Yesterday's Papers

by Martin Edwards

  Harry shrugged. ‘I’m not worried about that. But even if we do have the old file, it may cast no light on the case.’

  Miller bowed. ‘Of course. But if you do discover any relevant information and feel able to share it with me, you have my address and telephone number. I hope to hear from you. In the meantime, au revoir, Mr Devlin, and thank you for listening.’

  Harry watched him walk away in the direction of the taxi rank, a frail old man with a taste for death. He found Miller easy to dislike, but not so easy to ignore. What exactly caused him to doubt Smith’s guilt? It must be more than an old woman’s blind faith in her son’s innocence. Was it a snatch of gossip founded on fancy, or something more substantial, something a court might accept as evidence? Harry felt sure Miller did know more about the case than he was yet prepared to reveal and, almost to his dismay, he found himself itching to learn what it was.

  ‘Penny for ’em,’ said a voice in his ear.

  Turning to face the man who had spoken, Harry said, ‘Whatever makes you believe my thoughts could be published in a family newspaper?’

  Ken Cafferty smiled broadly, as he often did. He was chief crime reporter on one of the city’s local papers and his cherubic appearance and amiable manner often induced indiscretions from people who had meant to keep their mouths shut and soon had cause to wish they had done so.

  ‘I’m always more interested in the bits we leave out of our stories than in those we print. Not so much the stuff that’s libellous, but all the true stories the man in the street simply couldn’t bring himself to believe.’

  ‘Headlines we never see, like “Low Pay Unit Demands Higher Fees For Lawyers”?’

  ‘Now I don’t mind a little invention, but I draw the line at outright fantasy. Anyway, I can sniff an exclusive already. I’ve caught Harry Devlin standing outside a pub with no apparent intention of going inside.’

  ‘I staggered to the exit after I ran out of oxygen.’

  ‘I’d have thought after a few pints you wouldn’t bother about that kind of thing. Personally, I don’t mind the Wallace. I like anywhere so cramped that there’s no alternative but to eavesdrop. Anyway, what were you up to, celebrating the Kevin Walter verdict in advance?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘I’m not counting my chickens. No, someone’s been bending my ear about a trial that dates back to the sixties.’

  ‘Don’t tell me they’ve finally decided to appeal?’

  ‘It’s an old murder case, dead and buried in more ways than one. There’s a suggestion that the wrong man may have been found guilty.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder how any crimes are ever committed, given the number of innocents around who are unlucky enough to keep being convicted. But let that pass. A miscarriage story always sells papers. Who did the system stitch up this time?’

  Harry wondered how much he should tell the journalist. He could see no harm in selective disclosure. Miller had not sworn him to secrecy and Ken might have ideas of his own about the case. His encyclopaedic knowledge of Liverpudlian crime was all the more impressive in view of the sheer volume of the subject matter. He claimed his years in the job had brought him face to face with more villains than Her Majesty’s Inspector of Prisons ever saw.

  ‘A young girl called Carole Jeffries was killed.’

  ‘The Sefton Park Strangling,’ said Ken promptly.

  ‘Ten out of ten. You know the case?’

  ‘Before my time, of course, but I’ve heard about it. Every now and then we dig something up from the archives to fill a few paragraphs on a slack day. If there’s a mugger roaming round that part of the city, say, or we’re doing a feature on famous Liverpool murders. Lazy journalism, admittedly.’ He winked and added, ‘I do it a lot.’

  ‘Any chance I might have a look at the material you have?’

  Ken clicked his tongue. ‘Strictly classified, you should realise that. More than my job’s worth, and all that.’

  ‘You mean it will cost me?’

  ‘With such a cynical mind, you should have become a reporter. As a matter of fact, I’m starving. I’ve spent the day on the trail of a crooked builder at a property developers’ conference. It would have been easier to hunt for a particular twig in Delamere Forest. Buy me a meal and I may force myself to overcome my professional scruples. I should say this kind of information must be worth a table for two at the Ensenada.’

  ‘I had a burger and chips in mind.’

  ‘My old dad used to work for The Sun, and he taught me everything I ever learned about media ethics,’ said Ken sadly. ‘He must be spinning in his grave at the thought of my selling my soul - for less than the price of a Chateaubriand with champagne, that is. He knew his worth and we always lived well on it. But the traditional values are dead, I suppose. I’ll settle for the junk food, you old skinflint.’

  As they headed towards the city centre, Harry asked, ‘Ever heard of any doubt that the right man was caught in the Sefton Park case?’

  ‘Never. Wasn’t there a guilty plea? As I recall, there was no mystery. All the excitement lay in the fact that a gorgeous young girl had died and her father was famous. The main thrust of the coverage was that the bastard who killed the little girl should have swung for it.’

  ‘A distinct absence of liberal hand-wringing about whether all the niceties of procedure had been observed in persuading him to cough?’

  ‘We’re talking about the days when people thought Dixon Of Dock Green was a documentary. Are you suggesting - perish the thought - that the police beat a false confession out of whatshisname?’

  ‘Edwin Smith. No, at this stage I simply don’t know.’

  ‘So what’s your interest?’

  ‘Smith died in jail, but one or two questions have been raised about whether the verdict was right.’

  ‘Who’s been bending your ear?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Harry with relish. ‘I’m not able to name my sources. You of all people will understand that.’

  The orange neon of the welcome sign above the burger bar made a vivid splash in the evening darkness. The place was packed with people queuing for service from youngsters wearing paper kepis and badges emblazoned with smiley faces. The air was thick with the smell of fat and the sound of catarrhal Scouse voices chanting carefully rehearsed phrases like ‘Hi, how may I help you?’, ‘Two triple whammies with fries!’ and ‘Have a nice night!’.

  Harry bought the food and drink, then slid a hot polystyrene package across the formica surface of the table Ken had chosen. ‘Thicken your arteries with that.’

  Ken poured brown sauce over his burger with as much delicacy as if he were coating strawberries with cream. ‘So what information are you looking for?’

  ‘I’m keen to know more about the people in the case. I hadn’t realised how many of Merseyside’s great and good were involved, although I was vaguely aware that Guy Jeffries was a big name at the time.’

  ‘We headed his obituary “Socialism’s Nearly Man”, as I recall, though I can think of scores of contenders for that particular epitaph. He topped himself the day Margaret Thatcher came into power, you know.’

  One or two jokes rose to the tip of Harry’s tongue, but he resisted temptation. ‘How did he do it?’

  ‘Overdose of sleeping pills. By all accounts, he’d followed the Iron Lady’s career in opposition with mounting alarm and I suppose he realised that once the Tories regained power, they wouldn’t let anyone prise it out of their claws in a hurry. Needless to say, with all the political excitement, his passing barely made the stop press. Of course, by then his time had gone. He was sitting on the sidelines of public life.’

  ‘I gather he lost his way after the death of his daughter. Not like his pal, Clive Doxey.’

  ‘Oh yes, Sir Clive’s done well for himself. Trust a lawyer. Do you know him?’

 
‘Hardly. We move in different circles.’

  ‘You mean you act for the criminal classes, he simply talks about them?’

  Harry grinned. Although Clive Doxey had qualified as a barrister many years ago, he had never practised, preferring a career in academe. In his early days as an angry young don, he had courted controversy by railing in lectures and in print against the cosy assumptions of the legal establishment. His ceaseless campaigning for justice for all had made him a household name and earned him a knighthood when his friend Harold Wilson left Downing Street for the last time. Nowadays, he had a weekly column in The Guardian and was married to a blonde less than half his age whose main claim to fame was a spell as a TV weather girl. Inevitably, his success had encouraged sniping and his detractors claimed that, amongst political turncoats, he made the Vicar of Bray look like a model of constancy. Commie Clive, the romantically hotheaded student from the London School of Economics, had matured into a man faithful for twenty years to the Labour Party before flirting with social democracy in the eighties and ultimately finishing up in bed with the Liberals. But he took all the criticism in his stride and continued to fight for what he believed in. Nowadays, no national debate - whether over the wearing of wigs in court or the need to tackle the causes of crime - was complete without a soundbite from Sir Clive.

  ‘Did you know he called at the Jeffries’ house on the day young Carole died?’

  ‘No?’ Ken’s eyebrows rose. ‘I must say, he’s managed to keep that quiet over the years.’

  ‘I might,’ said Harry on impulse, ‘like to talk to him about his memories of the case. See if he thinks Smith was innocent.’

  ‘Why not? He seems to reckon most convicted killers are. A miscarriage story would be right up his street.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll get in touch with him. Not that he is the only well-known character connected with the case. Benny Frederick is another. Carole worked for him and she was a good-looking young girl, after all. He’s bound to have taken an interest in her.’

  ‘Don’t let your imagination roam too far. One thing’s for sure, if anyone would have been immune to the charms of a Liverpudlian Lolita, Benny’s the man. Now if you’d been talking about a pretty schoolboy, things would have been different.’

  ‘I didn’t know Benny Frederick was gay.’

  ‘For God’s sake, I thought you fancied yourself as a detective, a student of your fellow human beings. Benny’s preferences are common knowledge. Mind, he’s a decent enough chap. I had a few words with him only the other day at the Bluecoat Gallery. They’re exhibiting photographs he took in the sixties.’

  ‘You think he’d be happy to talk to me?’

  Benny Frederick had been among the first to see the marketing potential of the pop promotion video and later he had turned his hand to producing business tapes intended to aid the development of management skills. Harry’s partner, Jim Crusoe, had even talked about investing in Frederick’s best-selling Guide to Client Care and Public Relations. Hitherto, Harry had resisted the idea but now, he thought, the time might have come to climb aboard the PR bandwagon.

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind giving you a bit of back-ground.’

  ‘What about Ray Brill?’

  Chewing hard, Ken said in a muffled tone, ‘The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.’

  ‘He was Carole’s boyfriend. Surely you remember the Brill Brothers?’

  ‘Oh, the pop group?’

  ‘Just a duo - and I don’t think they were brothers in real life.’

  Ken’s brow furrowed. ‘Weren’t they mixed up with some other murder case?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Ken thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘It’s gone. I’ll let you know when the story comes back to me. But I can’t say I remember much about them - or any of their songs. Truth is, I’m tone deaf. Can’t tell the difference between Beethoven and Bruce Springsteen. They both sound the same to me and it’s not a sound I care for. As far as I’m concerned, the written word’s the thing. The pen is mightier than the skiffle board.’ He laid down his plastic knife and fork. ‘So those are the dramatis personae?’

  ‘The ones I know about. A mixed bag, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ll be interested to hear how they react to your view that the police’s neat solution to the Sefton Park case may not have been correct.’

  ‘It’s not my view. But I don’t believe in neat solutions.’

  ‘You’re simply embarrassed by your repeated failures with our quick crossword.’ Ken wiped his mouth on a paper napkin bearing the ubiquitous smiley face. ‘That filled a corner. Give my compliments to the chef, even though he did go a little too easy on the gherkin.’

  ‘So when can I expect you to delve into your files for a little more info?’

  ‘I told you, it’s strictly against company rules.’

  ‘You’ll enjoy the frisson.’

  ‘Stop talking dirty. Look, I’ll see what I can do - on the understanding that if there’s a story in it at the end of the day, you’ll make sure I’m the first to know.’ He paused, then said, ‘Preferably a true story.’

  ‘You never used to be so fussy. Listen, I’ll have a pint of best waiting for you in the Dock Brief tomorrow night. Six sharp?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’ Ken flipped the empty burger carton into a wastepaper basket which again bore a smiley face. ‘And thanks for your lavish hospitality.’

  Harry set off home, the city was quiet, with the pubs full and the clubs yet to open. His route took him down Mathew Street, once the site of the old Victorian fruit warehouse which later became a club known as the Cavern. The Brill Brothers would certainly have played there. He was too young to remember what it had been like in Liverpool during the sixties, but people still talked about those golden days when the Beatles were on three times a week and a hat-check girl could change her name from Priscilla White to Cilla Black and suddenly find herself at number one in the charts. It had been a time of endless possibilities, when the world watched what went on in a dirty old port and when everyone believed that fame and fortune were waiting around the next corner.

  The Cavern had been bulldozed when Harry was still a boy, but he had heard enough about it for images of the place to be etched in his mind. The stink of oranges and cabbage in the street outside, the sweaty atmosphere within as a crush of kids clutching precious membership cards swayed to the rhythms of the Mersey Sound. Now those of Merseybeat’s pioneers who were left mostly propped up city centre bars, reminiscing about what might have been. John Lennon would never have dreamed he had so many bosom buddies or recognised the tat flogged as Beatles memorabilia by sixties survivors with an eye for a fast buck and a gullible punter.

  Pausing beneath the wall sculpture which celebrated the Four Lads Who Shook The World, Harry wondered what Ray Brill was doing these days. Had he, like Guy Jeffries, had his life ruined by his girlfriend’s savage murder? Was it somehow to blame for his own descent into obscurity? After Carole’s death the Brill Brothers had split up and Ray’s subsequent attempt at a solo career had failed to set the Mersey on fire. Harry could recall seeing his name halfway down the bill of a social club concert two or three years ago. A miserable comedown for a man who had once scaled the charts with a steeplejack’s aplomb.

  A tune came into his head and he started humming, trying to remember the words. Of course! It was ‘Blue On Blue’, the ballad with which the Brill Brothers had scored their last chart entry. Must have been around the time of the Sefton Park Strangling, Harry thought. The melody lingered as he walked towards his flat on the bank of the Mersey and when he arrived home he started searching through his record collection, sure that he had a copy of the song somewhere.

  In the end he found it on a compilation of sixties pop. He put the record on the turntable, poured himself a glass of whisky and listened to the ech
o-laden voice of Ray Brill. The singer invested the simple lyric of heartache with a genuine anguish and as soon as the track came to an end, Harry played it again, and then again.

  Could it be that, when he sang about the end of an affair, Ray was conveying pain he had felt in his own life after losing the girl he loved? By the time the needle reached a movie song from Gene Pitney on the next track, Harry was on his third drink and his eyelids were beginning to droop. He couldn’t care less about the man who shot Liberty Valance. But for the sake not only of the truth but of an old woman in a Woolton home whom he had never met, he wanted to find out whether Edwin Smith was indeed the man who had strangled Carole Jeffries.

  Chapter Four

  and made my murderous dream come true.

  That night Harry dreamed he was in the dock. Counsel for the prosecution recited his numberless crimes in a damning monotone. The judge’s features had grown dark with contempt. A low murmur of hatred came from the people in the public seats and several of the jurors had started weeping at the horror of it all. Harry became aware of the aching of his limbs and suddenly realised he was handcuffed to the railings and wearing huge leg irons. He knew he was innocent, yet when he tried to speak, to explain the Crown’s mistake, no words came. As the prosecutor droned on with his litany of lies, Harry could feel the noose cutting into the flesh of his neck. At last his own advocate stood up, seizing a final chance to plead for him. Harry strained with every muscle for a sight of the face beneath the wig, the face of the man who could save his life.

  Oh God, no hope left. His defender was Cyril Tweats.

  Fear woke him. He was shivering uncontrollably, but as it dawned on him that he was lying in his own bed in his own home, he almost cried out with joy. No wonder he felt frozen: in his restlessness he had cast the duvet to the floor, and on the coldest night of the year so far. Forcing his body into motion, he stumbled to the window and parted the curtains.

  The black starless sky merged with the river. From his vantage point in the Empire Dock development he peered towards the lights of Wirral. Birkenhead itself was invisible. So were the dying yards where once so many ships had been built - Ark Royal, Achilles and Prince of Wales - and their incongruous neighbour, the ruined twelfth-century priory. On the water itself, nothing moved. Harry had heard talk lately of plans to bring new life to the river. The old days of colonial trade had gone, never to return, but the country’s jails were overflowing and some bright spark in Whitehall had dreamed up the idea of putting a prison ship on the Mersey. Harry suspected that if some of his clients went on board, it would make the mutiny on the Bounty seem like a squabble on Southport’s boating lake.