Waterloo Sunset

by Martin Edwards

  Carmel came over to him. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin’s bloom faded to grey.

  ‘You might as well go home.’

  ‘I’m staying.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do.’

  ‘I can keep you company.’

  She took hold of his right hand and squeezed it hard. ‘Thanks. But one of us needs to stay grounded.’

  ‘That’s you.’ He lifted his hands, placed them on her shoulders. ‘I’m here to make sure you don’t forget it.’

  She leant forward, breathing hard, letting him bear her weight. Tears welled up in her eyes. Harry clenched his fist. Any moment now Carmel might break. He had to make sure she was strong for Jim, so that she could help him make it through the night.

  ‘He’ll never forgive you if you don’t look after the office. Till he’s fit and well again.’

  ‘Sylvia will take care of the office. I’d better call her, let her know what’s happened. You’ve spoken to the kids?’

  ‘They’re checking for flights.’ Jim’s children were students, each travelling the world, Thailand and South America. ‘They both want to come back and be with him.’

  ‘Shall I talk to them?’ Jim hadn’t said much, but Harry had once picked up a hint that the kids were unhappy about his relationship with Carmel. They thought it had come too soon after their mother’s death.

  ‘No, it’s my responsibility. We must stick together, for Jim’s sake.’ Carmel exhaled. ‘Harry, who would do such a terrible thing? To Jim, of all people?’

  She didn’t say it, probably hadn’t even thought it, but he guessed what must be swirling around her subconscious. If disaster had befallen him rather than his partner, nobody would have been too surprised. He was accident-prone, famous for it. Jim was different.

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ he said. ‘But I’ll find out. Promise.’

  Sylvia was fighting back tears as he rang off. Carmel had been right. The woman’s devotion to Jim was even fiercer than he’d realised. To hear that he teetered on the brink between life and death was more than she could bear.

  He hurried down the corridor to the small square room set aside for the families of patients with head injuries. There was a recess with tea and coffee making facilities and a cheap sofa. Through the inner door was an even tinier room equipped with a narrow bed for overnight vigils. A lavender scent made the place smell like a granny’s sitting room. A watercolour of Snowdonia hung on the wall, facing a dusty sofa with a floral pattern that might have been fashionable twenty years ago. A Bible squatted on a corner table. He sat down next to Carmel on the sofa and put his arm around her. She hadn’t changed out of the tight blouse she’d worn that morning. He felt her shoulder-bone and her soft flesh beneath the cotton. She was shivering.

  ‘Sylvia will mind the shop tomorrow. Keep an eye on things until Jim is back.’

  Carmel wriggled out of his grasp. She fished a tissue from her handbag and blew her nose loudly.

  ‘He won’t be coming back, Harry.’

  ‘Of course he will.’

  ‘No, he won’t. Not ever.’

  She clutched at him and dissolved into misery. Her face was wet, her heart pounding. He felt sucked into a quagmire of sadness; the more he struggled, the harder it was to escape. He’d never had a child – a regret so deep-seated that he never acknowledged it – but this must be how a father might feel if his daughter plunged into disaster. An urge to keep her safe from harm, coupled with a sense of inadequacy as overwhelming as a tidal wave.

  ‘Jim will make it. Are you listening to me?’

  A minute passed before she spoke and said, distinctly but without rancour, ‘You’re a fucking liar.’

  ‘The scan says his brain isn’t dead. The doctors are fighting for him, all he needs is time.’

  ‘They told me he has an extradural haematoma.’

  Harry didn’t know how bad this was. Whenever stuff about hospitals or operations came up on TV, he made a grab for the remote control. He squeezed her hand.

  ‘It’s a blood clot, to you and me. They have to lift the flap of his skull to squeeze it out.’ She made a face. ‘The consultant in A&E said that before they put him to sleep, he was semi-conscious for a few minutes. But he was agitated and talking gibberish.’

  ‘Could he move his limbs?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s no telling the extent of his injuries. They’ve stuck a tube into his lungs, they were afraid he might swallow his tongue.’ She sucked in air. ‘I see it on their faces, Harry. The way they dodge the questions. He’s going to die.’

  ‘No.’ Losing Jim Crusoe was impossible. ‘They have to take it one step at a time. He’ll be OK, we must keep faith.’

  The door opened and an acne-plagued police constable peered round it. His name was Cusden and Harry had seen him earlier, talking to Carmel and then a nurse. He kept fiddling with a hangnail. Harry felt sorry for him. Carmel was a serious player in the Police Authority. No young policeman would want to mess up in a case which meant so much to her.

  ‘Mr Devlin, can you spare a moment?’

  Harry joined him out in the corridor. ‘Any more news?’

  ‘No trace of the person who attacked Mr Crusoe. But we’ve found the weapon. Stuffed into one of the mobile waste containers in the basement of the building. An iron bar.’

  Harry flinched. ‘You can do a lot of damage with an iron bar.’

  The DC fingered an angry red spot on his chin. ‘A glancing blow is all it took. Your partner’s lucky to be alive.’

  ‘Fingerprints on the bar?’

  ‘Looks as though it’s been wiped.’

  ‘A mugging gone wrong?’

  ‘Funny sort of mugger who leaves his victim’s gold watch and wallet full of cash and credit cards. Of course, he might have panicked, but…’

  ‘Any other leads?’

  ‘Nothing at the moment, sir. That’s where you come in. Ms Sutcliffe says you’ve received a number of threats yourself.’

  ‘There’s no way anyone could have mistaken Jim for me.’

  ‘You both work in the same office.’

  ‘But I never use the car park. Whoever threatened me knows a bit about my movements. If they were planning to attack me, the car park is the last place to choose. Especially when I was out of the city.’

  ‘You never know,’ Cusden said. ‘Shall we have a cup of tea while you tell me what’s been going on?’

  Harry didn’t mention the call from Kay. It would only complicate the inquiry and make her situation worse. Whatever her situation might be. Tom Gunter had no reason to batter his partner and the attack wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. Jim was taller and broader, even after the slimming effect of life with Carmel. He dressed better, his stride was longer. Even from behind, even if you were psyching yourself up to beat out your victim’s brains, you could spot the difference in a nanosecond.

  Besides, he didn’t want to believe that whoever had smashed Jim’s skull had intended that he, rather than Jim, should die. He dared not believe it. The guilt would be too much to bear.

  DC Cusden didn’t seem impressed by the messages about Midsummer’s Eve. ‘In your line of business, you must come across plenty of oddballs.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Harry was tempted to add that some of them were police officers. ‘So you don’t think there’s a connection?’

  ‘Why wind you up with these messages and then batter your partner?’ A fair point. ‘What I’d really like to know is, who might have a grudge against Mr Crusoe?’

  Harry frowned. The lad had to ask, but the idea that someone would wish to kill Jim was absurd. Wasn’t it? The man worked hard, he was respected by other lawyers, well liked by his staff. Even his relish for everything that, in Harry’s eyes, was mind-numbingly tedious – property law, probate work, profit and loss accounts – was admirable. Indispensable, actually.

  But what if Carmel was right, what if Jim died? What would he do?

  He banished the questions the moment they sli
d into his head, ashamed by the pang of selfishness at a time like this. All that mattered was getting Jim fit and well.

  ‘Was there something?’ Cusden pressed. ‘Dissatisfied client? Tempers can fray in legal disputes.’

  ‘He bought and sold buildings and looked after the estates of dead people.’

  ‘Nice work if you can get it. The deceased don’t make any fuss.’

  ‘Very few of his living clients complained, even about his bills. People came back to Jim, time and again, they liked dealing with him.’

  I’m already talking in the past tense. Stop it. Think positive.

  Cusden rubbed his eyes. He looked tired, out of his depth. ‘Um…I have to ask about his private life. Were there any…’

  ‘His wife died a fortnight before Christmas. Carmel came to the funeral, she used to work for us. She stayed in touch and one thing led to another.’

  ‘There hadn’t been anyone else?’

  Years ago, Jim had had an affair. Moments of madness. His lover was a police officer. In the end, they’d gone their separate ways; the last Harry had heard, the woman had transferred to the north east. He was as sure as he could be that Jim’s wife had gone to her grave without finding out.

  ‘Nobody else.’

  A woman passed them, pushing a trolley whose wheels squeaked on the floor tiles. Cusden cringed at the sound, or perhaps at the difficulty of deciding what to do next.

  ‘So nobody had a grudge against him through his legal practice, or his private life. Yet someone lay in wait for him under your offices and hit him so hard on the head that it’s touch and go whether he’ll make it through the night.’

  Harry nodded. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘No.’ Cusden chewed at his nail. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me exactly where you were at the time of the attack?’

  He still didn’t mention Kay, simply said that he’d planned to meet a prospective client and was obliged to keep her name confidential. Cusden didn’t like that and wasn’t mollified when Harry said that if the CCTV at Empire Dock wasn’t as useless as that at John Newton House, there would be evidence on film of his car in the queue for the Strand when Farmers4Justice blocked the road. Of course, it didn’t prove his innocence. He might have parked out of sight and hurried back to the office building, to hide in the basement until he had the chance to bash Jim over the head. For all Cusden knew, he might have lost the plot altogether and sent the Midsummer’s Eve messages to himself. Harry could only hope that they wouldn’t call in the psychiatrists. Even if they found no hint of homicidal tendencies, they were bound to have a field day.

  He rejoined Carmel in the room for families of patients at death’s door. She was trembling and wouldn’t look him in the eye.

  ‘What’s the latest?’

  ‘They’ve removed the blood clot. The next forty eight-hours will be crucial.’

  He squeezed her hand.

  ‘Harry, I don’t…I don’t know what to do. What if he pulls through and spends the rest of his life as a fucking vegetable?’

  She dissolved again.

  At four in the morning, Carmel said, ‘Go home. You’ll need to be up before long. Off to work.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave you here on your own.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve stopped feeling sorry for myself. For the moment, no guarantees long-term. Go back to your flat. You need to be at the office first thing. Taking charge.’

  ‘The office can take care of itself.’

  ‘No. You know what you have to do. It’s what Jim would want. No point both of us sitting here moping. He’d expect you to make yourself useful for once.’

  ‘I suppose he would.’

  ‘No suppose about it. In the nicest possible way, Harry, piss off.’

  He stood up, dropped a kiss on her hair. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  ‘Look after Sylvia, will you? Losing Jim will crucify her.’

  He paused at the door and wagged a finger in admonition. ‘We’re not going to lose him.’

  She stared at the white-capped peak of Mount Snowdon on the wall, but didn’t say another word.

  The Fourth Day

  CHAPTER TEN

  It wasn’t worth going to bed. Exhaustion weighed down his limbs, and to make a cup of black coffee required a gut-clenching effort of will, but he knew sleep would never come. Slumped on the sofa, he flicked through the TV channels and found himself watching Harold Shand’s world fall apart in The Long Good Friday. Sid Rankin should have found a slot for the film in the Alhambra’s paranoia season. Calamity after calamity hammered the iron cladding of the little bulldog’s self-confidence until you almost felt sorry for him. Even when Shand hung people from meat hooks in a vain attempt to figure out what was going wrong.

  ‘Who’s having a go at me?’ Harold Shand demanded. ‘Can you think of anyone who might have an old score to settle?’

  Good question. Or was it?

  Maybe the wet-behind-the-ears DC Cusden wasn’t so naïve after all. What if Jim was the real target? Might he, like Harold Shand, have made dangerous enemies without even knowing?

  Juliet’s soft voice slid back into his brain, her warning as sinuous and deadly as an uncoiling snake.

  ‘Casper isn’t a man to mess with. Don’t ever make him angry.’

  He was in the office before half seven. Lou was on duty, chewing gum with much solemnity. When he saw Harry walking in through the double doors, he cleared his throat, as if about to embark on extensive commiserations, but Harry gave a brief nod and made straight for the lift. When he rang Carmel from his room, her voice was hoarse; she hadn’t slept either.

  ‘What’s the latest?’

  ‘No change. He’s in intensive care, dead to the world.’

  ‘So his condition is stable?’

  ‘They’ve dedicated three nurses to him, on eight-hour shifts. I’ve been talking to the woman who’s on duty this morning. She says that even those who survive this kind of injury sometimes wake up with their personalities changed.’

  ‘He’s in good hands. Liverpool General is one of the best hospitals in the country. The league tables…’

  ‘Mean nothing,’ she said, and he knew she was right.

  ‘Let me know the minute you hear more.’ She didn’t answer. ‘Please, Carmel.’

  ‘Even if he doesn’t die, he won’t be the man I fell in love with. There isn’t going to be a happy ending here, Harry.’

  ‘You can’t know that. We must keep hoping. Talk to you later.’

  He turned the page on his desk calendar. The way to love anything is to realise that it may be lost. In a fit of temper, he ripped off the sheet, and threw it into the wastepaper basket. Not that it made him feel any better. For once, the calendar was right.

  At nine, he summoned everyone to the brand new boardroom and broke the news. He’d never known a staff meeting like it. No jokes, no back-chat. Grief spread like a stain, disfiguring pale and fearful faces. Most of the women wept. Not Sylvia, though; she’d had time to come to terms with the shock. As soon as he’d finished speaking, she became brisk and business-like, explaining how Jim’s work was to be delegated, who would do what.

  As he walked back towards his own room, Grace caught up with him. She was wearing a sleeveless summer dress and strappy sandals. Her bare arms and legs were white, as though the sun hadn’t shone for months.

  ‘I just wanted to say, if there’s anything I can do…’

  ‘Thanks, Sylvia will organise…’

  ‘No, I meant for you.’ She bent close to him and the musky perfume assaulted his sinuses once again. ‘I’d visit him in hospital, but the last thing he would want is to see me at his bedside.’

  Harry stared at her. ‘I’m not sure…’

  ‘He doesn’t like me,’ she said softly. ‘No, it’s nothing that he’s said, but I can read it in his eyes, hear it in his voice whenever he speaks to me. But it doesn’t matter, I’m not offended. We haven’t had a chance to get used to
each other yet.’

  He wanted to tell her she was wrong, of course Jim didn’t dislike her. Trouble was, he’d be lying and she’d know it. As he groped for words, it struck him how little he knew about the woman. Nothing unusual in that, nobody checked out a temp in depth. You waited to see what the agency came up with. If they turned up on time and worked with a semblance of competence, who in their right mind would ask too many questions?

  ‘This is about believing,’ Grace murmured, and she disappeared in the direction of the secretaries’ room before he could conjure up an answer.

  He spent an hour at an appointment before the district judge in the new county court building. His client, a woman in her fifties whose vivid red wig matched her temper, was a serial divorcee. Her size 44DD chest attracted plenty of admirers, but all too often she ended up throwing plates at them; occasionally kitchen knives. The last time he’d acted for her, she’d sent him a perfumed thank-you card, expressing her appreciation for his ridding her of a slobbish limp-dick and promising to hire him again if her next marriage broke down. Within eighteen months, she proved as good as her word. Harry was grateful for repeat business, though he worried that if her aim ever improved, he’d finish up defending her on a murder rap.

  Back at John Newton House, Sylvia’s mask of calm competence was glued on. He could only guess at the emotions swirling behind it.

  ‘As luck would have it, Jim completed half a dozen deals during the past fortnight. The staff can cope for the time being, we don’t need to bring in a locum.’

  ‘Do we have any work on the go for Casper May’s companies?’

  The mask twitched. ‘Casper May?’

  ‘You know. Our illustrious client. I gather he owns this very building.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure that Jim had mentioned it.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, he didn’t. Someone else let it slip.’

  ‘It wasn’t a secret.’ At once she was on the defensive, determined to protect her boss from criticism, real or imagined. ‘I think he might have wondered if it…bothered you.’