Yesterday's Papers

by Martin Edwards

  ‘So what can I do for you?’ he asked when Dolly had served tea in china cups and a plateful of biscuits.

  ‘Cast your mind back thirty years. Do you remember a client by the name of Edwin Smith?’

  ‘Remember him? As if it was yesterday, my dear boy, how could I ever forget? The press were buzzing round like wasps over a rotten apple. The city hadn’t seen a bigger murder trial since the Cameo Cinema case.’

  ‘I happened to look at the old file the other day. I have it here.’ Harry slid the folder across the table. ‘I hadn’t known that he actually retracted his confession.’

  Cyril frowned. ‘Well, yes, I recall that he did. Of course, they often do.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Criminals, of course. For all manner of reasons, but mainly because they hope to get off. And quite frankly, given the state of justice in this country nowadays, they are usually in with a good chance of that.’

  ‘So it never crossed your mind that the retraction might be genuine and his confession to the police false?’

  ‘Good heavens, no.’

  ‘But with the benefit of hindsight, might you think differently?’

  ‘Whatever for? The chap was as guilty as a monk’s thoughts in a nunnery.’

  Harry bit his tongue. ‘Tell me about him. What sort of man was he?’

  Cyril dipped a biscuit into his drink and took a bite out of it as he collected his thoughts. ‘Unprepossessing lad. Freckles, no chin, too much neck. In a word, shifty. No backbone. Far too much of a mummy’s boy.’

  ‘I see from the papers that mummy paid your fees.’

  ‘Quite correct. Young Edwin could never keep a job down, never made two pennies of his own to rub together. All the same, there was money in the family. The father had died years before, a stroke, I think, but he was in cotton in the days when there was still something to be made from textiles and he left his widow a few pennies, as well as an enormous house on Sefton Park. She was a forceful character too, but the boy was a sore disappointment. Her own fault, I suppose, all that mollycoddling. Unhealthy. Of course, a heavy price was paid. Poor young Carole Jeffries wasn’t the first person he’d molested.’

  ‘He was hardly a major criminal. I gather from the file that he had a history of exposing himself and stealing knickers from a washing line.’

  Cyril clicked his tongue. ‘You know as well as I do that with such a pathetic specimen, one thing invariably leads to another. As it did with young Smith. One day, he simply went too far.’

  ‘He had had a girlfriend of his own, though.’

  ‘Yes, I believe there was someone, but that only made things worse. He admitted she’d finished with him around the time he strangled the girl, if memory serves. Obviously, the rejection tipped him over the edge.’

  ‘Name of Renata Yates, according to his statement. Did you ever see her?’

  ‘Lord, no. She’d made herself scarce and besides, I could tell she was going to be bad news. I mean, from the little he said about her she was no better than a street-walker.’

  ‘So you never heard any suggestions that her evidence might have exonerated Edwin?’

  ‘Good gracious me, certainly not. Wherever did you get such an idea?’

  ‘From the same person who tells me that Edwin was an attention-seeker, the sort who might admit guilt simply to claim his fifteen minutes of fame.’

  ‘Look, Harry,’ said Cyril in his most fatherly manner, ‘don’t you believe all that you hear in those saloon bars of yours.’

  ‘Okay, okay, so tell me about the victim, Carole. What was she like?’

  ‘Pretty girl. Headstrong, by all accounts, possibly rather spoiled. Her mum was a bit of a tartar, I remember, but Carole was the apple of her father’s eye, he thought she could do no wrong. Her death finished him, you know. He’d been a powerful figure in the Labour movement, but after his daughter’s death, he was never the same man again. Of course, you might say that’s the inevitable fate of people who devote themselves to the Labour movement. Even so, I often thought that he was Edwin Smith’s second victim.’

  ‘Although he survived Edwin by - what? - nearly fifteen years?’

  ‘Yes, killed himself on the day Margaret Thatcher came to power, would you believe? Ludicrous, absolutely ludicrous. You don’t need me to tell you she was the finest Prime Minister this country ever had. And how did her own party reward her?’

  Keener even than usual to avoid a discussion about the Iron Lady, Harry said hastily, ‘Smith cut his throat in prison. It was careless of the authorities to let him have the opportunity. Wasn’t he marked down as a suicide risk?’

  ‘You know how these things occur,’ said Cyril in his man-to-man tone. ‘I’m afraid my client was an unpopular fellow. I suspect a warder turned a blind eye to the possibility of felo de se. It happens, as you know.’

  Looking at the amiable, contented face, Harry marvelled. Cyril was a man who had always been at ease with himself, no matter what disasters befell those for whom he had acted.

  ‘What about the people close to the Jeffries family? Clive Doxey was one of them, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Cyril with a chuckle, ‘he experienced quite a crisis of conscience, as I recall. He’d been an outspoken advocate of abolishing capital punishment, but when his best friend’s daughter was murdered, he seemed to have second thoughts for a while. I remember it well.’

  ‘I suppose there was never any suggestion that the police should have cast their net more widely in searching for suspects?’

  ‘Lord, no. Everyone regarded it as an open-and-shut case.’

  ‘Carole’s boyfriend, the pop musician - was he ever a suspect?’

  Cyril smiled a superior smile. ‘Ah, Harry, you never change, do you? Constantly seeking a complex explanation where a perfectly simple one exists all the time. I’m surprised you have time for all this nonsense, with such a busy practice to attend to. When I was your age...’

  ‘The musician,’ prompted Harry.

  ‘Oh yes, I remember the chap you’re referring to, though I forget his name, but I’m quite certain he had an alibi for the killing. As you will appreciate, it was one of the first things the police had to check.’

  ‘And the strength of the alibi?’

  A dismissive shrug. ‘I don’t believe there was ever the slightest indication that he might have committed the crime.’

  Succumbing to frustration, Harry said, ‘All right, Carole worked for Benny Frederick, didn’t she? Did anyone consider whether he might have had a motive for killing her?’

  ‘My dear fellow, I don’t think I’m talking out of turn when I say that Frederick was well known for being rather more interested in young men than young girls.’

  Harry decided to fly a kite. ‘Homosexuality was illegal in 1964. She might have been blackmailing him.’

  Distaste spread across Cyril’s placid features like a stain. ‘A lurid suggestion, Harry, and frankly a slanderous one. I do urge you to think carefully before you make some of your more outrageous statements. Yes, I really do advise that you look before you leap.’

  Harry felt it was a sound principle to do the opposite of whatever Cyril advised, but he simply nodded and said, ‘Would you like to look at your old file? It may trigger one or two memories.’

  Cyril picked up the folder and started to glance through it. Every now and then he gave a small grunt of pleasurable reminiscence, rather like a minor celebrity leafing through an old album of press cuttings.

  ‘A well-organised file, though I say so myself. Quite immaculately presented. Say what you like about her, Mrs Miller was certainly a good secretary.’

  The name struck Harry like a slap across the cheek.

  ‘Mrs Miller?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Marlene was her first name, although we were never
on such familiar terms. Let me see, she must have worked for me for the best part of twenty years. An immaculate typist, precise and well organised, the best I ever had.’

  ‘She wasn’t by any chance married to a man called Ernest?’

  Cyril tutted. ‘My dear fellow, I can hardly be expected to recall the Christian name of the spouse of an employee who worked for me donkey’s years ago. And yet, as it happens, you may just be right. The two of them were Germans, of course, though I did not hold that against them. Now I come to think of it, I believe he changed his name from Mueller.’ Cyril beamed at his feat of memory. ‘Yes, I’m sure that was his name. Ernst Mueller, who became Ernest Miller. Is that the chap you’re asking about?’

  Chapter Eleven

  to the ultimate crime.

  Harry stared at Cyril Tweats. ‘So Marlene Miller was your confidential secretary and did all the typing on the Smith file? Tell me, how long did she work for you afterwards?’

  Cyril was genial in his condescension. ‘You are flitting about today. One minute you’re immersed in a case that closed thirty years ago, the next you’re getting excited about my typing arrangements. Really, Harry, is it possible you may be suffering from over-tiredness?’

  ‘Please, Cyril, I’m interested.’

  Cyril beamed again to show that he was willing to humour him. ‘I should say she stayed with me until about twelve years ago. Then another firm offered more money. I sensed she was reluctant to go, kept hoping I would increase my offer. But I have my principles.’

  Glancing at the sumptuous furnishings all around, Harry had to admit that Cyril’s principles had kept him in a style to which many would be glad to become accustomed.

  ‘Did you know Marlene had died?’

  Cyril rubbed his chin. ‘I believe I did hear that. I think her husband let one of the girls in the office know.’

  ‘You never met him?’

  ‘I always made it a rule never to fraternise with my staff or their families,’ said Cyril sternly. ‘I regard it as a basic tenet of good management. One must keep one’s distance. Otherwise standards start to slip. Another jaffa cake?’

  ‘Did she ever speak of him?’

  ‘Possibly. I never knew a woman yet who didn’t indulge her taste in gossip - and usually at the most inconvenient time. But it will have washed over me, I’m afraid. I used to find that the occasional “Oh really?” sufficed as a courtesy whenever one of my girls was chattering about her loved ones. But do tell me - why the sudden interest in the woman who worked on this file?’

  ‘I’ve met Mrs Miller’s widowed husband. He’s the person who persuaded me to take an interest in the Sefton Park case. And thanks to you, I now know why he was so convinced Edwin Smith was innocent. His wife must have told him about the retraction.’

  Cyril brushed the retraction away as if swatting a fly. ‘My dear Harry, I do feel you are paying far too much attention to a brief episode in a lengthy case. After all, Smith did plead guilty at trial.’

  ‘On Hugo Kellerman’s advice?’

  ‘Of course. It was plainly the right thing to do. Kellerman - he died of a coronary a few years ago, God rest his soul, too many dinners at Lincoln’s Inn, I suppose - had no doubt. When Smith asked about the chances of an acquittal, he said, “You’re pissing in the wind, Smithy, simply pissing in the wind”’. Cyril smiled in reminiscence. ‘He didn’t mince words, Hugo didn’t. The Bar is the poorer for his passing.’

  Harry could imagine that Cyril would have instructed a barrister who was a kindred spirit. Already he could picture Kellerman: a ruddy-faced blusterer with a technique of persuasion as subtle as that of a timeshare salesman.

  ‘So Edwin surrendered?’

  ‘He saw reason,’ corrected Cyril with a sweet smile. The old rascal had charm, Harry reflected. With a hide so thick, he should have gone into politics. He had a flair for presenting the acceptable face of incompetence and expecting it to be kissed.

  ‘And after sentence was passed, he committed suicide.’

  ‘He’d made one previous attempt, as I imagine you are aware, before the parliamentary vote to abolish the death penalty.’

  ‘A vote that did no good for Edwin.’

  ‘It did no good for all those people over the past thirty years whose killers might have been deterred by the prospect of the rope,’ said Cyril, suddenly stern. ‘But you’re right. Edwin Smith was no psychopath. He was bad, but not mad: a pitiful individual, wholly lacking in backbone. Yet I believe he was genuinely overcome by remorse for what he had done. When the state was ready to spare his life, he took what he thought was the honourable course. And I could respect him for that.’

  Harry thought that in days gone by Cyril would have been the first to pass a pearl-handled revolver to a disgraced colleague and suggest that he pop next door to the library and do the decent thing. With an effort, he subdued his rising temper and said, ‘So you still believe he was guilty?’

  Cyril smiled again. ‘Oh yes. As sure as I am sitting here, sipping tea and eating more biscuits than are good for me. Take it from me, Harry, for his terrible crime, young Edwin Smith certainly deserved to die.’

  After saying goodbye, Harry sat in his car for a few minutes, mulling over what Cyril Tweats had told him. He found it was easy to discount the views of Cyril and Hugo Kellerman about their client’s guilt and at last he understood why Ernest Miller had been equally convinced that Smith’s confession was likely to have been false. One mystery, at least, had been solved. No doubt Marlene had discussed the case avidly with her husband and now, in his retirement, he had decided to poke around.

  But in poking around, would he find that the embers of the Carole Jeffries case were far from dead? Harry felt a surge of anxiety on Miller’s behalf. The old man was playing with fire. He resolved to talk to Miller again and find out for certain exactly what he had learned.

  The will provided at least a thin excuse for making a weekend call. Jim had kept his promise and had the document typed up before close of business on Friday evening. Harry drove through the quiet city centre streets back to his office and collected it, together with Miller’s red document folder, before setting off for Everton.

  The journey took Harry to a maze of back-to-back houses. Every other Saturday from August to May the streets in this part of the city were thronged with supporters making their way to the match. It was a place of fierce loyalties, home to many of its inhabitants from cradle to grave, and yet Harry felt surprised that a man like Miller had stayed here so long. He was not a native of Liverpool and during his working life must have earned good money, with a useful second income whilst his wife was alive. According to the information he had given Harry, he was comfortably off, so why had he not moved upmarket? Had he simply grown accustomed to this place, too set in his ways to contemplate a change - or had the close ties that still kept this community together bound in even such an awkward cuss as Ernest Miller?

  Miller’s house stood at the end of Mole Street and commanded a view of an iron foundry and a gasworks. The lace curtains at the windows were in need of a wash and the door had probably not been painted since the Brill Brothers were in the charts. In contrast, the step outside the house next door shone smugly, as if it enjoyed a through scrub once each day. As he parked, Harry noticed a twitching of the neighbour’s curtains. He guessed Ernest Miller seldom had visitors and the arrival of an MG was cause for curiosity.

  He pressed the bell and heard its muffled ringing inside. No answer. He tried again with equal lack of response and was about to turn back to his car when the door of the adjoining house opened. A woman of about sixty with impossibly bright auburn hair peered at him like an ornithologist studying a rare species.

  ‘After Ernie, are you?’

  ‘I seem to be out of luck. Any idea when he’ll be back?’

  ‘I can’t understand it. He’s
not taken his milk in today, or his News Of The World.’

  Puzzled, Harry glanced at Miller’s empty doorstep and letter box. The woman explained, ‘A couple of kids pinched the bottles and the newspaper this morning. They were out of sight before I could get to my front door, the little monkeys. Only seven or eight, they were. If I was their mum, I’d give ’em a good hiding. It’ll be cars they’re stealing next and then who knows what will happen?’

  ‘Is it unusual for Ernest not to be about on a Sunday?’

  ‘Put it this way, I’ve lived next to him for years and I’ve never known it before.’

  ‘You think he’s gone away?’

  ‘Not without leaving word with me. I always keep an eye on the place for him when he’s gone on holiday and such-like.’ She had the simple confidence of the indispensable. ‘Besides, he was there yesterday. I heard him.’

  ‘Could he have been taken ill?’

  Her expression blended concern, curiosity and excitement at the prospect of drama. ‘That’s what I’m wondering.’

  Harry lifted the lid of the letter box. The hall inside was dark and yielded no sign of life. ‘Mr Miller,’ he called, ‘it’s Harry Devlin here.’

  ‘You’re a friend of Ernie’s, then?’ asked the woman.

  ‘I’m a solicitor,’ he said firmly, relying on her membership of a generation which retained a residual respect for the mystique of the law.

  ‘Ah, legal business,’ she breathed.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a spare key so that we can go in and check to see that he hasn’t had an accident?’

  She shook her head in regret. ‘Oh, Ernie would never let me have a key. He’s always been very close, always kept himself to himself.’

  Without much hope, Harry gripped the door handle and gave it a twist. Unexpectedly, the door swung open.

  The woman’s eyes opened very wide. ‘Yet he hasn’t been out for the last twenty-four hours. I would have known.’

  Harry did not doubt it. Living next door to GCHQ would have carried less risk of surveillance. ‘I think we ought to go inside, don’t you?’