‘Knocked ‘em down by thirty per cent,’ he said. ‘Not bad, not bad at all. So what can I do for you?’
Harry asked after John and was told that the boy continued to make rapid progress. Jim was planning to take the afternoon off to pick him up from the hospital and bring him home. ‘I’ve never seen Heather so relieved. It’s such a weight off our minds. Well, what about you and your Mr Whyatt? On the way in I listened to the news bulletin on the radio. Seems as though the body count is still rising.’
‘Afraid so.’
‘You ought to be charging danger money on top of the standard hourly rate.’
‘The way things are going, that would treble our fees.’
‘As long as there’s someone left alive to foot the bill, who’s worrying?’
Harry said softly, ‘Lynn’s on the enquiry, you know.’
Jim coloured. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘As a matter of fact, she seems to be at the centre of the investigation. She was the poor soul who actually found Phelan’s body. It hit her hard. Anyway, I’ve had a couple of opportunities to talk to her. She said she realised you would never leave Heather and the kids.’ Harry watched as his partner began an intensive study of his fingernails before adding, ‘I don’t think she’s expecting you to call.’
‘I – I cared for her, Harry.’ Jim paused. ‘Still do.’
‘Yes. She realises that too.’
‘I’d like to think we are still friends. I don’t see why she and I shouldn’t keep in touch.’
‘Do you think that would be such a good idea?’
‘Maybe not. And yet …’
Harry recalled what Lynn had told him about his partner. He envies you. At least you are free. ‘Only you can decide what to do,’ he said at length. ‘It’s in your hands. You have a choice.’
Jim’s earlier assurance had evaporated. ‘But how do I make it, Harry? Answer me that.’
Chapter Seventeen
On his way back from court, Harry called in at his bank in Drury Lane to draw out some cash for the weekend. It was a huge old building, a relic of Liverpool’s heyday, with a domed roof and wall friezes depicting England’s maritime supremacy. As he slid his plastic card into the quick service till, he noticed a brown-suited man explaining something to the girl behind the equity investments enquiry desk whilst his hand strayed on to her shoulder. Glancing up, he spotted Harry and hastily put the wandering hand back in his pocket.
‘Just the man! I’d been hoping to see you!’
Harry groaned inwardly. Whenever he met Mark Brown, he was reminded of his grandmother’s old saw: Never borrow, never lend, for if you do, you’ll lose a friend. It was impossible to feel warm towards a man whom one owed so much money, especially since Mark’s style was to make his customers feel that the debt was personal to him. Harry was in no mood to have his knuckles rapped about the overdraft on the office account, but even if Crusoe and Devlin had been cash-rich, he would have gone to some lengths to avoid someone who had all the charm of a bout of ringworm. Biting his tongue, he said, ‘How are you, Mark?’
Mark Brown leaned across the girl at the desk. From the pained expression on her face, Harry guessed that Mark had forgotten the deodorant again. In his thin piping voice he said, ‘You know, we really must have a frank discussion about …’
‘Before you say any more, let me say how grateful I am for your recommendation the other day.’
Mark’s brow creased in surprise. Harry allowed himself half a minute to be amused by the sight of brains being racked before putting him out of his misery. ‘Steven Whyatt from the garden centre.’ He remembered Mark’s penchant for euphemism – ‘sluggish cashflow’ meant ‘you’re insolvent, chum’, ‘we regret we cannot extend your facility’ equated to ‘piss off, you’re a bad risk’ – and added, ‘You know, the chap who’s had the spot of bother that’s been mentioned in the papers.’
‘Well, yes, he had an account with us, but …’
‘He consulted me,’ Harry glanced at the girl, who gladly took the hint and disappeared for her break, ‘over his matrimonial difficulties.’
‘He did?’
‘And he told me that you had put him in touch with us.’
The banker smiled as understanding dawned. ‘Well, as a matter of fact we did speak about you. And of course I said I knew you, that you were a client – a valued client, I’m sure that was the phrase I would have used – and that if he wanted a second opinion …’
‘A second opinion?’
‘Well, yes, he’d spoken to Boycott Duff first, naturally. I’m sure you will be aware that Rosencrantz and Fowler have acted for the family for many years, so in the first place he went to see them.’
‘About a divorce?’ In his astonishment, Harry raised his voice, much to Mark Brown’s discomfiture. ‘Are you certain?’
‘Positive,’ the banker squeaked. ‘I’d guessed of course, that he and Becky were not suited, so it didn’t come as a surprise. I told him that Boycott Duff have a first-class reputation. Our regional office uses them regularly, but he said there were one or two matters he wanted to check out with another lawyer. That’s when he mentioned your name and asked if I knew of your firm.’
‘He mentioned me?’
‘That’s right. He’d obviously done his homework on you, even though you’re not a firm which does much marketing. That’s always a mistake, I’ve thought, it pays to advertise. I imagine you’ve watched the bank’s television commercial explaining what we can do for the small businesses and …’
‘What homework?’
Mark Brown scratched his nose. ‘Well, he was aware you’ve been involved in one or two high profile matters. I tried to explain they were murder cases, not matrimonial disputes, but that didn’t seem to matter. He said he liked a man who could get his teeth into a puzzle.’
‘Intriguing,’ Harry said. ‘Thanks very much.’
‘Not at all. Always happy to put one client in touch with another. Though now the poor devil won’t be needing your services, will he?’
‘I think there are still a few things we have to sort out with each other.’
‘Anyway, enough about him. As I said, I’m glad to have caught you. Would you like to step into my office so that we can discuss …’
‘A loan to support our further investment in marketing?’ Harry asked quickly. ‘It’s good of you, Mark, I know you’re anxious to support local enterprise, but I simply have to dash. Feel free to put your cheque in the post.’
Ten minutes later he was sitting in Boycott Duff’s offices in Albert Dock. Their reception area – apparently deserted, but it was possible that some of their shorter clients might have got lost in the pile of the carpet – bore as much resemblance to Crusoe and Devlin’s as the Ritz did to a Bootle boarding house. A television tuned to Teletext kept visitors up-to-date with the latest movements on the stock market: for the first time in his life, Harry was tempted to switch to daytime TV. A fat press cuttings book recorded the firm’s triumphs in venture capital work and there was a pile of glossy brochures in a dispenser marked PLEASE TAKE ONE. Harry accepted the invitation and winced at the pictures of corporate lawyers standing on industrial sites, wearing hard hats and exuding enough machismo to make Arnold Schwarzenegger look like a gay bishop. A note in bold type on the last page explained that the paper came from renewable sources. He wished he could say the same about the money he and Jim spent on their sheets summarising the eligibility criteria for legal aid.
‘Come to see how the other half live?’ Ossie Fowler asked as he walked through the door.
‘I was thinking of suggesting a merger between our two firms, but I realise now we’re incompatible. Your soft furnishings simply don’t co-ordinate with our linoleum.’
Ossie flashed his gleaming crowns. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Last time we met, we spoke about the late Becky Whyatt.’
For the first time in their acquaintance, Ossie looked embarrassed. ‘Looking back on
it, I suppose I shouldn’t have spoken ill of the …’
Harry put up his hand. ‘No-one can tell what’s around the corner. The reason I was interested is that her husband had consulted me about his matrimonial position. Now I hear from Mark Brown over at Drury Lane that Steven Whyatt had spoken to your firm first. Is that right?’
‘What are you after? This isn’t turning into another Harry Devlin investigation, is it? Amazing! You’re as keen on mysteries as most people are on sex.’
‘I find mysteries easier to come by.’
Ossie sniggered. ‘Come off it. I’ve heard the talk about you and the enigmatic Ms Lawrence. There, you’re blushing! I knew there was something in the gossip.’
‘About Steven Whyatt,’ Harry said tetchily. The conversation was not going according to plan. ‘Did he consult you?’
‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t know. Yes, he did. He saw a solicitor called Judith Kopp who specialises in advising our executive clients about their matrimonial problems. She’s a bit of a ball breaker, but she’s depressingly bright. Do you want a word?’ He leered at his receptionist and asked her to page Ms Kopp. Turning back to Harry, he said, ‘I gather that Becky’s ex has killed himself. Do we assume he was suffering from a guilty conscience?’
‘If he was, then he shouldn’t have been the only one.’
A tall serious young woman in horn-rimmed glasses appeared and Ossie introduced Harry to Judith Kopp. ‘Am I right in thinking that you saw Steven Whyatt a couple of weeks ago, Judy? Can you tell us about it?’
She glowered and Harry guessed that she hated the shortening of her first name. ‘We didn’t hit it off,’ she said in a tone which made it quite clear that the fault was her client’s. ‘In particular, he didn’t like what I was telling him about the extent of Mrs Whyatt’s claim. He kept pressing me to explain about the circumstances in which a wife might have her maintenance slashed, but I explained that none of them applied in his case.’
‘Did you give any specific examples of conduct which might cause the court to take a hard line with the wife?’ Harry asked.
‘I did happen to say,’ the young woman snorted, ‘that if his wife took it into her head to try to murder him, the court would no doubt view it askance. There is actually a reported decision …’
‘Evans v. Evans.’
‘That’s right,’ she said, as if surprised that Harry knew one end of a law report from another. ‘To be candid, I did not form a high opinion of Steven Whyatt. If I’d been married to him, I’d have been tempted to think about murdering him myself.’
Becky did more than think about it, Harry reflected as he drove out to Hale again. It was high time he had another word with Steven Whyatt. He called first at the garden centre, but the girl on the desk gave him a reproachful look and said in hushed tones that Mr Steven was at home on compassionate leave. Walking out of the door in the direction of his car, Harry heard someone call his name.
‘Devlin! What are you doing here?’
He spun round and found himself looking straight into Jeremy Whyatt’s glowering face. ‘I hoped I might catch up with your brother.’
‘He’s taking a few days off. In the circumstances.’
‘I hear the two of you may be cutting a deal.’
Jeremy gave him a suspicious glance. ‘Maybe.’
‘So everyone is happy?’
The powerful fists clenched and unclenched. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘I was thinking about Becky. The one person who dreamed the most and now she has nothing.’
‘Her bad luck to have married a maniac’
‘Roger Phelan was no maniac.’ As he said the words, Harry realised that they were nothing less than the truth. ‘Sad and confused, yes, but that’s all.’
‘Are you serious? The bastard shot her – and the other two.’
Harry put his hands on his hips. ‘This row you had with Becky on the day she died. How angry were you? I imagine you mocked her murder plot, made her feel small. Suppose she lashed back by taunting you about the man you killed in Germany? Did she provoke you into blowing her away? Or were the murders just the ultimate kick – another way of inflicting pain?’
Harry saw the first swing towards him a second before it connected and managed to duck so that the blow intended for his jaw caught the side of his head instead. Even so, the force was sufficient to make him lose his balance and as he sank to the ground he caught sight of Jeremy looming over him as he prepared to strike again. A woman’s voice cried out in dismay and Harry heard someone running across the gravel that stretched between them and the buildings of the garden centre.
‘Jeremy!’ his wife shouted. ‘What have you done? Have you forgotten he’s a bloody solicitor? He’ll have you in court!’
Her husband rocked back on his heels. ‘He’s accusing me of murder! The shit deserves all he gets.’
‘What is this? For God’s sake, don’t get into any more trouble. We don’t want another Hamburg.’ She bent over Harry and said tersely, ‘All right?’
He struggled to his feet and rubbed the side of his head. The blow had stung. ‘I’ll survive.’
‘This time,’ Jeremy said.
‘You’d better go,’ Michelle instructed, ‘before you cause any more trouble.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m on my way.’ Harry dusted himself down and hobbled the short distance to his car before turning to address them again. ‘Is it true that he spent the evening of the murders at home, Michelle? Or don’t you dare to ask?’
‘What in God’s name happened to you?’ Steven Whyatt asked as he led Harry inside the thatched cottage a few minutes later. His movements seemed less gawky than before. It was almost as if he had grown in confidence since the murder of his wife. ‘You’ll have a black eye tomorrow.’
‘All part of the job, I suppose. If only they’d explained at law college.’ Harry glanced at the packing cases on the floor as they passed through the living room. ‘Moving out?’
‘I’ve simply been clearing out Becky’s things.’ Whyatt pointed to one of the boxes. ‘Full of slushy novelettes, would you believe? De mortuis and all that, but she had no taste whatsoever in literature.’
Never had Harry liked his client less than at that moment. His vivid imagination found it all too easy to picture the carnage at St Alwyn’s. Becky was not yet buried and already her husband was seeking to erase all traces of her from the home they had shared. He followed Whyatt back into the conservatory and said, ‘Why did you lie to me?’
‘What?’
‘You told me Mark Brown had recommended you to consult me about your matrimonial position. I now find that it wasn’t true. You’d already spoken to Boycott Duff and you were the one who first mentioned my name to our mutual banker.’
Whyatt licked his lips. ‘And what if I did? How can it matter?’
‘It matters because I’ve realised that you set me up from start to finish. You knew what Becky was like, who better? A fantasist who never managed to make her dreams come true. One of her plans was to finish you off. You decided to turn her folly to your advantage.’
Swallowing hard, Whyatt said, ‘You – you’ve taken leave of your senses.’
‘You can spare me the stammer, you know, I’ve realised it’s part of the picture you decided to paint for me. The harmless boffin betrayed by a scarlet woman.’
‘I can’t help my …’
‘Oh, I don’t deny you may have a slight speech impediment. But you certainly make the most of it when it suits you. And when you talk to your brother, it practically disappears. You show yourself in your true colours then. You’re as ruthless as he is, in a different way. And much more devious.’
Whyatt flushed. ‘This is the most …’
Harry faced his client across the glass-topped table. ‘You may as well admit it. I’ve worked out what has been going on. You discovered Becky was unfaithful and started taping her calls. As far as you were concerned, the marriage was finished, but you were
afraid of the cost of divorce and the prospect of being forced out of your home and business. The solicitor you saw first mentioned that a wife who commits a serious crime against her husband – conspiracy to murder, say – may be penalised when the marriage breaks down. Not an especially helpful principle for most men, but then Becky started thinking out loud about a life without you and you seized your chance.’
Whyatt’s face had lost the last vestiges of colour and his Adam’s apple was bobbing frantically. ‘Ridiculous!’
‘Is it? You’d heard of me from somewhere – gossip from Ed Rosencrantz in the past, perhaps – and you decided to check me out with Mark Brown. I must have seemed like a perfect stooge, a lawyer who likes to overdose on mystery. Ideal for a maze designer with mischief on his mind, a man accustomed to laying false trails. My guess is that you planned to concoct a whole series of attempts on your life, but you struck lucky sooner than you could possibly have expected. Becky went much further than you’d imagined and actually hatched a murder plot of her own.’ Harry took a breath. He was getting into his stride. ‘Never mind that it was ludicrous, never mind that her lover was petrified at the very thought of it. Never mind that her proposed hitman was far too obvious a suspect for her crazy idea to have any prospect of success. You made full use of her wild talk and let me draw my own conclusions about the supposed tampering with the seafood cocktail. It was a nice touch to pretend that you hadn’t even been able to bring yourself to listen to the most recent conversations, so that it was up to me to do your dirty work and discover what was in your wife’s mind. No wonder you didn’t want to involve the police. Your plan had been a long shot, the last resort of a desperate man and suddenly you had hit the target. What a gift. Instead of facing, at the very least, a fierce argument about whether Becky was trying to kill you, you’d been presented with cast-iron evidence of her intentions.’
‘Suppose you’re right,’ Whyatt said when Harry paused. He had the mutinous manner of a schoolboy who has been caught out in a lie. ‘So what? The law is unfair. Becky was determined to soak me from the day we first met in Rosencrantz’s offices. I was only protecting myself.’
Eve of Destruction: A Harry Devlin Mystery Page 18
