‘Too right,’ breathed Harry as he stared at the sheet. It was headed CONTACTS and contained a list of names, telephone numbers and addresses in Miller’s immaculate script. They were names that had begun to mean a good deal to him: Vera Smith, Kathleen Jeffries, Ray Brill, Clive Doxey, Benny Frederick, Shirley Titchard, Vincent Deysbrook - and Renata Grierson.
‘I don’t know how it got mixed up with the financial papers,’ said Jim between mouthfuls of steak, ‘unless Miller meant to pass it to you surreptitiously.’
‘Nothing so melodramatic. I remember now, he dropped his files when we met in Sefton Park and several sheets spilled out. He must have put this one back in the wrong file.’ He grinned and took another sip of champagne. ‘Wonderful! Maybe I’m now a step ahead of the character who nicked the rest of Miller’s papers on the case.’
‘Watch your step. If you’re right in thinking he killed Carole Jeffries - and maybe Miller for good measure - he won’t take kindly to your sticking your nose in.’
‘No need for you to worry. Don’t forget our cross-insurance.’
Jim wiped his mouth on the back of his napkin. ‘I live in fear that the small print may exclude death in the course of detective work.’
‘Anyway, I’m far from certain that he did murder Miller. I need to find out what the post mortem revealed.’
‘I’ll ask for you if you like. I’m ringing that policewoman who came round to the burglary - whatshername, Lynn - to find out if they have any leads, so I can progress our claim. I could ask her if she can find out.’
‘Thanks, but there’s no need. I’ll speak to the constable I met at Everton. He ought to be willing to talk to me. I was the late Ernest Miller’s legal representative, remember.’
***
As soon as he got back to the office he called the number Miller had listed for Renata Grierson. The phone was answered on the second ring. ‘Is that Mrs Grierson?’
‘Who wants her?’ asked a woman’s voice at the other end of the telephone line. The accent was broad Scouse, the tone provocative.
‘This is Harry Devlin.’
‘I don’t care if it’s hare krishna, love. What are you after?’
‘I’d like to talk to you, Mrs Grierson. It’s quite urgent.’
‘You’re getting me all excited, love, but what’s it all about?’
No point in beating about the bush. ‘Thirty years ago, you knew a young man called Edwin Smith who was convicted of murder.’
At once the woman became cautious. ‘And what if I did? Not that I’m admitting anything, mind.’
‘I’m not a policeman, I’m not asking you to admit a thing. I’d just like a word, that’s all. Today, if it’s convenient. If not, maybe tomorrow.’
‘What’s the hurry after thirty years? And why all the sudden interest after such a long time?’
‘You’ve already talked to a man called Miller about Edwin, haven’t you? He told me you had responded to his advertisement, claiming Edwin could not have strangled Carole Jeffries.’
‘Are you a friend of this Miller?’
‘I’m his solicitor. Or should I say, I was.’
‘Sacked you, has he?’
‘He’s dead.’
After a shocked pause, Renata Grierson said, ‘Dead? He can’t be. I only rang him on Thursday. He said he wanted to fix up a meeting with me.’
‘Don’t hold your breath waiting for his call. I almost fell over his body when I called at his house. He’d collapsed in his own front room and now he’s dead, I feel I owe it to him to find out more about the Sefton Park case.’
She snorted down the line. ‘What’s your real interest, Mr Devlin?’
‘Miller persuaded me that Edwin Smith was done a grave injustice. If that’s true, it ought to be put right.’
‘Edwin died a long time ago, Mr Devlin.’
‘Justice doesn’t have a sell-by date,’ said Harry, thinking as he spoke that it was worryingly easy to become the self-important lawyer of a thousand tired caricatures. If he didn’t watch out, he’d start spewing out soundbites like a poor man’s Clive Doxey. Less grandly, he added, ‘Will you spare me half an hour?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I was just getting ready to go out to work this evening, as it happens. I work in an Egyptian restaurant in the city centre, a place called Farouk’s. You can see me afterwards, if you like.’
‘What time do you finish?’
‘No fixed time, but usually late. Come over and have a meal first, if you like. The food’s one of Liverpool’s best-kept secrets, you’ll thank me for tipping you the wink.’
His next task was to chase up the result of Miller’s post mortem. He always found contacting the police by phone a tedious business and was frequently tempted to make every message a 999 call, but eventually he collected the information he wanted.
The pathologist was sure that Miller had died following and as a consequence of a severe asthma attack. Time of death was never easy to fix, but early evening of Saturday was probably favourite. Although he had cut his head when he had fallen, the gash had not been serious. There was no clear indication as to the trigger for the attack; it could have had any one of a score of causes. It was a straightforward matter, Harry was assured. No suspicious circumstances at all.
‘Then let me mention one or two. Mrs Hegg, my client’s neighbour, heard someone call next door on Saturday evening ... No, she doesn’t know who it was, she heard knocking whilst she was on the phone and thinks she heard the visitor being let in. And some important papers appear to be missing from my client’s study ... No, nothing else, no money has gone. But the papers relate to a crime my client was interested in ... thirty years ago, although...’
The best he could do was extract a promise that a statement would be taken from Gloria Hegg. He had no illusions: there was enough crime in present-day Merseyside to occupy the forces of law and order, and the assumed loss of one file of documents about a case dating back to 1964 was hardly likely to call for all police leave to be stopped and the drafting-in of reinforcements specially trained in investigating miscarriages of justice.
As he put the receiver down, he reflected that Jock’s guess as to what had occurred at Miller’s house on Saturday was probably not far from the truth. Miller had not been murdered and the burglary of the office could be unconnected. Unless Ray Brill was the one who had feared that Cyril Tweats’ file might reveal a secret he was desperate to hide.
Back in the flat that evening, Harry switched on the television whilst he changed in readiness for his trip to Farouk’s, hoping to catch the regional news. It was being read by a plump redhead whose Mancunian vowels rolled as if she were auditioning for a part in Hobson’s Choice.
‘...who had been the head of the South West Lancashire Major Enquiries Squad for the past nine years resigned today after a record compensation payment for wrongful arrest was agreed in the case of Liverpool man Kevin Walter.’
As she summarised the main points of the case, the picture showed Kevin and Jeannie outside the Law Courts, grinning at a forest of microphones. At their side was Patrick Vaulkhard, permitting himself a sly smile of self-congratulation. Harry, no expert in media relations, had managed to find a place just out of camera shot.
‘No money can ever make up for what my Kevin has suffered,’ Jeannie announced to the camera, ‘but all we want to do now is to get away for a quiet holiday and start to pick up the pieces of our shattered lives.’
It was a quote, Harry supposed, from the serialisation of her life story which would begin in one of the tabloids the next day. He did not expect to be buying a copy.
‘Is this a good day for English justice?’ a reporter asked Vaulkhard.
‘Justice?’ demanded the barrister. A caption across the bottom of the screen identified him for the viewers’ benefit. ‘A
man loses his liberty and the people responsible have to be taken to court before they offer compensation even remotely sufficient to recognise the wrong they have done? Where is the justice in that?’
‘You can’t put a price on freedom,’ said Jeannie.
The redhead reappeared and said, ‘Tonight Sir Clive Doxey, the President of MOJO, the Miscarriages Of Justice Organisation, added his weight to calls for tighter regulation of police interrogation methods.’
A silver-haired man sitting in front of a bookcase full of imposing leather-bound volumes started speaking about unscrupulous police methods and how the case illustrated the need to preserve a suspect’s right of silence.
‘...national disgrace ... insist upon an urgent review ... courage of Mrs Walter...’
Harry paid scant attention. He was reflecting that it was a small world. What would Sir Clive say if it were suggested to him that Edwin Smith might have been a victim of a miscarriage of justice even graver than the one that had befallen Kevin Walter? Would he use his muscle to press for some form of enquiry into the old case? Or was this one time when he might be content to let bygones be bygones?
Farouk’s was tucked away down an alley that led off Victoria Street. The fascia of the building was as inconspicuous as its location; there were no menus in its curtained window and only the tiniest of signs outside to proclaim its existence. Harry stepped inside and, climbing the steep and narrow staircase to the first floor, reflected that the owners seemed to have done their utmost to discourage passing trade. They must have the confidence to rely on word of mouth. Whether Renata worked as a waitress or in the kitchens, he was impressed that she had recommended the cuisine at the place where she worked. In his experience, people on the inside of most kitchens preferred to eat elsewhere: ignorance was bliss. When he opened the door at the top and peered inside, however, he saw that the place was almost full. The light was low and the air thick with smoke; in the background a swarthy man with a drooping moustache was playing a bouzouki.
‘The name’s Devlin. I rang earlier and booked a table for one,’ he told the waiter who came to greet him.
As he was led to his seat, he saw that in the opposite corner of the room a large woman was dancing to the music. Her exotically tasselled green brassière, chiffon hip scarves and see-through harem skirt revealed far more of her ample form than it concealed. A fringe of coins dangled over her forehead; she wore tiny cymbals on her fingers and a pair of gold anklets. As Harry watched, she shimmied towards a couple of men in business suits who were sitting in a small alcove. Their eyes gleamed in anticipation as, with a wicked smile and flutter of improbably long black eyelashes, she thrust her pelvis forward and dipped her breasts towards them before shimmying out of reach and on to the next table.
Menu in hand, Harry was wavering between kibeh and tabouleh - and telling himself that it was a long time since that lavish lunch at the Ensenada - when a tinkle of finger cymbals told him that the dancer was approaching. He turned to look at her again. At close quarters he suspected she was closer to fifty than to forty. Her make-up could not quite disguise the laughter lines around her mouth and eyes; her stomach was flabby, her buttocks huge. Each wiggle was determined rather than sinuous and her vast breasts seemed in imminent danger of escaping their skimpy moorings.
A brisk swivel brought her body within touching distance. Her perfume was a heavy musk; it even blotted out the smell of the cigars. She smiled at him, putting her tongue between her lips and bent down so as to give him a better view.
‘Mr Devlin?’ she asked in tones more redolent of Anfield than of the mysterious east. ‘Pleased to meet you. My name’s Renata Grierson.’
Chapter Fifteen
She had only herself to blame:
The voice was unmistakeable: the wobbling breasts right under his nose belonged to Edwin Smith’s one-time girlfriend. He was conscious that all eyes in the restaurant were upon him. Leaning back in his chair, he returned her smile.
‘Thanks for letting me see you, Mrs Grierson.’
A pair of nipple tassels rotated mesmerically. ‘Renata, please. I’m not one for formal introductions.’
‘I’ve guessed as much.’
The lines on her face hardened. ‘So you’re poking around in a case best left dead and buried?’
‘Like Edwin? I’d like to know the truth about the murder of Carole Jeffries. I think he may have suffered an injustice.’
‘Maybe you’re right. Though at one time I reckoned he deserved what he got.’
‘When can we talk?’
‘The waiters are lovely lads, but speed of service isn’t their strong point. By the time you’ve had your meal, I’ll be through.’
She smiled again before tilting her body away from him and started to glide to the next alcove. As he watched her go, Harry reflected that, had things worked out differently, Edwin Smith might now be a henpecked fifty-year-old married to a belly dancer instead of pushing up daisies in a prisoner’s grave. Some people might not be sure which was worse.
At the end of the evening, Renata timed her return to perfection. While he stood at the till signing the credit card slip, she appeared beside him. Gone were the anklets and the finger cymbals. Even her perfume seemed less oppressive. In her tartan jacket and black leggings she looked like any other middle-aged woman who likes to dress young.
‘Thanks for being willing to talk,’ he said as he followed her down the stairs.
‘That’s all right. I’ve kept quiet long enough.’
‘But you contacted Ernest Miller.’
Her tone became grim. ‘I didn’t much like the sound of him on the phone. He had a slimy voice. But I found myself starting to answer his questions. He said he had this idea Edwin was innocent. His late wife had worked for Edwin’s brief and she’d told him that Edwin withdrew his confession before the trial - but the solicitor didn’t believe him and bloody Edwin didn’t have the bottle to slug it out in a courtroom.’
‘So you said he was right, but didn’t explain why?’
‘I wanted to do it face to face. You see, Mr Devlin, the whole thing’s been bothering me since 1964. I’d like to get it off my chest.’ She forced a smile. ‘Anyway, where are you taking me?’
He spread his arms. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Don’t tempt me, young man. How about a drink in the Demi-Monde? Don’t worry, I won’t show you up. Now I’ve changed out of my dancing clothes, anyone would think I was respectable.’
A couple of minutes later they were sitting at the nightclub’s bar and Harry had learned that Renata’s tipple was a daiquiri and coke.
‘Thanks, love. I need this. All that shimmying is thirsty work.’
He had to raise his voice to be heard above the thudding nineties musak. ‘How long have you been doing it?’
She moved a little closer to him. ‘On and off, for ten years. I love Egyptian dancing, it’s perfect for me. For one thing, it’s a positive advantage to have a big bum. Besides, it takes me out of myself. And at my age, how else could I get a whiff of the steamy passions of the caliph’s harem?’ She gave him a direct look and, even in the darkness of the disco, he felt himself blushing. ‘Now, love. I’ve no-one to go home to at the moment. My feller drives an HGV and he’s down south tonight, so my time’s my own. So what can I tell you about that poor sod Edwin?’
‘How did you get to know him?’
‘On a bus ride into the city centre. He started chatting me up. I was between boyfriends, so even though he was nothing to look at, I didn’t give him the cold shoulder. Besides, it was obvious his family had a penny or two. he might have been a wimp, but his old feller had been a successful businessman and they had a posh house opposite Sefton Park to prove it.’
‘So the two of you got together?’
She gave him a crooked smile. ‘Oh, I played hard
to get for a while. At least a week, as I recall. At first, he wouldn’t introduce me to his mum. I gather she was a bit of a dragon, but all the same, I took it as a bad sign. Then one day he invited me round to the house. I was desperate to have a look at the place, so I could see if the Smiths were as well off as I guessed.’
‘You were interested in a long-term relationship, even though he was a wimp?’
‘Oh, I don’t pretend it was a burning passion. I’m no angel, Mr Devlin, never have been. In 1964 I was a one-woman permissive society. School did nothing for me - the teachers said I was bright enough, they just couldn’t control me. At the time I met Edwin I had a job in a tongue factory. I can remember the stench of the mess sloshing around on the works floor to this very day. I wanted to escape. If that meant getting hooked up with a creep like Edwin, I was game.’
‘And so you went home with him?’
He could feel her warm breath on his cheek, see every line that time had dug around her made-up eyes. ‘Maybe I was more innocent than I thought. I actually believed he was going to introduce me to his mum that afternoon. He pretended to be surprised when she wasn’t there and it wasn’t long before we finished up in his bedroom.’ She paused. ‘I’ll never forget it. The date was the twenty-ninth of February 1964. Leap Year Day, but no way was I going to propose to him. Not after that fiasco.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Edwin admitted his mum was visiting someone in Yorkshire and wouldn’t be back till the following day. He’d planned it to perfection so the two of us could have a wild time in bed without any fear of being disturbed. There was only one slight problem.’
‘Which was?’
She wriggled a little on her bar stool. ‘He couldn’t make love to me, could he? His thing was as soft as a piece of plasticine. No matter what I did, it made no difference. I tried kindness and kinkiness, but none of it was any good. He admitted he’d never had a girl before. Not properly.’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘After a while he climbed off the bed. He was in tears. I remember that he parted the curtains and looked out. That was what suited him in life - looking, not doing.’
Yesterday's Papers Page 14
