Yesterday's Papers

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Okay, I’m convinced,’ said Benny. ‘So I’ll let you into the secret. Carole had fallen head over heels for Clive Doxey.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  People talk about justice

  After Benny had left, Harry returned to his own room and asked himself whether it mattered a light that Carole had claimed to have been in love with her father’s best friend.

  ‘How do you know this?’ he had asked Benny.

  ‘Because she told me on the day she died.’

  After her quarrel in the shop with Ray Brill, Benny explained, he had asked her to come into the back room and have a coffee and a chat with him. When he’d chided her about her treatment of Ray, she had tossed her head like a blonde Scarlett O’Hara and said that she did not care if she never saw the singer again: she wanted to spend her life with someone who was twice the man that Ray was. She was a girl who always loved to shock, said Benny, and she had not been able to resist the temptation to tell him the news she had been hugging to herself.

  ‘Listen, no-one knows this but you. Clive is coming round to our house in an hour’s time. Mum and Dad will both be out. And I’m going to ask him to marry me.’

  He could not believe it. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘It’s Leap Year Day, silly, didn’t you realise? The one chance I have to pop the question.’

  ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

  ‘Believe me, Ben, I’m deadly serious.’

  ‘But you’re only sixteen.’

  ‘Old enough.’

  ‘Not if your parents object. For God’s sake, you’re not planning to elope to Gretna Green, are you?’

  ‘It’s a lovely romantic idea, Ben, but it won’t be necessary.’

  She had been supremely confident, he recalled. There would be no problem, she insisted, she would tell her father what she wanted and that would be that. He would not refuse her, could not refuse her. Benny had not attempted to argue further, even though he still found it all incredible. He was well aware of Doxey’s relationship with Guy, but despite being himself an incurable nosey parker - as he made the admission, he smiled sweetly at Harry - he had never had a clue that there was anything between Doxey and Carole. Yet the way she giggled with delight at his disbelief did more than anything to persuade him that she was telling the truth. She had no need to lie: she was certain that Clive was captive to her charm and that when she put her question, his answer would be yes.

  And that, said Benny, was the last time he’d ever seen her. Carole had gone home to meet Clive and, later, her terrible fate. He had left Shirley in charge of the shop while he went to Anfield to watch the big match. An FA Cup tie which Liverpool had lost to Swansea: a day to remember for every Welshman, and one of the most famous matches in the history of both clubs. Harry had heard his own father talk about that game and shake his head at the recollection of the Swansea goalkeeper’s heroics and the missed penalty kick that cost the home side the match, but he knew that Benny was telling him about it for a reason: to give himself an alibi. When he said that, at the full-time whistle, no-one present could credit that Liverpool had been knocked out of the Cup, he was also saying that no-one in their right mind could credit that he had had either the time or the inclination to go straight from the ground to Sefton Park and strangle Carole Jeffries.

  ‘You seem to have good recall of the events of thirty years ago,’ Harry had suggested.

  ‘It isn’t every day someone you know well and like is brutally murdered,’ was the soft reply. ‘These things are apt to stick in your mind.’

  ‘Carole wasn’t the only such person, of course, was she? You knew Warren Hull as well, for instance. The man who was killed a few weeks earlier.’

  Benny seemed to choose his words with more than usual care. ‘Yes, I knew Warren. People said he was murdered by a kid he picked up but nothing was ever proved. Why do you mention him?’

  ‘He was Ray Brill’s manager.’

  ‘What are you getting at? Surely you’re not suggesting Ray murdered him?’

  Harry let it pass; the coincidence of Hull’s death bothered him, but he could not explain why, even to himself. Instead he asked why Benny had said nothing until now about Carole’s avowed intention to propose to Clive Doxey. He received a simple answer. The murder had come as a shocking blow, Benny said, and there had never been any reason to believe that her apparent involvement with Clive had any bearing upon it. It was obvious from the start that a sicko must be responsible. By the time the police spoke to him, Edwin Smith was already under arrest and there seemed to be no need to embarrass Doxey or hurt the Jeffries by breaking the dead girl’s confidence. Besides, it was just possible that she had been talking out a fantasy. The next time Doxey came into his studio, Benny had spoken to him about the killing but received no hint that he had regarded her as anything other than the daughter of dear friends. They had both agreed it was a terrible tragedy - and left it at that.

  Finally, Benny had given Harry a wry glance and said, ‘So if you’re right and Smith didn’t strangle Carole, who do you think was responsible?’

  The question had been put amiably, but Harry had felt sure that Benny was watching closely for his response. He had simply spread his arms and said he wished he knew.

  Now, sitting alone in his office, he admitted to himself that he would never be able to prove the identity of the culprit. Jock had pinpointed the problem: there was no chance at this late date of finding evidence to convict that would satisfy a court beyond reasonable doubt. Yet, after all the parents of Edwin Smith and Carole Jeffries had suffered, he told himself, he must make one last effort at least to satisfy himself that Carole’s killer would not go to the grave with his guilt unknown to anyone.

  Ernest Miller had talked at their first meeting about the perfect murder. The old man had been shrewd: was it possible that he had managed to identify the culprit - and perhaps had even asked him round to Mole Street last Saturday? Tantalised by the thought, Harry found himself wishing that, if Miller had had to die, he had been killed by his visitor rather than succumbing to the asthma that had dogged him over many years: then at least there might have been a crime for which the murderer could be put away. He had ascertained in casual conversation before Benny left where he had been at the time of Miller’s death. At a video industry conference in Mayfair had been the easy reply. It had lasted until lunchtime on Sunday, Benny claimed. If he thought he was being quizzed for a purpose, he gave no sign of it, but Harry had already decided that Benny Frederick was nobody’s fool. Never mind the openness of his manner: if he had anything to hide, he would hide it well.

  Would the same, he wondered, be true of Clive Doxey?

  He spent so long mulling over what he had learned that he was almost late for the meeting of the Miscarriages of Justice Organisation. When he finally arrived, Kim Lawrence was chatting to a girl who sat behind the desk at the door of the conference room in Empire Hall. Next to them stood a noticeboard bearing MOJO’s logo of a pair of handcuffs that had been snapped in two and in huge red letters the legend TONIGHT’S LECTURE - WHY THERE MUST NEVER BE ANOTHER WALTERGATE, BY PATRICK VAULKHARD.

  ‘He’ll be talking himself out of a job if he’s not careful,’ said Harry.

  ‘No danger of that in this bloody society,’ said Kim with a wry smile. To his surprise she bent her head forward and brushed his cheek with her lips. ‘Glad you could make it anyway.’

  ‘Thanks for inviting me,’ he said, as he tried to guess if the kiss meant anything more than a simple social greeting. ‘Sorry I only made it at the eleventh hour.’

  ‘No problem.’ She gestured towards the rows of empty chairs in front of the vacant speaker’s podium. ‘We need all the support we can get. We’re due to start in a minute and the place is three-quarters empty.’

  ‘It was a mistake to fix a date that clashed with Everton’s replay
.’

  ‘Are you suggesting soccer fans are connoisseurs of injustice?’

  ‘Have you never heard them complain about dodgy refereeing decisions?’

  She laughed. ‘How did I get into this? I can never tell whether you’re being serious or not.’

  ‘I promise you,’ he said quietly, ‘I am serious about genuine injustice. Whether it occurred thirty years ago or yesterday.’

  ‘Any more news about the Sefton Park case?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘I think,’ she said, ‘Edwin Smith would have been glad of you as a champion in 1964. Just as the Walters were lucky to have you - as well as Patrick.’

  ‘My ears are burning.’ said the barrister’s voice.

  ‘Hello, Patrick,’ said Kim. ‘Ready to wow them?’

  ‘I crave only your approval,’ said Vaulkhard, bending to kiss her hand. Harry told himself it was a gesture she endured rather than enjoyed. ‘Lovely to see you, Kim. As well as to find you’ve roped in young Mr Devlin here. Not noticed you at any of these meetings in the past, Harry.’

  ‘Pressure groups aren’t usually my cup of tea. Compulsory membership of the Empire Dock Occupiers’ Association causes me enough hassle. It’s like belonging to the Mafia but with rules more elaborate than the Law Society’s. Anyway, I couldn’t miss this one, could I?’

  ‘It was a hell of a case,’ said Vaulkhard. ‘Sorry I seem to have hogged the publicity.’

  ‘Hardly, in comparison to our Jeannie.’

  A foxy grin. ‘When they made Jeannie Walter, they broke the mould.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Harry.

  ‘I see Sir Clive is giving me meaningful looks,’ said Kim. ‘Perhaps we’d better make a start.’

  She led Vaulkhard to the podium and Harry stole a glance at Doxey. He always found it strange to see in the flesh people he had come to know through television. So often they seemed smaller in real life and much less august. Sir Clive Doxey, however, was an exception to the rule: an imposing figure even when seated, a man whose silver mane had not a single hair out of place. His lips were pursed, as though he was unaccustomed to being kept waiting and it was a habit he did not intend to acquire. Even the way his arms were folded seemed to exude distinction and to make the statement that this was a rare man, a man of principle. It was impossible to remain indifferent on a first encounter with someone so formidable. For Harry, it was a case of deep dislike at first sight.

  Patrick Vaulkhard began to speak. He had mastered this particular brief long ago and he glided with ease through the facts of the Walter case, conserving his energy for a scathing and comprehensive attack on those whose misdeeds had led to the original false conviction and those whose contempt for truth had caused them to keep Kevin inside, even after it became clear that he had not committed the crime for which he had been imprisoned. In passing, he paid tribute to Harry’s efforts on his client’s behalf, as well as expressing his admiration for everything that Jeannie had done - ‘although,’ he said with a faint smile, ‘I could never be as eloquent an advocate on that particular subject as she herself has proved to be in the splendid newspaper serialisation about her campaign.’ Occasionally, Harry noticed Kim shooting him a glance, her expression conveying amused annoyance. His lack of concentration must be showing. He guessed she must realise that his thoughts were drifting back to a miscarriage of the distant past.

  He found himself beginning to chafe with impatience until the talk finally came to an end and Vaulkhard dealt with questions that ranged from the earnest to the absurd. Kim offered thanks and the small audience gave ragged applause. Harry jumped to his feet, anxious not to miss the chance to buttonhole Clive Doxey, but he need not have worried. Kim gently manoeuvred Doxey through the throng and towards where Harry was standing.

  ‘Clive, I’d like you to meet a professional colleague of mine, a partner in another firm in the city centre. Harry Devlin, this is Sir Clive Doxey.’

  They shook hands and Kim added, ‘As you will have gathered, Harry instructed Patrick Vaulkhard on Kevin Walter’s behalf.’

  ‘A disgraceful episode,’ said Doxey. ‘It shows how appallingly easy it still is for miscarriages of justice to occur.’

  ‘Very true,’ said Harry, ‘and another case I’ve been looking at over the last few days bears that out. As it happens, I wondered if I could bend your ear about it, since I’m sure that you can cast light on one or two aspects that have been troubling me.’

  Doxey gave a tolerant smile. ‘Well, I don’t need to be off home for another half hour, but I think from the expression of the caretaker standing at the back there that we may have to move elsewhere.’

  ‘There’s a bar next door. Perhaps you’d let me buy you a drink. You too, Kim, unless you have to dash off this minute.’

  ‘I’d love to come,’ she said. ‘Harry’s told me a little about this case, Clive, and although it’s an old one which wouldn’t fall within MOJO’s sphere, I’m sure you’ll have a special interest in what he’s uncovered.’

  ‘I am intrigued,’ said Doxey. ‘Shall we adjourn?’

  They found seats in the Empire Bar on the first floor, looking out over the black Mersey to the lights of the Wirral peninsula beyond. Harry brought the drinks over and then settled down in a chair facing Clive Doxey. Doxey was amiable and relaxed, unwinding after a long day. He had asked for a Southern Comfort; Harry was drinking beer, Kim a glass of aqua libra.

  ‘Now then, Mr Devlin, how can I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to take you back in time,’ Harry said. ‘To 1964, in fact.’

  ‘The world was very different then,’ said Doxey reminiscently, ‘and I was a young man, still full of illusions about political progress.’

  ‘Which you shared with your good friend Guy Jeffries.’

  Doxey gave him a sharp look. After a brief silence he said in his most equable tone, ‘Yes, that’s right. Dear Guy, I believe he had the finest mind of our generation.’

  ‘And yet he died a broken man.’

  ‘He had - personal problems. His daughter died, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I do know. Her murder is the reason I wanted a word with you. It turns out that the man convicted of the crime was innocent after all.’

  No actor could have feigned the shock on Doxey’s patrician features. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  Harry told him. From his first meeting with Ernest Miller to his conversation with Renata Grierson, he missed out none of the essentials, but he decided to say nothing for the time being about Benny Frederick’s claim that Carole had fallen for Doxey. The great man listened intently, not interrupting; if he had been incredulous at first, he seemed gradually to absorb the enormity of what Harry was saying - that if Smith was innocent, Carole must have died at the hands of someone hitherto unsuspected. When the story was complete, he stroked his jaw thoughtfully before speaking.

  ‘An extraordinary tale, Mr Devlin. Assuming you are correct, of course.’

  ‘I believe Renata was telling me the truth. And I’m sure Miller was on the right track.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting he was murdered for his pains, I gather. That really would be storybook stuff.’

  ‘No, I spoke again to someone I know in the police before I came out tonight. They’re positive that Miller was not killed by anyone. It was an accidental death. All the same, I am intrigued by his Saturday visitor. Who can it have been?’

  ‘Well,’ said Doxey with a heavy sigh, ‘I’m afraid I cannot help you there.’

  ‘That may be, Sir Clive, but you knew the Jeffries family as well as anyone. I would be grateful if you could tell me a little more about them.’

  Doxey glanced at Kim and Harry sensed that, had she not been there, he would have made some excuse and left. But he had made a name for himself as someone prep
ared to delve into any case that carried the faintest whiff of unfairness. He could not escape just yet. So he took refuge in a display of candour.

  ‘You understand, Mr Devlin, this is painful for me. The killing of Carole Jeffries was not like any other case. I knew her well and Guy and Kathleen were old and dear friends.’

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  Doxey made a show of casting his mind back in time before saying, ‘They first met at the University as students, as I recall. This was before I knew them, but I gather that both were thought to be destined for brilliant careers. Kathleen was as formidable a mathematician as Guy was a political philosopher. Things didn’t work out quite as they planned and Kathleen fell pregnant with Carole.’

  ‘So there was a shotgun wedding?’

  ‘You imply that Guy was reluctant to marry, which I think was far from the case. He adored her in those days - as he adored his daughter from the moment she was born. But there were complications with the birth; I never knew the precise details, but Kathleen had gynaecological problems from that day on and having another child was never on the agenda. She suffered from ill health and her career took a back seat while she brought Carole up.’

  ‘Did she resent that?’

  ‘Like many mothers, I suppose she had mixed feelings.’

  ‘And her relationship with Guy when you knew them?’

  ‘Oh, as I said, he was devoted to her.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Harry impatiently. ‘You were talking about the time they first married. Did they drift apart later? I gather he once had a reputation as a ladies’ man.’

  Doxey seemed on the point of objecting to Harry’s bluntness, then changed his mind. ‘Yes, Guy was a good-looking fellow, of course, sociable and outgoing. He didn’t see it as his role to stay at home lending moral support whilst his wife brought up their child. He was out most nights, giving lectures or attending political meetings, and when he stayed at home he would be closeted in his study, working on a book or an article.’