lucky to escape prosecution. There are rumours that political pressure was brought to bear and it seems a behind-the-scenes deal was struck. He quit the forces, but kept his pension. Some people who knew him reckoned he would end up a mercenary. He’s a nasty piece of work; the word is that he gets a kick out of inflicting pain. I gather he likes money, but even so, it’s surprising he settled for the quiet life in the family business.’

  ‘The way things have turned out, he would have had a quieter time in the Foreign Legion.’

  ‘You mentioned he’d had a rendezvous with Becky Whyatt. That’s confirmed. They had a very lively discussion indeed. Becky was in a very excitable mood and he lost his rag with her. One of the barmaids at the motel thought it was a quarrel between a man and a mistress who was tired of waiting to become his wife. Was there anything going on between them?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’

  ‘Tell you another thing. He lacks an alibi. His wife went out to see a friend before he arrived home that evening and only got back late. He says he quarrelled with Becky. I’ve not been able to find out why they fell out. Afterwards he says he drove around for half an hour while he cooled down, then spent the rest of the night at home watching videos.’ Ken drew breath. ‘Question is, would he have had any motive to murder Becky Whyatt and her boyfriend?’

  Harry rubbed his jaw. ‘This is off the record,’ he began cautiously. ‘Understood?’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  Harry grunted. ‘The police know what I’m about to tell you, but they can’t go public on it.’

  ‘Yes?’ Ken’s tongue was almost hanging out.

  ‘Becky Whyatt had been trying to inveigle her boyfriend into conspiring with her to murder my client. She wanted to hire Jeremy to kill him.’

  ‘His own brother? You’re joking!’

  ‘Wish I was.’

  ‘Why in God’s name …?’

  ‘Simple. Jeremy’s motive would have been money. Apart from anything Becky was proposing to pay him – and she stood to pick up the insurance, remember – he has been trying to sell the business. Steven stands in his way. It would have suited everyone if my client shuffled off this mortal coil.’

  ‘Fascinating.’ Ken was like a child listening to a bedtime story. ‘Only one thing puzzles me.’

  ‘Only one? You’re lucky.’

  ‘Maybe, but answer me this and you’ve cracked the case. Why did Becky and her lover meet a bloody end, not your client?’

  ‘Perhaps she crossed Jeremy. I guess that might be a dangerous thing to do.’

  ‘I don’t know. I still reckon Steven Whyatt has a lot of explaining to do. One minute he is a target for a contract killing, the next the people who threaten him are blown away – and you reckon he didn’t even have a hand in it! He keeps his business, avoids a ruinously expensive divorce and trousers the insurance money.’

  ‘What’s so remarkable about that?’ Harry asked wryly. ‘Surely even you’ve heard that every cloud has a silver lining?’

  After the journalist had left, Harry stood at the window for a long time. As he watched the flickering reflections of the shoreline lights in the Mersey, his mind roamed far and wide. To think of Kim hurt too much and he knew he must avoid visualising the distended face of Roger Phelan as the police had found him if he were to have a hope of sleep that night. So he forced himself to concentrate on the mystery. What if Ken was right and Roger was not a murderer? Who else might have killed Becky, Dominic and the girl? And did it matter to him as long as his client had no blood on his hands?

  Yes, of course it matters, he told himself. He’d found Dominic deeply unappealing – and not only because of his taste in neckwear. Becky fascinated him, but in the way that a female praying mantis may fascinate her mate. Neither of them deserved to die: adultery was not a capital crime. But he felt he owed them nothing. It was the young girl whose death had shocked him. He had only met her briefly and yet her air of vulnerability had made a deep impression on him. She had become caught in a trap intended for someone else. She was entitled to justice and so was her unborn child. If by some strange chance Roger Phelan was not her killer, Harry felt he must do whatever he could to make sure that the real culprit was found.

  And as he drew the curtains he acknowledged to himself that there was another reason why he felt inescapably involved. Apart from Steven Whyatt, he was the only person who had listened to the recorded conversations between Becky and the people in her life. Even as he lay down on his bed, the same refrain kept repeating itself inside his head.

  The truth was in the tapes. The truth was in the tapes.

  The murders at St Alwyn’s and the death of Roger Phelan dominated the next morning’s headlines. All the papers that Harry picked up next morning from a raid on the newsagent’s next to Empire Hall fastened on to the link between Becky Whyatt and Phelan. Their comments were guarded, in view of the need to avoid anticipating the inquest findings, but even a callow student of reporterspeak would have been able to read between the lines. The police were treating Phelan’s death as suicide and the focus of interest was beginning to shift from the murder mystery that seemed to have been solved to the tensions and tragedies which had resulted in such a bloody outcome. Within forty-eight hours the press would be asking why such an obvious danger to the public as Phelan had been released from psychiatric hospital and demanding that ministerial heads should roll.

  Theo Jelf was quoted, uttering words of shocked dismay at the deaths. It was almost inevitable, Harry supposed, that the press would seek him out. Linking the case with a local celebrity gave it added news value, as if three mur
ders and a linked suicide in the space of a few hours were not enough to whet the public appetite for sensation. He did not doubt, however, that the doctor’s sorrow was genuine. Becky had worked for him and Dominic was an old friend. ‘I’m devastated by the news, it’s like a terrible nightmare,’ he’d said and a photograph taken yesterday showed him, for once, without his fatherly smile and looking every bit his age. He’d described Becky as ‘a young and lovely woman, who had everything to live for’ and Harry was unable to resist the thought that she’d also had a good deal to kill for. But somehow the tables had been turned and she had become the victim.

  The Shaun Quade exclusive was long on shock-horror and short on detail. Given that the price for the story had been right, Ken had had no compunction in depicting the youth as an example of the flower of Liverpudlian manhood. Shaun described at great length the mental trauma he had suffered as a result of his discovery at St Alwyn’s and spoke with fervour about the vital need to catch the perpetrator of the terrible deeds. Harry suspected a sub-plot. More than likely his young client was planning to sue the killer for compensation for his emotional distress. And what additional details was he keeping up his sleeve? There would only be one way to find out.

  But first he had to call in on the office to pick up the file for a court hearing at ten. The moment he stepped into his room, he was caught by a telephone enquiry from a salesman who wanted to offer Crusoe and Devlin the unique opportunity to reach a wider public by sponsoring a Formula One racing car. ‘Tell me,’ Harry said when the rep finally paused for breath. ‘Do we get our money back if it crashes at the first bend?’

  After that, he sought out his partner. Jim was haggling with a landlord’s solicitor about the terms of a tenancy. In recent months his telephone manner had become tetchy and abrupt and several times Harry had seen him slam the receiver down in the middle of a disagreement with an opposing lawyer. Today, though, he resembled the man of old, putting his client’s case with confidence and an easy authority. Whilst Harry waited, the deal was finalised and when Jim rang off he relaxed in his chair, with a grin on his face and his hands behind his head.