Waterloo Sunset

by Martin Edwards

  ‘What would you like to drink?’

  ‘Just an orange juice, please. I’m driving.’

  The bar was an extravaganza in marble, the walls festooned with black and white stills from films dating from the Alhambra’s heyday. Harry contemplated a shot of Robert Donat handcuffed to Madeleine Carroll in The Thirty-Nine Steps. He’d travelled here by cab, so he could allow himself another beer. He joined Ceri at a corner table beneath a picture of Claude Rains twitting Bogart in Casablanca. She was studying a what’s-on leaflet with the concentration she devoted to everything she did.

  ‘So you have a season ticket for a series of films for paranoiacs, Harry? What should I read into that, I wonder?’

  ‘Last week I saw The Parallax View. A man driven to his doom by this sinister and ruthless, all-powerful organisation. An allegory for the Legal Services Commission’s campaign against legal aid?’

  She laughed. ‘You really do think the bad guys are after you, then?’

  ‘It’s been one of those days.’ He considered. ‘One of those weeks. One of those careers.’

  ‘Borth was asking the impossible, expecting you to cross-examine Afridi into confusion. What he doesn’t know about pharmacokinetics isn’t worth knowing. You did your best.’

  ‘It’s not that, it’s…well, never mind. Thanks for keeping me company this evening.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ She considered him. ‘If something is on your mind, why not share it with me?’

  ‘It’s nothing. Forget it.’

  ‘Harry, you’re troubled. It’s as plain as if you’d scrawled a message on your shirt. Don’t bottle it up, that’s always a mistake. Work problems, relationship problems, money problems, you mustn’t let them get on top of you. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. My husband…’

  Her voice trailed away for a few moments as she became lost in thought. Harry didn’t know what to say.

  ‘You’d be amazed at the lengths people go to when they are desperate.’

  ‘You must see a lot of bad stuff.’

  ‘You’ve no idea. In the past two or three years alone, we’ve had death by antifreeze poisoning, by circular saw, even by a home-made guillotine, would you believe?’

  Harry shuffled his feet. Time to shift the conversation away from suicide.

  ‘I remember a poem from when I was at school. Talked about work as a toad, squatting on the poet’s life. Who wants to sell their soul to a toad?’

  She laughed. ‘The snag is, you can’t adjust your work–life balance like twiddling a knob on a thermostat. I know I take my own work to heart too much. It’s just that I love my job. I’d never want to do anything else. So – is it life at Crusoe and Devlin that’s bugging you?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ He took a breath. ‘On Monday someone warned me that I’m about to die.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘On Midsummer’s Eve.’

  She stared. ‘These are threats you’re receiving? Hate mail? Have you informed the police?’

  ‘Jim Crusoe reckons it’s kids, playing tricks. Possibly he’s right. And yet…it’s getting under my skin.’

  So, he’d made his confession. Until this moment he had refused to admit that he was rattled, let alone that there was anything to be rattled about. A master of the art of self-deception. But at the back of his mind, two words nagged away.

  Midsummer’s Eve, Midsummer’s Eve, Midsummer’s Eve.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  He told her about the announcement of his death, the message on his answering machine, the trashing of his room. As he talked, he was struck by the triviality of the incidents that had turned his life upside down. Nobody hurt, no damage done. The police would laugh in his face if he asked for help, let alone for protection from some unknown foe. He should have kept his mouth shut.

  ‘What is so special about Midsummer’s Eve?’

  ‘God knows. I don’t dance around Stonehenge naked to celebrate the summer solstice, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘Do you know of anyone who bears you a grudge?’

  ‘Leaving Aled Borth aside?’

  ‘If he wanted to take revenge on anyone, Malachy Needham would be the obvious candidate.’

  He shrugged. ‘Tom Gunter?’

  ‘Gunter?’ Her eyes opened very wide. ‘Your former client? But…what makes you mention him?’

  ‘I saw him yesterday. He was in a weird mood. Maybe he’d taken a line of cocaine. He gave the impression he had something to do, something on his mind.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘At the time, I wondered if he’d nipped into the office and dropped off the mock-obituary. When I saw him in the gardens, I made the mistake of asking him if he’d written it.’

  ‘Why would he bear you a grudge?’

  They’d talked about Tom Gunter the last time they’d met. Ceri had conducted the inquest into the death of the neighbour he’d been acquitted of killing and it was clear to Harry that the experience rankled. She’d called Tom to give evidence, but on the advice of his new lawyers, he kept his arms folded and his mouth shut. Most witnesses could be wheedled into answering questions, even after they had been cautioned about self-incrimination, in the mistaken belief that they were smarter than the person asking them. But Tom Gunter was too street-wise to fall into that trap. In the end, Ceri had to resort to a narrative verdict, outlining the factual circumstances in which the woman had met her death. No question of pointing a finger at Tom. The law said he was innocent, and what Ceri or Harry might think about justice counted for nothing.

  ‘I don’t think he forgave me for suggesting he should plead guilty to manslaughter. He’s violent, unpredictable.’

  She shook her head. ‘He kept himself under perfect control at the inquest. Cool as ice.’

  ‘He had time to prepare. If things don’t go as he expects, who knows how someone with a temper like Tom will react? My guess is, that’s how he came to kill his neighbour. He lost it, simple as that.’

  She almost choked on the last of her juice. ‘Better be careful what you say, Harry. Don’t forget, he was acquitted.’

  The rebuke was gentle, but it stung him. Better change tack.

  ‘All right, you’ve convinced me, I need to get this Midsummer’s Eve nonsense into perspective.’ He swallowed the last of his drink. ‘Come on. Time to watch Polanski losing his mind.’

  ‘Mr Devlin!’

  Harry’s heart sank as he recognised the voice. He and Ceri were in the throng jostling for the exit. It was past midnight and he was ready for home. But Aled Borth was right behind them.

  Harry turned. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘Changed my mind. They might not need me to play the organ when they show this late night foreign muck, but I thought I’d show my face.’ Borth smelt as though he’d spent the past two hours in the bar. ‘And I didn’t expect to see you squiring the lovely coroner. No, I certainly did not.’

  Ceri gave him a civil nod. ‘Good evening, Mr Borth.’

  ‘I mean, I’m entitled to wonder, aren’t I? This man Needham got away with murder, but what do you two care?’

  His voice was becoming louder. People were glancing towards them and nudging each other. Sid Rankin, red-faced and portly, was queueing a few feet away. Harry caught his eye and the chairman pushed through to join them.

  ‘Harry, Aled. Nothing wrong, I hope?’

  ‘My friend and I are just leaving,’ Harry said.

  ‘It’s a scandal!’ Aled called out. ‘They are hand in glove, all of them. Conspiring to hide the truth. It’s a cover-up.’

  Sid Rankin seized Aled’s arm. After he stopped playing football, he’d taken up refereeing and earned a name as an old school disciplinarian. The least murmur of dissent saw him whip out the red card; he’d once sent off a whole team.

  ‘Aled, you’ve made your point. These good people have come here for a pleasant evening. Let it go.’

  Aled shrugged off
Sid’s grip. He was stronger than he looked. He stared at Harry and Ceri with contempt.

  ‘You haven’t heard the last of this. You let justice be cheated, and you’ll have to pay the price!’

  The scrum in front of them was clearing. Harry gave Sid a quick nod of thanks and guided Ceri through the doors and into the street.

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ She stared at the pavement. ‘He needs time. Obviously I failed today. I should have helped him come to terms with losing his mother.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself.’

  ‘No? But that’s my job, as coroner.’

  ‘All you can do is decide how the deceased came to die.’

  She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand. My business is not with the dead, but the living.’

  ‘You take too much responsibility on yourself. You’re a perfectionist.’

  ‘It’s a curse.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. But I do know this – life is good, but it’s never perfect.’

  She mustered a rueful smile. ‘I’ve always struggled to come to terms with that. Good isn’t good enough. Anyway, you came by cab. Can I give you a lift home?’

  ‘I don’t want to take you out of your way.’

  ‘It’s only a ten minute detour. I’m parked over there.’

  Driving back to the city, they talked about the film. How much of the conspiracy was in Trelkovsky’s mind, how much was real? Everything Ceri said was logical, persuasive, intelligent, and yet he sensed her thoughts were elsewhere. With the memory of her dead husband, he guessed. The man who had destroyed his own life, just like Trelkovsky.

  Even sitting next to each other in the cramped cinema seats, they’d kept a distance. It was enough to inhale her sweet perfume; to touch her would have been a betrayal of trust. He supposed she must like him, but she wasn’t in the market for romance. Still grieving. And he wasn’t sure he was ready for a new relationship. Ceri was as safe with him as Gina had been.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said, pulling up in the car park at Empire Dock.

  ‘Thanks.’ He thought for a moment about pecking her cheek. Decided against it.

  ‘Take care of yourself,’ she said. ‘And if you hear any more about Midsummer’s Eve, tell the police. Please.’

  ‘Will do.’ He grinned. ‘If I make it past Midsummer’s Eve, maybe we could do this again sometime?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Her smile was as enigmatic as the film they had seen. ‘Goodnight.’

  The Third Day

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Harry, I need to talk to you,’ Ka-Yu Cheung said. ‘It’s urgent.’

  He’d been back from court for five minutes when Kay’s call was put through. A client who’d spent years claiming disability benefit on account of an allegedly dislocated hip had been charged with obtaining money under false pretences. His mistake was to take part in a televised Thai kick-boxing contest in which his athleticism earned the judges’ admiration, before coming to the attention of the social security’s fraud squad. A suspended sentence counted as a good result, and Harry was pleased with himself. But Kay’s voice shocked him. She sounded terrified.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t say on the phone.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘He might be back any minute,’ she hissed.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Is he in trouble?’

  ‘It’s not Tom I’m worried about. At least, not…’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I need to see you, there’s nobody else I trust.’

  ‘How about the police?’

  ‘He’d kill me,’ she whispered.

  Harry sat up. In Kay’s eyes, Tom Gunter walked on water. Never before had she acknowledged that her lover was dangerous. She refused to believe he’d murdered that neighbour. When she’d pleaded with Harry to take his case, she said Tom would be condemned simply because he had a record, because he’d made mistakes in his younger days. The police had no proof he’d killed that woman; therefore he couldn’t have done it. Why persecute Tom instead of seeking out the real culprit?

  Tom never wanted Harry as his brief. Joe Pipe’s firm had acted for him since he’d been old enough to be arrested, but Kay had persuaded him to change lawyers. Like Sid Rankin, she must wish she’d never bothered. Tom preferred to swim with sharks.

  ‘Do you want to come into the office this afternoon?’

  ‘Too risky. He mustn’t find out I’m seeing you.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘It’s serious, Harry. Promise me you won’t say a word. Not to anyone. I want you to swear it.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll do whatever I can. When would you like to see me?’

  ‘Six o’clock tonight?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Runcorn Gap, underneath the bridge. On the Widnes side of the river, the West Bank. A long way from the city. Nobody we know will see us there.’

  ‘Do you need a lift?’

  ‘No!’ She was alarmed. ‘I don’t want Tom to spot us together. There’s a chance he might follow me. I’ll pick up a cab.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Thanks, Harry. You’re…a good man.’

  Harry heard a clicking noise.

  ‘What do you…?’

  Kay rang off before he could finish his question. He banged the phone down in frustration. Impossible to ring back; what if Tom Gunter answered? Had someone been listening in?

  So many questions. Among them, a wild piece of guesswork. Might the envelope containing the death notice have been delivered, not by Gunter, but by Kay? He felt an adrenaline rush. Come six o’clock, he might find out the truth behind the messages about Midsummer’s Eve.

  Half an hour later he was glancing over a Law Society circular, not taking any of it in. He couldn’t shove Kay out of his mind. For as long as he’d known her, he’d wondered how someone so decent finished up with Tom Gunter. It wasn’t something he could ask outright, but in a dozen conversations, he’d teased out clues to the answer.

  Kay only spoke English and had never felt part of the city’s Chinese community. Once she’d told him she was caught between two worlds; that was why she preferred to be called Kay, rather than Ka-Yu. People from Chinatown knew at a glance that she wasn’t full Chinese, while a gang of kids at school bullied her because she didn’t look like them. In her teens she’d developed a passion for plants and wanted nothing more than to work with them. Her lack of ambition disappointed her parents; now they were dead and she’d never got on with her older sister. She’d lived briefly with a twice-divorced man, but walked out when she realised all he wanted was a submissive home-maker, a mail-order bride on the cheap. Within weeks she met Tom Gunter. He fixed the computers at one of the offices where she tended the potted palms. He was good at what he did, when he was minded to work, and even Harry had to admit, he wasn’t bad looking. But she’d fallen for a man with a violent streak. Now it was hard for her to escape. She was on her own.

  Except for me, Harry thought. There’s nobody else I trust. A sad admission from a woman he cared for, but couldn’t claim to know well. But he felt she’d made him responsible for her well-being. He owed it to her to give whatever help she sought.

  He exhaled. The circular sermonised about the need for solicitors to practise effective risk management. Apparently this was achieved by issuing dozens of policy documents on everything from health and safety to how to manage transgender issues in the workplace without falling foul of discrimination law.

  A noise made him look up and he saw his door creep open half an inch. From out in the corridor came a throaty whisper.

  ‘Beware Midsummer’s Eve!’

  He sighed. ‘Carmel, is that you?’

  A woman with a mass of untamed dark hair bounced in and deposited herself on the chair opposite him. Carmel Sutcliffe was too big-boned and gawky to claim beauty, and her dress sense was as haphazard as her coiffeur. But even in a beige bu
siness suit that had seen better days, her outrageous exuberance made her seem unlike any other lawyer and all the more desirable for that. Harry thought for the hundredth time that Jim Crusoe was a lucky man.

  ‘Spoilsport. You recognised my voice?’

  ‘The cruel humour gave you away.’

  ‘Thought I’d look in while I wait for Jim to sweep me off for lunch. He’s up to his eyes in small print about rights of way across a housing estate. Life’s too short for that stuff, I told him, the client should stop mithering and go up the back passage.’ She patted her stomach. ‘I expect nothing less than a gourmet meal. Something expensive and filling, so he won’t expect me to cook tonight. Between you and me, I’m not sure my idea of domestic bliss coincides with his.’

  ‘The amount of weight he’s lost since he started seeing you, give him six months and he’ll have faded into thin air.’

  She wriggled out of her jacket and slung it on the back of the chair. Her blouse, as usual, was firmly buttoned but far too tight.

  ‘Simply a matter of keeping him exercised.’

  ‘Just make sure his heart can take it. He’s older than me, you know.’

  ‘I’d hate to be unkind, Harry dear, but don’t you think he might be wearing better?’

  ‘True.’

  Carmel Sutcliffe had spent eighteen months as a junior solicitor with Crusoe and Devlin before, like Wayne Saxelby, moving on to better things. She’d joined a larger and more affluent competitor and later reached the giddy heights of Chief Adviser on Corporate Governance in the legal department of Liverpool Police Authority. Harry had always relished her zest for life and her flirtatious wit; now Jim was enjoying them even more.

  The blossoming of their relationship took everyone by surprise. Probably including both of them. While Jim’s wife was alive, Carmel was pursued by a long succession of admirers, pushy young lawyers who fancied themselves almost as much as they fancied her. Yet for all her sexy banter, Harry thought her heart was never quite in the thrill of being chased. After Jim’s wife died, he and Carmel found something in each other they’d never even realised they were searching for.