I Remember You

by Martin Edwards

  They were in Jim’s room, confronting a mountain of files and must-do memo notes. Harry flipped open his partner’s diary.

  ‘You can handle both the completions this morning? Fine. And what’s this appointment in the afternoon regarding a contract for Crow’s Nest House?’

  ‘That will be Mrs. Graham-Brown. A big sale, no purchase. Everything has to happen yesterday - you know the sort of thing.

  Harry’s skin prickled. An opportunity to see the lovely Rosemary again was a chance too good to miss.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he lied, ‘I know a little about the file. Leave it to me. I’ll see her.’

  Sylvia could not conceal her amazement. Conveyancing and Harry Devlin had as much in common as karaoke and Kiri te Kanawa.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Do me good to brush up on the non-contentious work,’ he said, straight-faced. He located the file and returned to his room feeling pleased with himself, although he realised he was behaving absurdly. The woman was married to a rich man and would soon be leaving the country - the situation would challenge even Finbar Rogan’s seductive wiles. Harry knew that he should not even fantasise about Rosemary. No good could come of it. And yet...

  The morning flew by. At lunchtime he went out to buy a sandwich and saw the builders gathered together in a huddle, talking in low Irish voices. Their expressions were sullen and an atmosphere of suspicion hung over the courtyard. He hurried past, wondering when the construction work would be finished. He remembered that the Anglican Cathedral had taken most of the twentieth century to complete; perhaps the same firm had been hired for the job in Fenwick Court.

  As he got back to his desk, the phone was ringing.

  ‘Harry, would you mind if I speak to Finbar, please?’ Melissa Keating said.

  ‘He’s not here,’ Harry replied, puzzled.

  ‘Really? He didn’t keep his appointment to discuss the insurance compensation after the fire?’

  ‘What appointment?’

  Too late to keep the surprise out of his voice, Harry realised he must be letting his client down. Finbar had obviously been using him as an alibi. ‘Wait a minute,’ he added hastily, feeling shame at his half-hearted entry into a masculine conspiracy to mislead, ‘perhaps he did mention...’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Melissa. Her voice was muffled; he sensed she was close to tears. ‘I understand perfectly. And by the way, I thought you sounded good on Pop In this morning, Very plausible. Just like Finbar, in fact. Goodbye.

  She hung up and left Harry looking angrily at the receiver. He cursed Finbar. What was the bugger up to now? He resented being dragged into the deception of Melissa. But he wasn’t prepared to take it up with Finbar - he had other things to think about. He turned to the Graham-Brown file.

  Conveyancing was foreign to Harry. By temperament, as well as training, he was a litigator; someone who liked to work with people rather than documents of title, preferring the quirks and inconsistencies of human beings to those of the law of real property. Yet Jim’s files were organised with a neatness and method unexpected in a big, ungainly man and it did not take him long to pull together the strands of the transaction. Everything was happening at speed and contracts were almost due to be exchanged. Even he could manage that.

  Suzanne buzzed him. ‘Mrs. Graham-Brown to see you.’

  Five minutes early. Harry was accustomed to clients who turned up late or not at all, but he reminded himself that someone selling a house confronts the legal process from a very different standpoint to that of a person facing financial ruin, divorce or jail. He pushed the wad of papers to one side. No need to lose sleep over this particular matter. It was always easier to sell than to buy: caveat emptor and all that. Besides, Jim had already done the hard work, juggling non-committal answers to otiose preliminary enquiries and preparing the contract. Harry did not have much left to do except renew his acquaintance with the client.

  His heart beating faster, he went to reception, where Suzanne was updating her bulletin on Jim’s condition with more reliance on morbid imagination than solid fact. Faint scepticism turned up the corners of Rosemary Graham-Brown’s mouth; he liked her all the more for that.

  ‘I’m glad to meet you again,’ he said, and shook her hand. It was small and warm and he took ten seconds too long to release it. Rosemary gave a small pleased giggle; he could feel Suzanne’s eyes boring into the back of his head as he led the way through into the corridor.

  ‘I do appreciate your taking the time to see me,’ she said. ‘You must be rushed off your feet. I’m so sorry to hear about Mr. Crusoe. Your receptionist was telling me the whole ghastly story of the accident - it sounds horrific.’

  Trust Suzanne to turn a pile-up into a holocaust. The truth unvarnished was bad enough.

  ‘He’ll live,’ said Harry. Then he remembered Heather Crusoe’s anxiety and regretted the lightness of his tone.

  ‘I’m hardly an expert on property law,’ he admitted, ‘but I didn’t want to hold up your transaction. I gather there’s some urgency.’

  ‘Yes, very much so. That’s why I’ve brought the contract myself. We signed it last night and I don’t want to trust to the post.’

  ‘This is my room. Let me clear some papers off that chair. I only hope you don’t suffer from claustrophobia.’

  She wriggled between a filing cabinet and a mound of documents as tall as a child, her figure hugged by a white trouser suit which must have cost more than Harry’s entire wardrobe.

  ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘I’m quite good at getting out of tight corners.’

  Her lips parted in a teasing smile. He grinned, watching her settle into the chair and enjoying the sight. Perhaps office-bound conveyancing had its compensations after all.

  ‘Sorry to be a nuisance in the circumstances,’ she said, ‘but as you’ll have gathered, things are moving quickly and I - that is, my husband and I - would hate to lose the momentum.’

  ‘So I see from the file. The two of you are emigrating, then?’

  She nodded, the light of excitement he had noticed on their first meeting shining from her eyes.

  ‘To the south of Spain, that’s right.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful.’

  She leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of his desk, lowering her voice as if about to confide a long-cherished secret.

  ‘I’ve always longed to live in the sun. Shake the dust of Liverpool off my feet, taste a bit of the good life.’

  ‘And your husband? What does he do?’

  ‘Oh, he’s in ... er ... financial services. But between you and me, I think that’s a fancy name for debt collection. His company’s called Merseycredit.’ A confessional smile. ‘To tell you the truth, all his jargon’s double Dutch to me. I don’t take much notice of it.’

  ‘And you’ve not found anywhere to buy yet?’

  ‘No. But his company has organised rented accommodation for us.’

  ‘I gather they are paying our bill.’

  ‘Yes, so you don’t need to stint. They can afford it. Deduct your fee from the proceeds before you send it on - as long as that won’t delay matters.’

  I like this woman more and more, Harry thought to himself.

  ‘No problem. I understand you already have a bank account over there: Puerto Banus, is that right? I know the name. One of the resorts, isn’t it? A millionaires’ playground or something?’

  She essayed a self-deprecating shrug of the shoulders. ‘We’re hardly in that league, Stuart and me.’

  But not on the breadline either, Harry reflected. A detached house in the best part of Formby would sell for five times the price of a flat in Empire Dock.

  ‘You ought to take care in a place like that. You may find yourself in the same bar as some of our most famous bank robbers.’

  ‘J
ust like downtown Liverpool, in fact,’ she said.

  They both laughed.

  ‘You could say that only the failures stick around here,’ he said. ‘I had a client only last week who was arrested after leaving his wallet and all his credit cards in the building society he’d tried to hold up. Needless to say, his gun was a toy and they shooed him out empty-handed.’

  She laughed again. He thought he saw a spark of interest in the brown eyes.

  ‘You have a fascinating job,’ she said. ‘Selling our house must seem simple - compared with all the crime and everything. But you don’t foresee any last minute hitches, I hope?’

  ‘No, your buyers - Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose. - are willing and they seem to have the money in place. You’re not in a chain. It’s the perfect situation.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to hear.’ She slid a document in a plastic folder across the desk. ‘Here’s the contract. Stuart and I have both scrawled our signatures where Mr. Crusoe pencilled our initials. All right?’

  ‘Fine. I can exchange for you now, so you’ll have a deal. Then we’ll get the draft conveyance for approval and requisitions on title.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Sounds complicated. Mr. Crusoe reckoned it could all be done and dusted within a week of exchange - maybe less.’

  ‘No problem,’ Harry said. ‘Formalities only. I’ll phone you to confirm all’s going smoothly.’

  ‘No, you can’t do that. We’re ex-directory. My husband - in his line of business he values his privacy, even where his professional advisers are concerned. Listen, I can call in again if you like.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said.

  Harry showed her to the front door. As they shook hands again, he had the impression that this time the stronger pressure came from her. But married life had proved that, where women were concerned, he was a wishful-thinker. She might be interested in him, or simply playing a game; he did not expect he would ever find out.

  Suzanne caught his eye and mouthed, ‘Mr. Rogan on the line for you.’

  ‘I’ll take it here ... is that you, Finbar? Where the hell are you?’

  ‘In the Hotel Blue Moon.’

  Finbar was gasping, as if someone had dropped a heavy stone onto his chest, squeezing all the breath and good humour out of him. Harry knew the Blue Moon: a no-star establishment, in a side street round the corner from Mount Pleasant.

  ‘What are you doing there?’ he demanded. ‘Melissa’s really on the warpath. You make the Scarlet Pimpernel look like a stick-in-the-mud. And what in God’s name is the matter with you? You sound as though you’re dying.’

  ‘Harry, it’s a miracle I’m not already dead.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Someone wants to murder me.’

  ‘Does he realise he’ll have to join the queue?’

  ‘Listen, I’m serious.’

  Suddenly Harry believed it. He’d never known Finbar sound so desperate.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘First I had the fire. Okay, I couldn’t believe someone was out to attack me personally. But now there’s nothing surer.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘There’s been a bastard of an explosion here. It’s a miracle I’ve not been carted off to the mortuary.’

  ‘For Chrissake, how come?’

  Finbar exhaled noisily.

  ‘Some fucking maniac has only strapped a bomb to the bottom of my car.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘See the crack in the mirror?’ asked Finbar, jerking his thumb towards the dressing table at the other end of the hotel bedroom. The splintered glass distorted his features, making him seem more Mephistophelian than ever. ‘It’s not shoddy furnishing, though in this place you might not believe it. The blast did that. And as for the window panes...’

  He ground his heel into the shards scattered across the carpet. Sitting on the unmade bed, Harry grimaced as he heard the woman being sick in the bathroom next door: a violent, prolonged retching. Through the partition walls they could hear every movement, every groan.

  For the sake of something to say, he asked, ‘Where were you when you heard the explosion?’ As soon as the words left his mouth, he realised it was a silly question.

  Finbar raised his eyes skywards in disbelief. ‘Come on, Harry! You don’t think I invited a lovely lady like Sophie here to give me a few tips on how to be a better radio interviewee, surely to God? We were in bed, where d’you think?’

  A thought occurred to Finbar. For the first time since Harry’s arrival, the mischievous grin reappeared.

  ‘I’ve heard of the earth moving - but that was ridiculous.’

  As he spoke, the bathroom door opened to reveal Sophie Wilkins, pale and tear-stained and wiping her nose with a tissue. Her beige silk blouse was carelessly buttoned and Harry noticed a ladder in her sexy black tights. He could scarcely recognise the self-confident media person he had met earlier that morning.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ She spat out the words with a hostility that smacked both men to attention. ‘What’s the matter with you? Your car has been blown up by a bomb and all you can do is crack puerile jokes. Well, if that makes you feel macho, fine, but I’m not staying around here to pander to your bloody male ego.’

  Finbar made a movement towards her. ‘Sophie, love, don’t go. At times like these, a man and a woman...’

  She brushed away his hand as it rested for an instant on her shoulder. Red blotches had appeared on her cheeks.

  ‘Spare me the words of wisdom, Finbar. They belong in a Christmas cracker, not in my life.’

  ‘Sophie, listen to me,’ said Harry. ‘You’ve had a hell of a shock - both of you have. And how do you think Finbar feels? Neither of you is thinking straight. Why don’t you stay a while? The police will want to talk to you.’

  The anger that lit her eyes told him he had said the wrong thing.

  ‘That’s all I need! Having to explain to PC Plod why I was on my back beneath a tattooist with the gift of the gab and not much else when I should have been at work! Do you realise I told Nick Folley I had a migraine? I feel a thousand times worse now than if I’d been forced to spend the day in a darkened room.’

  Outside a siren howled.

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ she said bitterly. ‘And all because I was weak and let myself be blarneyed into a quick leg-over! God, I hate myself sometimes. But not half as much as I hate you, Finbar.’

  ‘Sophie darling, be reasonable.’

  ‘Reasonable? Find someone else to be reasonable with. You have too many enemies, Finbar, too many people want you dead. Well, I’m not going to share your coffin.’

  ‘Sophie, love, you need to calm down. Do that and everything will be fine. I’ll see you...’

  ‘Not if I see you first! And don’t “love” me! I’m not another Melissa, you know, neurotic and clinging. Even she must see sense after this. You’re dangerous to know.’

  She teetered for a second, as if her legs were about to give way, then turned and slammed the door behind her.

  ‘Hysterical,’ said Finbar. ‘You can understand it. She doesn’t mean what she says.’ He sighed. ‘Jases, Harry, what a mess.’

  For once, Harry thought, his client was erring on the side of understatement. He walked over to the window to view Finbar’s car which had been parked in an unmade entry on the other side of Braddock Street. A police cordon now sealed off the scene of the crime, but did not disguise the extent of the devastation. Smoke thickened the air; even up here, there was no ignoring its pungent whiff. Firefighters had been pumping water on to what was left of the car body and a river was beginning to stretch down the street, where fragments recognisably belonging to the old red Granada had been scattered over a wide radius. Unif
ormed policemen had blocked off traffic at both ends of the street and were now waving away any vehicles or passers-by who stopped to linger. The hum of their walkie-talkies filled the air. Harry guessed they must be nervous, wondering if a second bomb had been planted, waiting for the Special Branch to arrive, not wanting to take any chances in the meantime. He himself had only been able to enter the Blue Moon by following Finbar’s telephone directions to an unmarked basement door in an extension at the rear of the building.

  Amongst the debris, Harry glimpsed something which resembled part of a steering wheel. The sight of it sickened him. No one sitting in that car when the bomb went off could have had a hope of survival - and Finbar had said he’d promised to give Sophie a lift back to work once they were done in the hotel.

  ‘It may take more than a day or two for her to calm down. She’s lucky to be alive, and so are you.’

  The Irishman winced. ‘Don’t think I don’t realise. Who would have imagined it? We were only after a little harmless fun.’

  He had already explained how, working as swiftly as ever, he’d called Sophie that morning after Pop In came to an end and invited her to lunch at the Ensenada. During the course of wining and dining her in lavish manner he had persuaded her to accompany him here. The Blue Moon was owned by an old friend of his called Rajeshwar Sharma, to whom Finbar always referred as Reg. Reg owned a chain of hotels in Merseyside, all of which catered for guests seeking a room and a bed rather than the last word in luxury. This place was one of Finbar’s favourite haunts.

  ‘It’s like a second home to me, Harry,’ he said now, with a touch of mischief. ‘I have so many happy memories of my stays here.’

  ‘Most of which last around the sixty minute mark, I suppose?’