I Remember You

by Martin Edwards

  ‘What you say is outrageous,’ she said; in her voice he recognised fear rather than the simple rage of the unjustly accused. The last vestiges of her self-confidence had vanished.

  ‘Look, the sooner this whole bloody mess is cleared up, the better - for everyone.’

  ‘How dare you come here and make these slanderous innuendoes? And a lawyer, too! I’ve a good mind to report you to the Law Society.’

  ‘Join the queue,’ he said wearily. ‘Listen, Sophie. Anything I can do to help identify who killed Finbar, I will. I’m not saying for a minute that you were involved - ’

  ‘You’re too kind.’

  ‘- I’m simply pointing out that questions are bound to be asked. You need to be ready for them.’

  ‘Thanks very much. When I need professional advice, I’ll contact someone like Windaybanks.’

  ‘Okay, Sophie, have it your way. I didn’t come here to pick a fight.’

  The truth, if not the whole truth. His motives for turning up here were not disinterested. He had wanted to see at first hand how she would react to the suggestion that she was in the frame - and he had been rewarded by her hostile response.

  ‘I have to go now,’ she said. ‘Some of us have work to do.’ She turned, but paused to glance back over her shoulder from the doorway.

  ‘I had plenty to keep me occupied yesterday. You know the station’s in trouble - I’m working all the hours God sends at present.’

  ‘When did you leave?’

  She hesitated and he guessed she was wondering whether he would check on her.

  ‘Five o’clock. Late enough, after my usual dawn start.’

  Over the years, he’d encountered many witnesses like Sophie: uncertain how far to spin their stories, more concerned to put themselves in the right than to stick to the truth. He kept quiet, watching her lick her lips.

  ‘And in case you’re wondering,’ she said, ‘after that, Nick and I went to his place. When Finbar Rogan was killed, the two of us were tucked up in bed together. Does that satisfy your curiosity?’ She gave him a defiant look, then strode away.

  Harry did not attempt to follow; he was satisfied with what he had achieved so far. He’d provoked her into saying too much and into a panicky attempt to allay any suspicion that she had been involved in Finbar’s death.

  As for the alibi, he was sure she was lying.

  Chapter Twenty

  Harry re-entered reception, wanting another word with the girl on the desk. She was on the phone; as he waited for attention, a seductive voice from the speakers asked him whether he needed any extra money.

  ‘What about that new car you long for, an extension on your house or the holiday of a lifetime in exotic parts?’

  Harry, who would never part company with his MG, lived in a flat and seldom travelled further than the Lake District for a long weekend, had no interest in the soft sell. Even so, his attention was caught by a song performed by a Scouse reincarnation of the Beverley Sisters.

  ‘Whatever you choose,

  We’ll help you get it,

  You really can’t lose

  With Merseycredit.’

  The promise of an instant no-strings fortune faded as the persuasive man whispered, with a lover’s tenderness, that borrowers’ homes were at risk if they didn’t keep up the repayments, before quoting an APR figure high enough to terrify any listener with a grasp of simple arithmetic.

  Harry was no longer paying attention, although he managed to curb his impatience while the receptionist wound up her conversation. She struck him as someone who would not easily be bullied into imparting information, but she might be susceptible to a little flattery.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, I can see you’re busy. But I wondered ... do Merseycredit often advertise with you?’

  She pursed her lips. For a few seconds Harry had a glimpse of her in thirty years’ time: a hard-bitten housewife, intent on making her husband’s life a misery.

  ‘I dunno. I mean, I never listen to the ads. Does anyone?’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, choking back irritation, trying to reorganise his features into an inviting smile, ‘this is a commercial radio station. You’re at the heart of things, you have the speakers on full blast all day, every day. You must have some idea of whether you do much business with the company.’

  ‘Well,’ she said grudgingly, ‘I suppose we do. As a matter of fact...’

  She paused. Harry guessed her natural disinclination to be helpful was warring with an acute urge to appear in the know.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nick Folley - the boss, that is - was supposed to be meeting Merseycredit today. They’re putting on a big Hallowe’en party for their clients and we’re broadcasting a special show from the concert room at Empire Hall tonight.’

  Harry choked back an exclamation. So Baz and Penny had been setting off to entertain, of all people, Stuart Graham-Brown!

  ‘I thought Nick,’ he said, carefully making it clear he was on first name terms with the great man, ‘was down in London?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. Wish I was there, too, that’s where all the action is, not in this poxy dump. I’m thinking of looking for a job down there, as a matter of fact. You’d never believe the money they pay! The world would be at my feet.’

  She rolled the final phrase off her tongue with relish. Harry guessed she had picked it out of a magazine that fed its readers on unattainable dreams and was tempted to tell her that the streets of the capital were paved not with gold but with cardboard boxes. But he stifled his instinct to defend his home town and simply asked, ‘When is he due back?’

  She glanced at her watch. ‘He told me he’d be back at Lime Street before two, so I could send out a car for him.’

  Harry decided to push his luck.

  ‘Any idea when he left last night?’

  She gave him a resentful glare. ‘Don’t ask me! This isn’t the British Rail information desk, you know.’

  ‘Sorry. You’ve been very helpful. One more thing - a man called Finbar Rogan...’

  ‘The Irishman?’ The girl’s eyes gleamed with the pleasure of knowledge. ‘He’s dead. Killed last night over at Colonial Dock.’

  ‘Do you remember him phoning yesterday? Might he have spoken to Sophie Wilkins?’

  ‘He didn’t phone,’ smirked the girl. ‘He did better than that.’

  ‘You mean he actually came here?’

  ‘Insisted on seeing her,’ she confirmed. No doubt about it, she loved being at the centre of events.

  ‘And did Sophie agree to talk to him?’

  ‘Not at first. She had a cob on. In fact she’s been a pain in the arse ever since she had a row with Nick the other day.’

  ‘But Sophie and Finbar did meet?’

  ‘When I rang and said he wasn’t going to go until he’d spoken to her, she threw a wobbler. But in the end she took him in, same as she did with you. Except this time the raised voices could have been heard in the Liver Building.’

  ‘They quarrelled?’

  ‘I’ll say! It was mostly on her side, though. She can be a real cow. Mind you, he smelled like a brewery and had plenty to say for himself.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing, in the end,’ said the girl with regret. ‘He popped in for a word with the marketing manager’s secretary, gave me a wink and was gone.’ A claim to fame occurred to her. ‘Hey, maybe I was the last person to see him alive!’

  ‘Except for the person who ran him over.’

  ‘Well - yeah.’

  He could tell she was entranced by the idea of close contact with sudden death: something to boast about to her friends. Muttering thanks, he hurried out into North John Street, where a taxi driver heading towards the Town Hall caught his windmilling wave.

&
nbsp; ‘Where to, pal?’

  ‘Lime Street.’ He hoped to catch Folley on arrival, before Sophie had any chance to forewarn him of her claim that they had spent the previous evening together. The story was surely a spur of the moment invention, a piece of wishful thinking. It also occurred to him that if Sophie lacked an alibi for Finbar’s killing - then so might Nick Folley.

  Settling down in the back of the cab, Harry wondered if Finbar’s abortive one-afternoon stand with Sophie provided her boss with a motive for murder. Folley was not a man to suffer public humiliation in silence, as witness his rush of blood to the head at Empire Hall. Harry recalled Folley’s frenzied lunge and the strength of his grip on Finbar’s neck. Suppose some unknown chance - or design - had brought the two men together at Colonial Dock the previous evening. Harry could imagine Folley at the wheel of the hire car, seeing Finbar ahead of him in the lamplight, forcing his foot down on the accelerator with the same fury that had moved him to an absurd attempt at a public strangulation.

  And yet - what would have taken Finbar to a rendezvous with Nick Folley at Colonial Dock on a cold October night? It was a bleak stretch of water surrounded by disused warehouses, a ghostly relic of Merseyside’s maritime past. A place omitted from the tourist guides and described as ripe for development only by those with the most vivid imaginations.

  The cab joined a queue of traffic on the climb up Roe Street. At the sight of the cars tailing back from the lights opposite the station, Harry paid and scrambled out into the fume-laden air. He crossed the road, then took the steps to the station entrance hall two at a time. The concourse was teeming with people and he pushed through the crowd to join those staring up at the information board. The next train from Euston was almost due. He wandered over to the paperback stall, where he was amused to notice a doyen of the Liverpool accountancy profession furtively purchasing a girlie magazine, sliding it inside his Financial Times with an ease Harry felt sure was born of long practice. Knowing that old rogue, he probably had a scheme for claiming tax relief on his purchase.

  As the arrival of the London train was announced, Harry moved towards the gate which led to the platform. He scanned the faces of the returning travellers: students humping rucksacks, back from the bright lights; London businessmen on a flying visit to North West subsidiaries to impose another batch of redundancies; elderly people with bemused expressions, fussing about their tickets and their destinations; a party of burger-munching kids with harassed teachers. And, finally, emerging from the first class compartment with a smart briefcase under his arm, came Nick Folley.

  Folley tossed his ticket towards the collector and sauntered through the barrier. Harry called to him. ‘Can I have a word?’

  Folley swung round. The expression on his face was one of pleased surprise; perhaps he imagined he had been accosted by a journalist anxious to follow the every move of a prominent celebrity. When he recognised Harry, the smile faded.

  ‘You again.’

  ‘We must stop meeting like this.’

  ‘You were on the London train?’

  ‘No, but Radio Liverpool told me you were and I wanted a word.’

  Folley frowned. ‘You’ve been looking for me?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about Finbar Rogan.’

  Folley sucked in his cheeks. ‘I can’t imagine anyone I have less wish to discuss.’

  ‘Did you know he’s dead?’

  Folley put the briefcase down on the ground, with as much care as if it were full of fragile antiques. Was his surprise genuine? Harry could not tell. After all, the man had long experience of performing before the cameras.

  ‘He was killed by a car last night. It was a hit-and-run job.’

  ‘I won’t pretend I’m heartbroken,’ Folley said slowly. ‘Kids driving a stolen vehicle, was it? Didn’t he get out of their way in time?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I believe he was murdered.’

  ‘Really? Well, you may be right. After all, there had been other attempts, hadn’t there? All he was good for was making enemies.’

  ‘The person who set fire to his shop and planted the bomb was already in police custody at the time Finbar died. His wife has confessed to both the earlier crimes.’

  ‘What?’ Folley could not hide his amazement.

  ‘So anyone who hoped the blame would fall on Sinead Rogan is due for a disappointment.’

  ‘And - what do the police think?’

  ‘No idea. I’m making my own enquiries.’

  ‘Aren’t you taking a lot on yourself?’

  ‘I was Finbar’s lawyer. And, in a way, his friend.’

  Folley snorted his contempt. ‘You can’t tell me Rogan had any friends - just acquaintances and saloon-bar pick-ups.’

  ‘Jealous?’

  For half a second, Harry thought he had struck a nerve; Folley took a step forward and lifted a hand. But then he checked himself and forced his mouth into a humourless parody of the old smile from his television days.

  ‘If you’re thinking of Melissa, forget it. I won’t deny I was glad to be seen with her at one time of day. But she - well, let’s just say in the end she needed me more than I needed her. I dropped her before she started seeing Rogan.’

  ‘And Sophie?’

  Two spots of colour came into Folley’s cheeks. ‘She made a stupid mistake. We all do, from time to time.’

  ‘You weren’t so phlegmatic at Empire Hall the other night. You tried to strangle Finbar.’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t be so fucking melodramatic. That was my stupid mistake, if you insist: something and nothing, over and done with in the space of seconds. I’m working under pressure all the time. Business conditions - they’re not easy at present. I’ve had one or two setbacks lately. That’s why I had to dash down to London, if you must know. It’s hardly surprising if once in a while I lose my cool.’

  ‘And did you - lose your cool again last night?’

  ‘What?’ Folley scowled, then barked a laugh. ‘You’re not suggesting I was the one who ran him down, are you?’

  ‘Are you denying it? The police are bound to ask the question.’

  ‘Of course I’m denying it, you fool! The whole idea’s crazy.’

  ‘So where were you yesterday afternoon and evening, before you set off for London?’

  Folley gritted his teeth, as if resolving that the conversation had gone far enough. He picked up his briefcase.

  ‘Mind your own business, Mr Devlin. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and mind mine.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Harry watched Nick Folley stride across the concourse towards a waiting car emblazoned with the name and logo of Radio Liverpool and wondered whether he had been talking to Finbar’s murderer.

  Why hadn’t Folley volunteered Sophie as his alibi? Of course, the obvious and innocent explanation could be the truth: he had no right to cross-examine anyone and Folley might simply have become sick of the questions and decided to co-operate no further. On the other hand - ah, that favourite lawyers’ phrase! - perhaps Folley did have something to hide. A glance at the train departure times told him that Folley could have taken an express to London two or three hours after the time when Finbar had met his death. What had Folley been doing before that? Had he been with Sophie - or not?

  Harry debated with himself as the travellers jostled by. Melissa had been sacked; Sophie would no doubt refuse to speak to him if he returned to North John Street again. He needed another source of information and his best hope was Baz Gilbert. He decided to make for Bellingham’s. Someone else would be there with whom his first meeting was long overdue: Stuart Graham-Brown.

  The shock of Finbar’s death had pushed Rosemary to the back of his mind - but not out of it. Yet nothing he had learned today made it easier to understand what the Graham-Browns were up to.<
br />
  The Hallowe’en party sounded like a large scale public relations exercise rather than a routine knees-up; hiring the concert room at Empire Hall cost serious money. Why would the Graham-Browns go to so much trouble when they were on the point - they hoped - of emigrating? An elaborate bluff? One thing was certain: so far as the house sale was concerned, Stuart had hidden behind his wife for long enough.

  Harry didn’t have a chauffeur-driven car on hand and the line of people searching for taxis was as long as a Kirkby dole queue, so he took the escalator for the Underground. The Liverpool Loop had long ago been christened the Bermuda Triangle by commuters driven to despair by the cancellation of scheduled services, but for once the metallic voice announcing delays due to a whole host of reasons, ranging from staff shortages to water on the line, was silent. As he arrived on the platform, a train pulled in, and five minutes later he was walking through the misty streets which led from James Street Station to Bellingham’s.

  The wine bar was owned by a local actor who revelled in Liverpudlian hostility towards central government and he’d named the place after a man who had lived in the city almost two hundred years earlier; the story was told on a plaque inside the door to the bar. John Bellingham felt he’d suffered an injustice at the hands of the Russians; when the authorities failed to put matters right, he’d travelled to London and shot the Prime Minister. In those days there wasn’t much scope for defence lawyers and within a week Bellingham had been tried, convicted, sentenced and executed. Would Pearse Cato one day similarly be celebrated? Harry wondered. How long would it take for the memory of senseless brutality to fade, for today’s assassins to be regarded with tolerant good humour?

  He spotted Baz Gilbert waiting at the bar for service and walked up behind him.