I Remember You

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Best place for the hatchet is in this sod’s back.’ McCray drained his glass. ‘Anyway, what’s it to do with you, Devlin? Your client, that fucking tattooist - he’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘I expect you’re celebrating,’ said Harry.

  ‘Finest news I’ve heard in a long while.’ But McCray’s face betrayed no satisfaction. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin grey. Eileen’s death had eaten at him like a cancer; Harry could identify the signs. He suddenly experienced a burst of fellow feeling for the big brutish Irishman.

  ‘I do need to talk to you.’

  McCray grunted in derision. ‘Come to make another accusation?’

  ‘I want to ask you about Pearse Cato.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘What’s this got to do with Rogan?’ asked Dermot McCray ten minutes later.

  ‘It might explain why he was killed,’ said Harry. He felt excited but dazed. Every hour that passed was bringing him closer to the truth.

  McCray glared at Liam and jerked a thumb towards Harry. ‘Your mate’s off his head. Thought so the first time I met him. He reckoned I’d tried to murder Rogan.’ A sour quirk of the lips. ‘Wish I had.’

  Liam looked bewildered by the conversation. ‘Harry, I haven’t a whore’s notion of what you’re trying to prove, but you’re treading on risky ground for sure.’

  ‘The story of my life,’ said Harry. He extended his hand to McCray. ‘Thanks for your help - I appreciate it. And I apologise for what I said to you at Fenwick Court the other day. I was on the wrong track.’

  McCray looked at the hand, then grunted and looked away. ‘Rogan killed my Eileen. Same as if he’d shot her between the eyes.’

  ‘He’s dead now,’ said Harry. ‘She’s been avenged.’

  McCray’s face might have been part of Mount Rushmore. He gazed into the depths of his glass as Harry and Liam walked slowly back to the stairs.

  ‘You mind how you go,’ said the doorman as they approached the exit. ‘Lord knows what you’re up to, but whatever it is, I don’t like it. You’re talking about serious business here.’

  ‘Cato’s even colder than Finbar,’ said Harry. ‘There’s nothing to fear from him.’

  ‘You don’t understand what you’re messing with. If the men in balaclavas killed Finbar...’

  ‘No, they never touched him.’

  ‘What? I thought you were suggesting...’

  Harry pulled open the door giving on to the alley. Curls of mist wafted inside the building and the fog outside had thickened.

  ‘I was suggesting nothing, Liam. Thanks for introducing me to McCray. Without you, I’d not have got a word out of him.’

  Spreading his arms, Liam waved away gratitude. ‘All I ask is, when you do figure out who ran Finbar down, you let me know. I’d like five minutes with the bastard before the police get involved.

  Harry stepped out into the murk, edging towards the MG like a blind man deprived of dog and stick. He was glad that at least the fog in his own head was starting to clear.

  Once back at his flat, he tossed a pre-cooked meal into the microwave before scouring through his cupboards and wardrobe.

  As if in preparation for a jumble sale, he gathered together oddments of clothing he should have thrown out years ago: a black three-piece suit which had scarcely fitted in his days as a trainee lawyer, when he was ten years younger and did not have a beer gut; a graduation gown borrowed from a fellow Polytechnic student who had not wanted its return; an old bow tie, souvenir of Harry’s one and only attendance at a Law Society Dinner; a plain white shirt which testified to his lack of expertise with an iron.

  Having eaten, he changed into the outfit he had assembled. Then, after slicking back his hair with the pungent lotion a distant relative had given him one long-forgotten Christmas, he stood in front of the bedroom mirror and experimented with a lascivious smile.

  A charity shop Dracula leered back at him. He lacked the aristocratic mien of the Transylvanian count, but at least the dramas of the past twenty-four hours had drained all colour from his cheeks, obviating the need for make-up. A pity he didn’t have sharper teeth or longer nails.

  On his way out of the flat he noticed a screwed-up ball of paper lurking in a corner of the living room. Curious, he smoothed it out. What he saw on the sheet startled him for a moment, before he realised that it reinforced the idea which had already established itself in his mind: the idea which offered an explanation for Finbar’s fate.

  He walked the short distance through the gloom to Empire Hall. A couple of petite Scouse girls dressed as hobgoblins were on the main door, checking invitations and collecting coats and scarves.

  ‘Rosemary and Stuart Graham-Brown invited me.’

  ‘Of course we did,’ cackled a warty-faced witch standing in the entrance lobby.

  Harry took a couple of startled seconds to penetrate the crone’s disguise.

  ‘Hello, Rosemary.’

  ‘How marvellous you’ve been able to come,’ said his hostess, reverting to her usual tone and doffing her impossibly tall steeple hat in welcome. ‘A good many of our guests are already inside, but a few fainthearts have cried off because of the weather. Thanks for making the effort.’

  ‘I only live around the corner.’

  Not that it mattered, he thought. He would have battled through fog all night long for the chance of catching up with Finbar’s killer.

  ‘Let’s go through.’ She took his arm and guided him into the concert room. A grey phantom shimmered towards them, bearing a tray of drinks.

  ‘Will you have a drop of punch?’ she asked. He recognised the voice of the girl from Merseycredit’s exhibition stand. ‘Or do you only drink blood?’

  ‘I had a bite before I came out,’ he said.

  As Rosemary laughed, he surveyed his surroundings. This evening the lights were low in Empire Hall. Black cats cut out of cardboard prowled along the walls; broad-winged bats and ravens swooped down from the ceiling. The demonic faces of hollowed-out pumpkins with lighted candles inside grinned at him from every nook and cranny. Already the place was filling with representatives of the city’s financial services sector, disguised with unconscious irony as an unholy gathering of demons. As yet there was no sign of the person Harry sought.

  Misreading his mind, Rosemary said, ‘Hallowe’en is such a fascinating time, don’t you agree?’ She cackled again. ‘The day when the souls of the dead revisit their homes. A time to placate the supernatural powers.’

  ‘I’d never have suspected you of an interest in pagan rites.’

  ‘What else is consumer credit? Don’t tell Stuart I said so, mind. Ah, talk of the devil...’

  A hideous monster from the bowels of hell put a clawed hand on Rosemary’s rump, then pulled off his weirdly misshapen head to reveal the grey hair and charm-laden smile of Stuart Graham-Brown.

  ‘Grand to see you, Harry. Is my wife looking after you?’ He squeezed Rosemary’s shoulder. ‘You seem to have cheered up, darling. This afternoon you were breathing fire and brimstone, weren’t you?’

  ‘Practising for tonight?’ asked Harry.

  ‘No, no,’ said Graham-Brown. ‘You remember at lunchtime we boasted about our nanny? When we arrived home this evening, to check all was well with Rainbow before coming over here, we found Debbie with her bags packed and an immediate notice of resignation in her hand. I was livid. Told her she was in breach of contract.’

  ‘And how did she react to that?’

  ‘Said she had the best lawyer in Liverpool and would see me in court. Stupid little bitch - as if I would believe for a minute that she could afford Maher and Malcolm’s fees! Anyway, you won’t mind if we circulate?’

  Stuart was wearing a dog collar and a lead which Rosemary grasped between forefinger and thumb. With a hiss of pleasure, she
led her husband away to meet a group of newly-arrived guests.

  As Harry finished his drink someone behind him whispered, ‘You’d better take care when the eats are brought round. They’re covered with garlic.’

  He spun round and came face to face with Sophie Wilkins. A white dress clung to her with a sensuality which mocked its virginal high neck and she was carrying a posy of dried flowers. A huge ersatz diamond ring glinted from the third finger of her left hand.

  ‘The undead can never be too careful,’ he assured her. ‘You can bet I won’t be crossing the Mersey tonight.’

  She giggled and he guessed she had been making free with the punch. Drink had washed away the hostility she had shown earlier in the day.

  ‘Have you guessed who I am?’

  ‘Bride of Frankenstein?’

  She clapped her hands. ‘Well done! You really are a detective!’

  ‘Dare I ask who Frankenstein is?’

  ‘One guess.’

  ‘Nick Folley? Thought as much. Is he here?’

  ‘Somewhere around. But what brings you to this jamboree?’

  ‘I came to find out the truth about Finbar’s death.’

  ‘Don’t you ever give up?’

  ‘Life’s too short for giving up.’

  She sighed. The drinks passed by again and she helped herself from the tray. As she moved closer to him, he could feel her warm breath on his face.

  ‘I lied to you about last night.’

  ‘I know you didn’t spend it with Nick.’

  ‘You see, he had work to finish before he caught the London train. I left him to it, went home alone.’

  ‘Why did you lie?’

  ‘You had no right to ask! You’re not the police. I’d been shocked by the news, I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t want Finbar’s lawyer to start accusing me of murder.’

  ‘So you no longer have an alibi - and Finbar called to see you yesterday afternoon. I hear you didn’t part the best of pals. Perhaps you followed him to the Colonial Dock and seized the chance to run him down.’

  His suggestion sobered her. ‘Not even you can believe that.’

  ‘So what did happen?’

  ‘He turned up without warning. He’d had a few drinks and Melissa had shown him the door less than half an hour earlier. He had the nerve to say he’d enjoyed my company at the Blue Moon and hoped we could get it together again. So I gave it to him straight, told him I wouldn’t be seen dead in bed with him again. An unfortunate choice of words, in the circumstances...’

  ‘How did he react?

  ‘In his usual win-a-few, lose-a-few way. As if he simply had to turn over another page of his little red book.’

  ‘And how did you spend the evening?’

  ‘At home. Alone - I took a bottle of gin to bed with me rather than a man. Sorry, no proof - except in the alcohol.’

  She put her glass and the flowers down on the floor and stood facing him with her hands on her hips, challenging him to call her a liar. He didn’t much like Sophie Wilkins, but the misery in her expression touched him. He had to feel sorry for a woman so desperate for Frankenstein as to want to be his bride.

  Rosemary Graham-Brown had found a microphone to welcome guests; she was promising them a night to remember. The phrase reminded Harry of the Titanic, which had sailed proudly from Liverpool to death and disaster.

  ‘We’re honoured that Radio Liverpool will be broadcasting live from here later tonight as we celebrate Hallowe’en in a very special way with that enormously popular disc jockey - Mr Baz Gilbert!’

  As applause broke out, Sophie shook her head. ‘A guy with Baz’s talent reduced to this kind of crap! God, how demeaning.’

  ‘People say he’s been unlucky, and I’m beginning to believe it. But why did he never make it into the big time?’

  ‘Who knows? He looks the part and he certainly has more talent than half the kids on Radio One these days. I suppose he’s simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps it runs in the family.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard about his brother John? It’s a tragic story. They were identical twins: very close, by all accounts. John was in the Army.’

  Harry cast his mind back to a conversation at the Russian Convoy and his appearance on Pop In.

  ‘I remember - he has a photograph in the studio.’

  ‘Right. John was on a tour of duty in Belfast when terrorists killed him. They lured the poor kid to one of their strongholds and tortured him before blowing his head off.’

  Ireland again, thought Harry. Whichever way I turn, I find myself looking across the Irish Sea.

  There were two questions he must ask. The first was one he’d kept forgetting to put to the Radio Liverpool crowd. To begin with, he’d had no more than idle curiosity about the answer; now he thought it crucial to the secret of Finbar’s death.

  ‘Can you cast your mind back to the morning Finbar appeared on Pop In?’

  Sophie looked baffled. ‘Will I ever forget it? I’d never met him until then. God, if only I hadn’t been there that day!’

  ‘He caused a fuss, didn’t he, over his choice of music?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘He kept changing his mind about his favourite song. It sticks out in my mind, because he was behaving so oddly.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He’d opted at first for a track by the Dubliners - lively Irish stuff. After he got in the studio he suddenly decided he wanted something different. By Val Doonican, of all people! Not my idea of Finbar’s taste at all.’

  ‘And the song?’

  ‘An old one, called “Elusive Butterfly”. I sent Tracey out in a panic to check our library and we didn’t have it. So he laughed as if he was enjoying a huge joke and said he’d settle for an old Number One by Frank Ifield.’

  ‘I might have known,’ said Harry. ‘“I Remember You”.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Sophie, when she had answered his second question.

  Harry had anticipated her reply. No doubt was left in his mind that at last he knew the truth.

  ‘You don’t need to.’

  ‘Surely you can’t imagine that...’

  ‘Never mind my imagination.’ He spoke more harshly than he had intended. Sophie had confirmed his suspicions, but that afforded him no pleasure. All he wanted was to bring matters to an end.

  ‘I must be getting back to Baz,’ she said. ‘Oh - here’s Nick!’

  Nick Folley approached them, blowing a kiss at Sophie, giving Harry a dismissive nod. His elaborate make-up failed to disguise the self-satisfaction of his features; he gave no hint of the loneliness and misery of Mary Shelley’s monster.

  Harry tensed. Folley’s arrival gave him a chance to put another of his ideas to the test. He recalled that Frankenstein inspired loathing in anyone who saw it: in that, at least, he saw a point of resemblance between Folley and the creature created from the bones of charnel houses.

  ‘Doing any business tonight?’ asked Harry, not bothering to hide his contempt.

  ‘You never make much sense to me, Mr Devlin. What kind of business would I be doing?’

  ‘I suppose this kind of event is ideal for trade. Plenty of rich people looking for kicks.’

  ‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’

  ‘Cocaine,’ said Harry softly. ‘Easy money for a man with the right contacts. No wonder people reckon you have the Midas touch. Even if your media ventures run into trouble, there’s always a market for drugs in your crowd. Does Graham-Brown help you launder the cash?’

  Folley gave him a hard unblinking stare: a form of cover whilst he thought fast. Harry pressed on.

  ‘When I appeare
d on Pop In, I heard the news about the haul made by Customs and Excise. Was that why you had to slip down to London last night: to pick up alternative supplies so you could be sure of keeping your customers satisfied?’

  ‘You’re off your head,’ said Folley.

  ‘Nick. ...’ began Sophie.

  ‘Shut it!’

  She made as if to voice a protest, then changed her mind and slunk away, dejected. Had she been aware exactly how her lover had made his fortune? Somehow, Harry doubted it.

  ‘What I hate about it all,’ he said, ‘is the way you treat people. Take Melissa. You make her dependent, then you cast her aside - you even sack her, so - ’

  Folley leaned forward, his hands on the lapels of Harry’s jacket. ‘What has Melissa said?’

  Harry remembered the man’s uncontrollable temper. On another occasion he would have welcomed the chance to hit him, to strike a blow on behalf of lives ruined by addiction. But not tonight. He had so much yet to do.

  He squirmed out of Folley’s grasp. ‘She hasn’t betrayed you yet, though God knows why. I hope she’ll change her mind.’

  With that, he headed off through a group of fiends and phantoms, towards the makeshift studio rigged up on the stage. A glance over his shoulder confirmed that Folley was not in pursuit. Ahead of him, the bearded engineer from Pop In was testing for sound levels, whilst Rosemary Graham-Brown chatted to a man with the head of a wolf.

  ‘Baz!’ he called. ‘I’d like a word.’

  The disc jockey pulled off his savage mask, his mouth stretched in a smile that his eyes did not share.

  ‘Doesn’t he make a good lycanthrope?’ asked Rosemary, with a witch’s glee. ‘We ought to beware, of course - the werewolf is cursed by a horror that turns him into a murderous beast against his will.’

  Baz raised his eyebrows in weary amusement. ‘Harry! We must stop meeting like this.’

  ‘I know you’re busy, but can you spare me a minute? I’d like to talk in private.’