I Remember You

by Martin Edwards

  Chapter Eleven

  The phone was ringing as Harry reached his desk. He wasn’t in the mood for more confrontation, whether with clients, opposing solicitors or barristers’ clerks chasing payment of inflated fees, and at first he paid no attention, hoping the call would go away. No chance. Suzanne had seen him slink in and, irked by his failure to check on calls received in his absence, would let him have no hiding place. Finally he surrendered.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Mr Rogan,’ the girl said and put Finbar through before Harry could tell her to take a message.

  ‘Harry, at last! This is the third time I’ve called since midday. The lovely Suzanne said you’d gone to some lecture, but this is no time for swotting. Your clients need help.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’ asked Harry, not finding it difficult to restrain his enthusiasm.

  ‘Listen, that bloody Sladdin, you know what he’s done? He’s got a couple of fellers in a car down the road keeping an eye on me. When I went out to the newsagent to see what the Daily Post had to say about the bomb, they followed me down the road. Trying to be discreet, like, but I could tell what they were up to.’

  After his humiliating encounter with Dermot McCray, Harry didn’t feel inclined to offer his shoulder for crying on. ‘What do you expect? You’re a Dubliner, there was a bomb under your car, you gave Sladdin the impression you were telling less than the whole truth...’

  ‘I’m a bloody victim! The bomb was meant for me!’

  ‘Look, you’re not dealing with a fool. Sladdin would be negligent if he didn’t set up some form of surveillance.’

  At the other end of the line Finbar sighed. ‘Fat lot of comfort you are. How long is this likely to go on?’

  ‘Till Sladdin finds out who has it in for you. You could speed things up by coming clean.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Come on, Finbar, let’s not play games. People don’t have their premises burned down and their cars bombed simply for dropping litter in the street. Until you take me into your confidence, there isn’t much I can do to save your skin from Dermot McCray.’

  ‘What?’ Finbar sounded taken aback. ‘Why do you mention him?’

  ‘I had a brief encounter with him outside the office a couple of minutes ago. He’s not your number one fan. And if he’s mixed up with terrorists...’

  ‘Harry, for God’s sake, don’t keep on about bloody terrorists, will you? You’re as bad as Sladdin.’

  ‘You seriously expect me to believe it’s got nothing to do with that? I wasn’t born yesterday. Okay, I realise it isn’t policy to cross the people back in Ireland, far less go bleating to the boys in blue. I can see why you’re keeping mum while you try to straighten things out with someone who might be able to rein in McCray. But if you’re not prepared to let me into the secret...’

  ‘Ah, I told you not to act the detective. I know it’s your favourite game and you’ve had your successes, but leave this one alone, mate, for your sake as well as mine. I need a live Perry Mason, not a dead Sam Spade.’

  ‘All Perry’s clients were innocent. I should be so lucky.’

  Down the line came Finbar’s familiar burst of laughter. He could never be out of temper for long.

  ‘Never mind. Even he would have had his work cut out if he’d practised in Liverpool. Listen, are you going to the exhibition in the Empire Hall tonight?’

  ‘I was meaning to avoid it. Jim had offered to take a turn at the local Legal Group’s stand, but I’ve had as much as I can take of Liverpool Business Day after listening to my old boss pontificate about Boom or Bust this lunchtime.’

  ‘Oh ye of little faith. It’s only a couple of minutes from your flat. Why don’t you show up, even if only to have a drink with me and Melissa? She’ll be on the Radio Liverpool stand for half an hour this evening.’

  ‘Are you two still together?’

  ‘Of course. Why ever not?’

  ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ Harry said, half grudging, half amused.

  ‘Well, she doesn’t know Sophie was with me in the Blue Moon. As far as she’s concerned, I’d just called for a chat with my old mate Reg when my car was blown to bits outside.’

  ‘Finbar, you’re less trustworthy than half the criminals I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Listen, I’m only a lad with a liking for the ladies. And you know what they say about sex in Dublin, don’t you? There it is, the loveliest little thing in the world and they had to go and make a sin out of it.’

  ‘So when does the lad finally get to grow up?’

  ‘Harry, I’m starting to think that at my age, I’m too old to grow up. So shall I see you tonight?’

  ‘If your enemies don’t beat me to it.’

  As Harry rang off, his secretary came in bearing a thick brown envelope.

  ‘Hand delivery from Maher and Malcolm.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He slit it open and scanned the contents. ‘Can you fetch me the Graham-Brown sale file from Jim’s room, please?’

  ‘Conveyancing?’ Lucy’s expression of bewilderment made him feel like Dracula asking her to pass the garlic. ‘Wouldn’t you like Sylvia to handle it?’

  ‘No need,’ he said with dignity. ‘I’m beginning to think I have hidden talents as a property lawyer.’

  Lucy turned on her way out. ‘I’d feel safer having the Boston Strangler give me a neck massage!’

  After she had shut the door, Harry studied Geoffrey Willatt’s letter. The problem which the Ambroses had raised seemed a simple one: the rear garden of the Graham-Browns’ house appeared to dog-leg around a couple of old horse chestnut trees. The plans with the deeds - which Harry had copied and attached to the contract - indicated that the trees fell inside the boundaries of the property. Actual observation, however, suggested the contrary and there was no fence, hedge or other dividing line at that spot to put the matter beyond doubt. It was the kind of discrepancy which would prove a fertile source of future dispute if not sorted out now.

  Harry’s first instinct was to yawn, but after a moment he brightened. There was only one way to wrap the matter up with the speed which both buyers and sellers demanded.

  He would have to pay Rosemary a visit.

  It would need to be a surprise visit, too, given that he did not have her ex-directory number and that if the transaction was to proceed as promptly as required, he couldn’t afford to write her a letter or wait for her to telephone him. He took one look at the pile of correspondence plaintively hoping for attention and decided there was no time like the present - for calling on Rosemary Graham-Brown, that was, rather than getting stuck in to the tedium of deskwork. He buzzed Lucy and announced his intentions.

  ‘But what about...’

  ‘One has to prioritise,’ he said, recalling a bit of jargon from a practice management article he had once read in The Law Society’s Gazette. ‘This is a private-paying client, an urgent matter. Let Suzanne know I’ve gone out the back way.’ He didn’t relish braving the switchboard girl’s wrath again. Restored to good humour, he added, ‘I may be some time.’

  The drive to Formby did not take long. It was a crisp afternoon and he felt excited at the prospect of seeing Rosemary again. Presumably her husband would now be at his office: there might be an opportunity for a chat over a cuppa once the business of the boundary was out of the way. Moreover, he would have the chance to satisfy his curiosity whilst enjoying her company.

  Crow’s Nest House stood on a wooded slope, commanding a view of the Irish Sea. Set back from the road and reached via an unmade track which the council had never adopted, it conformed to the odd principle that the better the property, the worse the access. As his MG bumped from pothole to pothole he began to wish he had walked up from the main road. Rounding the last tree-lined corner, he passed through open wrought-iron entrance
gates and took his first look at the home Stuart and Rosemary Graham-Brown were in such a hurry to sell.

  For once Death Rowe’s eulogistic description in the property particulars coincided with reality. The house was a double-fronted building in white stucco with smart green shutters at every window. Koi carp swam in an ornamental pond; beyond the triple garage Harry could see a summer-house in the style of a Swiss chalet. The tranquillity of the place made it hard to believe that the city’s clamour was only a short drive away.

  He parked and pressed the doorbell. Musical chimes sounded. Somewhere inside a small child began to bleat.

  The crying startled him. He had expected Rosemary to be alone. And yet - of course! - the particulars had spoken of a nursery. He had not realised, however, that it was in active use; she had not mentioned a child. He felt a stab of dismay before the absurdity of his instinctive response dawned on him. If it was okay to fancy a married woman, why did it bother him that she was a mother too?

  Unsure of himself, he stared at the door. Coming here had seemed a good idea; now he was having second thoughts. He stood there for a full minute before he pulled himself together and rang again. The child renewed its howl of protest but soon he heard approaching footsteps. He sensed someone studying him through the spyhole cut into the oak before at last the door was opened.

  Rosemary was simply dressed, in white tee-shirt and scruffy jeans, and she had tied her hair back with an orange ribbon. Without the elegant clothes she’d worn when calling at the office, somehow she did not seem so unattainable.

  ‘Harry.’

  Her tone, like her face, was questioning and lacked any trace of welcome. It was almost as if she found his unannounced arrival alarming.

  ‘Hello, Rosemary,’ he said, disconcerted. ‘There’s something I need to check with you.’

  She glanced at her watch. When she spoke again, her sharpness startled him.

  ‘Couldn’t you have phoned?’

  ‘You told me you were ex-directory.’

  She looked at him steadily. He could tell her mind was working rapidly, but to what purpose, he could not guess.

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry. It’s just - you’ve caught me at a bad time, that’s all. Won’t you come in?’

  He followed her past a glass cabinet full of porcelain. He knew no more about objects d’art than he did about the law of corporate acquisitions, but he suspected that the insurance premium on the Graham-Browns’ household contents would be enough to finance the purchase of the whole of Fenwick Court, with something to spare. She led him into a living room larger than the average courtroom. Through a wall of picture windows he could see a paved area equipped with lighting and a barbecue. Herbaceous borders edged a lawn which was separated by a narrow stream from the rougher grassland stretching towards the horse chestnuts Mr and Mrs Ambrose were so anxious to own.

  ‘Take a seat,’ she said, motioning him towards a chesterfield covered with skilfully patchworked cushions. The clocks, paintings and bits of china dotted here and there were straight out of a Sotheby’s catalogue; enough to delight the choosiest of his burglar-clients.

  ‘I hope you’ve not come to break the news that there’s a hold-up on the sale,’ she said.

  Lacking the make-up she’d worn on their previous encounters, her face was pale. He sensed that not far beneath the surface bubbled anxiety verging on desperation. Again he wondered why the Graham-Browns were so keen to get away from one of the smartest homes in north Merseyside.

  ‘A minor snag, that’s all. I’m confident we can sort it out.’

  Her whole body relaxed visibly and her expression brightened. Ridiculously pleased that he could produce even this slight change in her emotions, Harry felt his heart beat a little faster. He launched into his explanation and was halfway through describing the problem raised by the Ambroses when, in another room, the child howled once more.

  ‘Oh God, don’t tell me the baby’s getting bored with the playpen,’ Rosemary muttered. She raised her voice and called out, ‘Coming!’

  ‘Boy or girl?’ he asked as she got up to do her duty.

  ‘Girl. And a little madam she certainly is.’

  ‘Called?’

  ‘Rainbow - if you can believe that.’

  He groped for a diplomatic reply and finally managed, ‘Unusual.’

  ‘You could say that. Personally, I think she’ll suffer for it at school. But it wasn’t my idea.’

  ‘Stuart’s?’

  ‘Er ... yes.’

  The unseen Rainbow began to sob and Rosemary said quickly, ‘Excuse me a minute while I go and see what her ladyship wants.’

  Whilst she was gone he absorbed his surroundings. Some of the antiques - the ebony-framed sampler dated 1762 and an extravagantly-carved grandfather clock - might be heirlooms. If so, he had no doubt that they came from Stuart’s side of the family. Nothing he had seen had made him revise his initial opinion that her roots were in the shabby Liverpool streets. Every now and then, she gave herself away: as with the barely concealed disdain for the ludicrous name her husband had foisted upon her daughter.

  He could not help but be intrigued by the hint of discord between husband and wife. Was Stuart a much older man on the brink of retirement and Rosemary an increasingly discontented mother and housewife? Did she see in their departure for Spain an opportunity for romance and adventure?

  ‘I love children,’ she said, returning so quietly as to startle him with the sound of her voice, ‘but coping with them all day every day is a test of anyone’s devotion. Now, you were saying?’

  Harry finished describing the query about the deeds and suggested that she let him see for himself the area of land between the Graham-Browns’ property and the open ground which belonged to a farm on the other side of the slope.

  ‘Good idea. Let’s sort it out right away, if we can.’

  Outside, they took a path which led to a couple of stepping stones in the stream, then strolled up to the dilapidated picket fence which formed the boundary of the grassland. While Rosemary watched, Harry followed the fence’s winding progress until he arrived at its end thirty yards away from the horse chestnuts. Feeling like a Red Indian scout from the pages of Fenimore Cooper, he knelt in the undergrowth and searched around for several minutes.

  ‘Problem solved,’ he said to Rosemary as they walked back to the house. ‘The pickets haven’t vanished, they’re buried in that tangle of nettles. But you can make out the original course of the fence and it certainly runs around the outside of the trees. Do you remember when it began to collapse? I see from the land certificate you’ve been here a number of years.’

  ‘Eight, I think,’ said Rosemary. She smiled at him. ‘I was a child bride, you understand. So can we get the Ambroses’ knickers out of their twist?’

  ‘Leave it to me.’

  ‘Marvellous. The least I can do in the circumstances is offer you tea. I’m sure you’re very busy, but can you spare the time?’

  He paused as they reached the back door. ‘I can’t think of a better way to spend an afternoon.’

  Her hand brushed against his. ‘You know, you’re not my idea of a solicitor. Thank God. I’m lucky to have you.’ And she kissed him quickly on the cheek before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.

  As he listened to the kettle come to the boil, he felt lust warring with common sense. It occurred to him that this encounter had echoes of scenes in movies he loved: the glamorous lady of the house charming an eager admirer in the absence of her husband. He thought of Barbara Stanwyck tempting Fred McMurray in Double Indemnity. Was it possible, he asked himself, that when she came back into the room Rosemary would be in seductive mood? Did she see in him a means of escape from a tiresome husband, elderly but rich?

  Might she even have murder on her mind?

  He became awar
e that his mouth was dry, his body tense with expectation. Of course, it was ridiculous to let his imaginings take hold - but he could not help himself. She was not a woman he could easily resist.

  ‘Thinking about the law?’ she asked, making another soft-soled return to the living room.

  ‘About breaking it,’ he said.

  She laid the tray of tea things down on a small mahogany table and, tilting her head to one side, considered him with care, as if in an attempt to make up her mind. Harry waited for her response.

  ‘I don’t see you as a law-breaker,’ she said.

  And the note of regret in her voice told him more plainly than any words that he was not going to be seduced today.

  Chapter Twelve

  Half an hour later Harry was on his way back to the office. Waiting at traffic lights in Waterloo, he cast his mind back to the small talk he and Rosemary had exchanged while sipping their tea. No conversation between solicitor and client could have been more innocuous. She had neither made love to him nor sought to incite him to murder.

  And all too soon she would be sunning herself in her husband’s company at Puerto Banus. Accelerating as the lights turned to green, he instructed himself to blot Rosemary’s face from his mind and treat her as no more than a name on a buff legal file.

  On arriving at Fenwick Court his first thought was to ring Heather Crusoe for the latest about Jim.

  ‘Much better,’ she assured him. ‘It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep can do. He’s off the drip and they’re already talking about the chances of him going home soon. Oh, and he wanted me to remind you specially that he expects you to do your duty at the exhibition. No sudden call-outs to some grotty police cell to get yourself off the hook and he said you weren’t to slope off home until you have a diary-full of new clients.’