I Remember You

by Martin Edwards

  ‘You must be worried.’

  ‘Hey, whose side are you on? If I have to come clean, I’ll make it clear Sophie was nothing more than a passing fancy. Going by the fuss she made earlier on, I’ve queered my pitch there good and proper.’

  ‘Win a few, lose a few, eh?’

  Finbar clapped him on the back. ‘You took the words off the tip of my tongue. Tell you what, we’ll nip round to the Dock Brief and have a quick pint. You can help me summon up the courage to face the music.’

  ‘Sorry, I must go and see how Jim is. Besides, you go home smelling like a brewery and the music will make Wagner sound like The Cuckoo Waltz.’

  ‘All right, all right. For once I’ll take your advice. Jases, I pay enough for it! Give my best to Jim.’

  Harry was halfway to the hospital before he remembered that the last couple of bills he had sent to Finbar were still outstanding. The last time he’d given the Irishman a reminder, he’d been fobbed off with a promise to put a cheque in the post. Credit control wasn’t Harry’s strong point; it was a wonder he’d never been appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer.

  A Nurse Ratchet clone whose glare was sufficient to inspire any patient into an instant recovery gave Harry terse directions to Jim’s ward. In the maze of white-walled corridors he soon got hopelessly lost and might have found himself attending a birth had he not been rescued by a dreadlocked porter who sent him to the other end of the building.

  Harry was shocked by the sight of his partner. Jim was wired to a drip and resembled a character from a Christmas television campaign warning about danger and death on the road. He and Heather were having one of those jerky conversations about nothing in particular which seem so common at hospital bedsides. Harry noticed that Heather kept snatching glances at her husband’s battered face, then looking hurriedly away with thinly veiled dismay.

  ‘Not as bad as it looks, old son.’ The voice was croaky but audible.

  ‘It couldn’t be, really, could it?’ asked his wife.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be skiving off tomorrow as well, then?’ said Harry.

  Jim made a ghastly attempt at a grin. ‘Give you a chance to do a bit of proper work for a change!’

  ‘Conveyancing and probate? Piece of cake. In fact, if all your clients are as lovely as Mrs. Graham-Brown, I’ll be putting in for a permanent transfer.’

  ‘Oh yes? And who is Mrs. Graham-Brown?’ asked Heather.

  ‘A lady who fancies leaving Liverpool for the south of Spain,’ said Jim with an effort. ‘Strange, you may think, but it takes all sorts. And Crusoe and Devlin certainly has all sorts of clients.’

  ‘Including victims of terrorist outrages,’ said Harry. ‘You’ll never guess where I’ve been until now.’

  He told them about the afternoon’s excitement. Jim absorbed himself in the story, his craggy features darkening as Harry described Finbar’s infidelity and apparent unwillingness to tell all he knew.

  ‘The Irish connection, you suppose?’

  ‘What else? Finbar may have upset a few husbands in his time, but the time-honoured remedy is a fight behind a pub. Same goes for discarded mistresses. I can see someone slashing his tyres; even, maybe, torching his studio. But car bombs are something else.’

  ‘Did you know he had links with terrorists?’

  ‘I don’t even know it now. He disclaims all knowledge, except for this old acquaintance he tattooed in days gone by who was killed by the other side a couple of years back. But there must be some terrorist connection. After all...’

  His voice trailed away as a thought struck him.

  ‘Watch him,’ said Jim Crusoe to Heather in a stage whisper. ‘When Harry gets that inspired look, everyone around ought to dive for cover. Solved the mystery, then?’

  Harry said nothing, but his mind was working frantically. He had realised that the mysterious Eileen’s surname was the same as that of a man in a tough business traditionally associated with the republican movement: a man who might have access to bomb-making equipment.

  Dermot McCray. The Irish builder and ‘old acquaintance’ whom Finbar, at Fenwick Court, had been so anxious to avoid.

  Chapter Ten

  The notice in the foyer of Empire Hall announced the title of the lunchtime seminar in garish purple: how to establish a small company in liverpool.

  ‘Easy,’ said Harry to his companion. ‘Start with a big company, then sit back and wait.’

  The man by his side chuckled, a reaction as unexpected as a snigger from a corpse. Stanley Rowe was a cadaverous individual whose pallor and mournful expression had earned him an appropriate sobriquet. But life hadn’t been too hard on Death Rowe; he had sold his estate agency to an insurance company with more money than sense at the height of the property boom in the late eighties and had bought it back for half the price after the bottom fell out of the market a couple of years later.

  Some bright spark on the city council had designated this as ‘Liverpool Business Day’ - although cynics argued that, given the state of the city’s industry, twenty minutes would have sufficed. Jim had booked to attend a series of events due to be held here, ranging from a breakfast meeting to an early evening exhibition. In a moment of weakness at his partner’s bedside the previous night, Harry had volunteered to act as stand-in for at least one session, with the idea of picking up a few clients and keeping their professional contacts warm.

  ‘I see the discussion is being led by Geoffrey Willatt,’ said Rowe. ‘I suppose your paths seldom cross?’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ said Harry, ‘but he was once my principal.’

  Rowe’s skeletal features twitched and his eyes widened a fraction; it was his equivalent of registering amazement. It was as if he’d heard the Krays claiming to be on first name terms with the Queen.

  ‘You trained with Maher and Malcolm? Good God.’

  ‘How they ever came to offer me articles, I’ll never fathom. It’s not as if my family was named in Debrett or I took a double first from Cambridge. And I met Jim whilst I worked there, believe it or not. Of course, we both escaped long before there was any chance of our making our fortune. I can’t say either of us ever learned much from old Geoffrey about how to run a practice funded on legal aid and house sales.’

  They walked into the room where the seminar was being held and sat at the back. A glance around the audience suggested that solicitors, accountants, stockbrokers and financiers outnumbered Liverpool’s would-be entrepreneurs by at least five to one.

  Geoffrey Willatt had been born, Harry suspected, in a pinstripe suit. Senior partner of one of the largest legal practices outside London, he was Chairman of the Law Society’s Standing Committee on Legal Etiquette and author of a racy little monograph entitled The Property Lawyer’s Vade-Mecum. Now he spoke about investment, cash flow and debt recovery with his accustomed authority; but for Harry it was like listening to the owner of Fortnum and Mason offer advice on the running of a corner shop. As the talk shifted to terms of trading and employment costs, he closed his eyes. He did not doze - although the temptation was strong - but pondered again whether Dermot McCray might want Finbar Rogan dead.

  Suppose Eileen was McCray’s wife and Finbar had loved her and left her. If she had killed herself out of desperation or remorse, McCray’s motive for revenge attacks could hardly be stronger. Whatever Finbar’s reasons for refusing to disclose the truth about Eileen, Harry wanted him to start talking. If he did not, more room might be needed in the mortuary.

  As the seminar came to an end, people began to move away. At the door, a young woman with a severe hair style and a grave manner pressed a glossy brochure into his hand. ‘Do talk to us if you’d like to make a success of your business. May I ask what line you are in?’

  Harry glanced at the logo on the cover of the brochure. It was a hand-out from Maher and Malcolm.


  ‘I’m making a career out of crime,’ he said.

  She shot him a nervous glance and turned bright red.

  Harry took pity on her. When he’d been an articled clerk, for a solicitor to advertise had been a monstrous breach of ethics. Nowadays P.R. was practically part of the finals course.

  ‘I’m a solicitor,’ he explained.

  She stared in disbelief at his scuffed shoes before remembering her manners. Nervously, she cleared her throat. ‘I’m afraid we only handle white-collar misdemeanours.’

  Of course. Corporate fraud and insider trading: Maher and Malcolm would never become involved in anything down-market. In their austere yet elegant offices, a legal aid form would seem as out of place as a copy of Playboy.

  Outside, Harry caught up Stanley Rowe and handed him the brochure. ‘With my compliments. I’m sure you’ll find it tastefully designed. But if it tells you anything worth reading, I’ll buy you lunch at the Ensenada.’

  The estate agent flicked through the pages. There were more photographs than lines of text, with acres of space on each page.

  ‘Your money’s safe,’ he said in his funereal tone. ‘I take it you are not a believer in practice development?’

  ‘Truth is, I’m hopeless at marketing. Today’s been a write-off. I left my business cards in the office and to make matters worse, over lunch I sat next to a banker who’d make the speaking clock seem like sparkling company. When I confessed I didn’t know a mezzanine agreement from a junk bond he wrote me off faster than a Third World debt.’

  ‘Honesty from a litigator? Even Jim would have bluffed a little. How is he, by the way?’

  ‘You’ve heard about his smash?’

  ‘Yes, sounds dreadful. Is he making progress? I must admit, I was particularly bothered because I’d just sent him a client. She was in a hurry to exchange and complete and it crossed my mind that Jim’s accident might cause problems.’

  To say nothing of delay in paying commission, thought Harry.

  ‘Don’t worry - Jim’s on the road to recovery. And we’ve got his work under control.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Who was the client?’

  ‘Rather a lovely lady, as a matter of fact.’ Rowe’s sombre expression lightened for a moment. ‘Name of Graham-Brown. Rosemary of that ilk.’

  ‘She’s been in to see me already,’ said Harry. ‘Know much about her?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Interested, that’s all.’

  Rowe tapped the side of his nose with solemn significance. ‘Beware Mr Graham-Brown, Harry.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not running off with her to Puerto Banus - though if the chance arose, I wouldn’t say no. But who is Graham-Brown? Do you know him?’

  ‘The name rang a bell when she came in to see me. I believe he’s in financial services. I’ve never met the man or acted for either of them before.’

  ‘How did they choose you to handle the sale of their place - personal recommendation?’

  ‘Yellow Pages, more likely. I recall she said she and her husband preferred dealing with a smaller firm: more personal treatment, more willing to fit in with clients’ special requirements than a bigger outfit. And when she asked for the name of a firm of solicitors, small yet competent at conveyancing, I mentioned Crusoe and Devlin. With emphasis on the Crusoe - no offence.’

  ‘None taken. High finance is far from being my only area of ignorance. You say “special requirements”. Did she have anything particular in mind?’

  ‘Time was of the essence, that’s the main thing that sticks in my mind. She didn’t want any hassle with signboards or adverts in the Press. She was keen to know if I could use personal contacts to find out if any of our competitors had a client looking for that type of property. Some executive from outside the city looking for a company move would be ideal, she said.’

  ‘And you soon found someone to fit the bill?’

  ‘Came up trumps straight away, as a matter of fact.’ Stanley Rowe could make even a boast sound like a prophecy of doom.

  ‘The purchasers being the Ambroses?’

  ‘Correct. As you know, Geoffrey acts for them. Ambrose is on the board of one of the subsidiaries of the Byzantium Line, who are clients of Maher and Malcolm. He’s being redeployed here from Hull and wanted to find somewhere fast. Even though he haggled, our Rosemary was willing to drop the asking price; I said I thought she could get full whack if she held out for it. But no, Graham-Brown is keen to wrap up his affairs in the UK as soon as he can, it seems. So keen that despite my strong advice to the contrary, they agreed to knock thirty thousand off.’ He shook his head, the gesture of a man who has given up trying to understand human folly.

  Harry whistled. ‘A lot of money. I wasn’t aware of that.’

  ‘No reason why you should be. As soon as the offer was accepted, I told her to give Jim a ring.’

  ‘Thanks for that. Perhaps I will buy you lunch sometime, after all. I glanced at the particulars you’d drafted in the file. Is the house as impressive as it sounds?’

  Stanley Rowe quirked his lips - his equivalent of a mischievous smile. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting I’m one of those estate agents who exaggerates the merits of a property?’

  ‘Is there any other kind?’

  ‘How cynical you are. As it happens, I can assure you that it’s a palace. The Ambroses are getting a bargain.’

  ‘Any idea why Graham-Brown should want to up and leave for the Costa del Crime in such a rush?’

  ‘I really don’t have the foggiest notion. Perhaps he’s a crook who has pulled off his last heist and wants to while away the rest of his days in the Spanish sunshine with the pulchritudinous Rosemary.’

  Many a true word, thought Harry. His interest in the woman was beginning to be matched by his curiosity about her husband. Where did his money come from and what made the couple’s departure to Puerto Banus so urgent as to justify accepting far less for their home than it was worth?

  ‘You have a dreamer’s look in your eyes, Harry. Don’t keep thinking about the lady. Graham-Brown may be in his dotage and as ugly as sin, for all I know, but my impression is that she wouldn’t worry as long as he keeps her in the style to which she’s become accustomed. With that kind of competition, even a worthy chap like you doesn’t stand a chance.’

  Harry grinned at Death Rowe. ‘Where women are concerned, I’ve learned to expect the unexpected.’

  They shook hands and Harry made his way back through Chavasse Park to his office, trying to scrub Rosemary Graham-Brown from his mind. The noise from Fenwick Court did the trick. At a distance of a hundred yards, the scream of a single electric drill assaulted his ears and as he turned the corner into the courtyard the cacophony would have made the dancers at the Danger dive for cover.

  Parked in front of the entrance to Crusoe and Devlin was the BMW he had seen before. A short distance away stood its owner, Dermot McCray, talking to a couple of his workmen; from the faces of all three Harry could tell that it was heated debate. The drilling stopped, but other members of the gang kept their eyes averted, as if afraid to get involved. He watched as McCray wagged a thick forefinger at the men and, with a parting angry word, stalked back to his car.

  Without thinking, Harry hailed him.

  ‘McCray!’

  The name echoed around the courtyard and its owner froze in the act of opening the driver’s door.

  McCray’s features might themselves have been put together by a Jerry-builder doing things on the cheap. His cheeks bore the red marks of broken blood vessels and his nose had probably gained its kink in a bar-room brawl. A Rolex glinted from his wrist, but money had not smoothed him. His fists were tightly clenched.

  ‘Who wants him?’

  The hissed words carried a promise of danger. Too late, it occurred to Harry that if McCr
ay was bent on murdering Finbar Rogan, an unrehearsed confrontation was scarcely a prudent way of tackling him. Harry sensed the labourers staring at him. He felt like an unarmed deputy who had chosen the wrong moment to go sightseeing at the OK Corral.

  ‘My name’s Devlin.’

  A good Catholic name, but it did not seem to impress McCray. He slammed the car door shut and took a couple of paces towards Harry.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m a solicitor.’ Harry jerked a thumb towards his front door. ‘That’s my office.’

  McCray glanced at the rusting nameplate.

  ‘Crusoe and Devlin? Never heard of ’em.’

  ‘One of my clients is Finbar Rogan.’

  McCray spat on the ground. When, after a few moments, he spoke again, he did so slowly, as if straining to keep himself under control.

  ‘You ought to be more choosy about the company you keep.’

  ‘Someone’s trying to kill him,’ said Harry.

  McCray gave him a long, hard look.

  ‘Good. Save me the trouble.’

  ‘Listen. You must...’

  With two strides McCray was standing in front of Harry. He dropped a palm as big as a navvy’s shovel on Harry’s shoulder.

  ‘No, you listen to me, Mr Devlin.’ The voice was guttural. At close quarters, McCray’s face was even more ravaged; deep lines cut into the skin around his eyes and mouth.

  ‘Tell your client this. He ought to get out of this city and stay out. Because if he crosses my path once more, he’s a dead man. Understand?’

  He gave the shoulder a powerful final squeeze, then released his grip, causing Harry to stagger like a punch-drunk boxer before tumbling to the ground. McCray gazed at him scornfully before getting into his car. It revved fiercely then swung back in reverse, coming within inches of Harry’s toes before accelerating out of the courtyard.

  One of the workmen laughed, breaking the silence. Someone else joined in, then another. Their derision stung Harry, yet he thought he detected in it relief that McCray had not directed his wrath at them. He clambered to his feet and dusted himself down. Self-esteem damaged more than his scapula, he turned into the office and banged the door, angry with himself for succumbing to impulse. Challenging McCray had achieved nothing and Finbar would not thank him for it. Perhaps he should have opted for the soft life all those years ago and stayed safe and secure with Maher and Malcolm. He might even have learned how to make crime pay.