Waterloo Sunset

by Martin Edwards

  Pray God she was right. He dared not share Ceri’s pessimism, dared not persuade himself that the murderer would never be caught. Or that he would only be caught if another woman died.

  ‘Jim had a quiet night.’ Carmel’s voice kept breaking up on the mobile, yet for all her weariness, this morning she sounded less desolate. ‘The nurse seems pleased, though I’m not counting any chickens. I’m about to nip over to the office for an hour, and catch up on some urgent stuff.’

  ‘Practise the art of delegation. Nobody’s indispensable. And you must be exhausted.’

  ‘You must be joking. No way do I want the Police Authority to figure out that I’m dispensable. Otherwise I might finish up working for you again. Besides, you want the inside track on the murders, don’t you?’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Anyway, if nobody’s indispensable, why are you already in the office? You never used to start this early. Surely you’re too long in the tooth to become a workaholic?’

  ‘Thanks, you know how to make me feel good. As it happens, there’s a lot to do.’

  ‘Don’t give me that, Harry Devlin. Why haven’t you told me how you got on last night? I expect a full report. Unexpurgated.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath. There’s not much to tell.’

  ‘That I don’t believe.’

  He exhaled. ‘It wasn’t a success, actually. I’m not sure we’ll be seeing each other again.’

  ‘I knew she wasn’t perfect,’ Carmel said. ‘She must be a stupid cow to give you the cold shoulder.’

  ‘It wasn’t…’

  ‘Come on, Harry. We’re mates, aren’t we? I insist on hearing all the gory details.’

  ‘You really don’t want to know.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Her voice softened. ‘Without Jim to talk to at the moment, you’re the man in my life, do you realise? Now, tell me all about it.’

  ‘There isn’t…’

  ‘Harry, you’re putty in my hands. Always have been. Get used to it.’

  ‘We had a lovely meal, and talked about Grace…’

  ‘You’re out on a date and you start discussing your secretary?’

  ‘Listen, you’ll enjoy this. According to Ceri, Grace is a pagan worshipper.’

  ‘Amazing Grace?’ Carmel sounded startled and gleeful in equal measure. ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘Not a word of a lie. As for Tom Gunter, Ceri has heard that he’s on the run. But he has a cast-iron alibi for the Onuoha killing.’

  ‘Yeah, my mate on the inquiry team told me. It’s a bummer, frankly. If we’re talking serial murder, Tom isn’t our man.’

  ‘Ceri reckons that he’s disappeared out of panic rather than guilt.’

  ‘Unless he’s dead too.’

  Harry hadn’t considered this possibility. ‘Suicide out of remorse? The only way a man like that kills himself is if he sees there’s no way out.’

  ‘Suppose he knew who killed Kay. What if she took a cab to Widnes, as she intended, but he followed her? We’ve found witnesses at the Marina who say she left the flat at five o’clock, on foot. Perhaps she didn’t want to be spotted getting into a cab in case Tom asked them if they’d seen her. Within a couple of minutes, he was back home. Maybe he’d been keeping an eye on her. His car was outside and he jumped straight into it and drove off. Nobody saw him return – very irritating. What’s the point of nosey neighbours if they don’t keep a permanent vigil by their front window?’

  ‘Did he come back to the flat later on, then?’

  ‘Must have done. The car’s parked there again.’

  ‘Anything to suggest that he won’t be back in a hurry?’

  ‘A team of detectives searched the flat. There’s no ready cash lying around, so he probably took it with him. Some of his stuff has been taken away for forensic checks, to see if they can be linked to the scene where Kay was killed. But we mustn’t jump to conclusions. If he witnessed the murder, he may have taken fright. Or confronted the killer and come off worst. Or tried his hand at blackmail and been murdered for his pains.’

  ‘I never knew you had such a fertile imagination.’

  She said quietly, ‘The truth is, I don’t much care whether Tom Gunter is dead or alive. But the guessing game takes my mind off what happened to Jim.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me all this stuff.’

  ‘Time to change the subject, Harry. I want to know more about your date with the coroner.’

  ‘There isn’t much more to tell. Except that I invited her back to the flat for coffee, and she said yes.’

  ‘Wow. Progress at last!’

  ‘Not really. I thought something was going to happen between us, but she changed her mind at the last minute. Made her excuses and left. All very embarrassing.’

  ‘Oh shit, Harry. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about. The woman lost her husband not long ago. She’s still grieving, it’s only to be expected. I was crass.’

  ‘You’re not crass,’ Carmel said. ‘At least, not where women are concerned.’

  ‘Is that a compliment?’

  ‘It is, actually. So you didn’t arrange to meet again?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  ‘Send her flowers, keep in touch. Faint heart never won fair coroner.’

  His eyes strayed to the latest advice from the desk calendar. Life is ours to be spent, not saved.

  ‘She’s not ready for a new relationship.’

  ‘Give her time.’ Another pause. ‘You’re ready, aren’t you?’

  He’d not even asked himself the question until now. But he knew the answer.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Wayne Saxelby asked.

  ‘Jim’s in intensive care. Apart from that, everything’s hunky-dory.’

  At once Harry regretted the brusque reply. Wayne had dropped in to ask after Jim and boast about the new podcast he was about to download on to his website. Harry was in no mood for conversation, but he shouldn’t take his temper out on the man who had saved his partner.

  Thankfully, Wayne had a hide as thick as a tabloid editor’s. His tone was more-in-sorrow-than-anger.

  ‘You can’t fool me, my friend. Something’s bugging you. I can read you like a book.’

  Like one of those trashy paperback thrillers you love hung unspoken in the air. Harry sighed. Wayne’s ego had never seemed to allow for an interest in other people. The possibility that management consultancy had transformed him into a perceptive judge of character was almost too much to bear.

  Harry shrugged. ‘I had a date yesterday evening. Things didn’t go as I’d hoped. That’s all.’

  ‘Not with Juliet May, by any chance?’

  Harry reddened. ‘No.’

  ‘There’s someone new in your life?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it after last night.’

  ‘Plenty more fish in the sea, eh?’ Wayne shook his head. ‘I dropped lucky with Tamara, I suppose. Luckier than I deserve.’

  Harry stifled the temptation to say too right. ‘Yeah, well. Easy come, easy go’

  ‘Tell you what.’ Wayne leant forward, as if about to disclose a state secret. ‘Tamara’s due home on Saturday evening. I’ve organised a surprise party to welcome her back. Just a few friends. You must come along. I’d love you to meet her.’

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’ Although a social bash with Wayne, Tamara and their celebrity chums held as much appeal as a night on the razzle at Guantanamo Bay, it would hardly be tactful to say so. ‘I wouldn’t like to butt in.’

  ‘Nonsense! Tamara’s not the ditzy blonde you may think from watching Celebrities without Shame.’

  Harry would rather have his teeth pulled out than watch Celebrities without Shame, but even so Wayne had managed to wrong-foot him. He’d bestowed a great honour with the party invite.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said hastily, before it dawned on him that this wasn’t an entirely tactful reply. ‘I’m really very grateful.’

  ‘No need. Tell you what, spare an hour of your evening, tha
t’s all. I’ll pick you up, it’s no trouble.’

  ‘Very kind, but…’

  ‘That’s settled, then.’ Wayne pursed his lips. ‘I’d suggest you bring your date along too, but…’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Let’s be honest, your love life was never exactly plain sailing, was it? Nothing new there. Why so twitchy all of a sudden? Surely this isn’t anything to do with this murder at Widnes? Suzanne said you’ve been interviewed by the police.’

  Bloody Suzanne and her big mouth. ‘There’s a rumour that Kay Cheung’s murder is linked to a couple of others.’

  ‘It might be an idea to confide in someone. A trouble shared, and all that.’

  ‘Sorry, Wayne, I don’t have anything to tell you.’

  ‘All right, suit yourself.’ He hauled himself up from the chair. ‘Let me know if you change your mind. You might not believe it, but maybe I can help.’

  Harry doubted it. But as Wayne reached the door, he looked so disgruntled that Harry’s conscience wouldn’t allow him to let the man go without another word.

  ‘Thanks.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And not just for what you did for Jim. I was bloody glad to catch you at home yesterday. Must have been a shock seeing me outside your window.’

  Wayne’s features relaxed into the familiar grin. ‘You’re not kidding. Opening the blinds only to find Harry Devlin peering into my living room? It’s the stuff nightmares are made of. For a moment there, I thought someone had filled my lunchtime sandwich with magic mushrooms. You should have seen your face. You looked as though someone wanted you dead.’

  ‘Casper May is a…’

  ‘This isn’t about Casper May, though, is it?’ Wayne peered at Harry with naked curiosity. ‘Sorry, but I just don’t buy that. It makes no sense. There’s someone else you’re afraid of.’

  Harry shrugged. ‘It’s a long list, starting with the taxman, my accountant…’

  ‘You don’t fool me,’ Wayne murmured. ‘There’s a good deal you aren’t telling me. But if you want to hug your secrets to yourself, fine. Just remember, if you want to talk any time, give me a call.’

  Harry made up his mind. ‘All right. You’re throwing the party on Saturday. Midsummer’s Eve. That’s the day I’m meant to die.’

  ‘It’s bizarre,’ Wayne said for the third time. ‘I mean, who would want to kill you?’

  He made it sound like a particularly unambitious choice of victim. Harry almost felt offended.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘I mean, have you anything special planned for Midsummer’s Eve?’

  ‘Doing the laundry and washing the car will be as exciting as it gets.’

  Wayne frowned, as if grappling with a sudoku of infinite complexity. ‘Might that date be an anniversary of some kind?’

  ‘If so, it’s passed me by.’

  ‘It must have some significance, Harry. What else could it be?’

  ‘Something to do with pagan traditions?’ Harry hesitated. ‘It’s a ridiculous idea, of course, but I might consult Grace. Someone told me she’s a pagan worshipper.’

  Wayne’s eyes widened. ‘Seriously? Now, that is amazing. I had no idea. Though she is a bit flaky?’

  ‘Eccentric, perhaps. Intelligent, certainly.’

  ‘She’s a loner. I’ve noticed she doesn’t mix with the rest of your staff.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with being a loner.’

  ‘True. I suppose you could say that you and I are both loners, too.’

  ‘Until Tamara comes back?’

  Wayne sighed. ‘I miss her, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Must be difficult for you.’

  ‘At least I know she’ll be coming back soon.’ Wayne studied his shoes. ‘In some ways, I miss my mother even more.’

  ‘She’s dead?’ When Wayne worked for Crusoe and Devlin, he’d talked about her a lot. He went to visit her at an old people’s home four times a week, regular as clockwork. ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

  Wayne bowed his head. ‘It happened three years back, soon after I left the firm. A dreadful shock. She seemed so fit and well when I last saw her, the day before.’

  ‘The home where she lived,’ Harry said, ‘in Crosby, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. The Indian Summer Care Home.’

  Harry stared. ‘The place owned by Malachy Needham?’

  ‘Yes, why do you ask?’

  While Grace caught up with the filing, Harry tinkered with a draft plea in mitigation. The case was open-and-shut: his client had been caught by a speed camera, driving at seventy miles an hour through a thirty-limit in roadworks on the M58. The mitigating factor was that the man was late for a conference where he was due to deliver a keynote speech. Harry only hoped that the prosecution didn’t cotton on that the conference topic was ‘Making Health and Safety Integral to our Everyday Lives’.

  He wondered about the Indian Summer Care Home. Two unexpected deaths didn’t even amount to a coincidence. Mrs Saxelby and Nesta Borth had died years apart and the truth was that old people’s lives did often end in homes, however scrupulous the care.

  Wayne Saxelby was an only child, and when he talked about his mother’s death, a tear came to his eye, something Harry had never seen before. He realised that he’d never made sufficient effort to get to know Wayne; there was more to him than just an ego bigger than Ben Nevis.

  Wayne didn’t disguise his bitterness at the loss of his mother, not least because he said his father had never recovered and died twelve months after his wife. But his anger wasn’t directed towards Malachy Needham. If he had any reason to doubt that she had died of a massive coronary, he gave no hint of it. He even volunteered that Needham’s staff had done their best for the old lady.

  Wayne hadn’t been with her at the end, and that had left him with a sense of guilt. Harry empathised; every now and then, he felt a twinge himself. Guilt about his parents, his wife, his half-brother. It was as though he’d been slapdash, losing those close to him while he looked the other way. Perhaps there ought to be a criminal misdemeanour of living without due care and attention.

  Grace closed the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and turned round. She was wearing a see-through cheesecloth top with a vest underneath and evidently no bra. Her skirt was floaty, her sandals displayed slender feet and small toes with chipped magenta varnish.

  ‘Any news of Mr Crusoe?’

  She was the only person in the firm who didn’t call Jim by his first name. When Harry said that Jim was holding his own, she gave a cautious smile.

  ‘I prayed for him last night.’

  Harry’s knowledge of paganism didn’t extend much beyond a mild fascination with The Wicker Man. Now was as good a time as any to get his secretary talking. She had a natural reserve and he’d not learnt much about her. How little he really knew about the people he spent so much of his life with. The thought kept bugging him, shaming him. Even Sylvia, he’d never guessed she carried a torch for Jim.

  ‘Thanks, Grace. As it happens, your name cropped up in conversation yesterday evening.’ A flush came to the woman’s pale cheeks. ‘No need for your ears to burn. I was chatting to the coroner. She told me that you used to work for her. Said how sorry she was when you left.’

  Grace bowed her head. ‘That was a difficult time for me. My mother and father had recently died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ A wild thought flashed into his head. More untimely deaths at the Indian Summer Care Home? ‘Was it…very sudden?’

  ‘Very. They’d gone on a golfing holiday in the Algarve and the coach they were travelling in took a bend too fast. Five people died, including the driver.’

  His sympathy was mixed with relief. Better abandon all thoughts of a previously unsuspected series of mysterious deaths under Malachy Needham’s baleful eye. He got up and perched on the side of his desk. Grace stood in front of him, resting her hands on the back of a chair. Her musky fragrance was overpowering.

  ‘Tough to cope with
a double tragedy like that.’

  ‘They were only in their mid-sixties, they’d looked forward to a long and happy retirement together. What happened was so cruel, so pointless…it made me question things. Dad was a sidesman at the local church, Mum arranged the flowers for the altar. I wondered why their God hadn’t kept them safe.’

  He detected a spark of resentment in those last few words. Like Wayne Saxelby, she hadn’t stopped grieving.

  ‘Ceri Hussain mentioned that after they died, you…’

  ‘Lost the plot? It’s true. I was an only child, and solitary. Very close to my parents. They had me late in life and I was the apple of their eye. When they were taken from me, I felt cut adrift. I wasn’t in a relationship at the time. For the previous five years, I’d…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I’d been involved with a married man, I’m afraid. He was a barrister in one of the local chambers. I won’t mention his name. He was desperate to be appointed Queen’s Counsel and he was frightened that a breath of scandal would scupper his chances. When it came to choosing me or taking silk, it wasn’t much of a contest. He dumped me a few weeks before I started work at the Coroner’s Court.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

  ‘Don’t be. Something good did come out of the tragedy.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I needed something fresh in my life, and Wicca came to my rescue.’

  ‘Ceri Hussain mentioned that.’

  ‘She didn’t approve. I made the mistake of confiding in her. I liked her and I’d seen how she behaved in court, how sensitive she was to bereaved families. I thought she’d realise what I was going through, the sheer physical effort of simply climbing out of bed and catching the bus to get in for work every morning. When all I wanted to do was to hide under the bed clothes and hope the rest of the world would go away.’

  ‘She’s a good listener.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Ceri is a decent woman. But she’s a ruthless perfectionist, she likes everything to be just so. Remember, she’s both a lawyer and a medic, she’s trained to believe in a rational universe, where you can’t take anything on trust without evidence to back it up.’