FIRST CUT IS THE DEEPEST
by
Martin Edwards
Copyright © 1999, 2012 Martin Edwards.
This edition published in 2012 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
The right of Martin Edwards to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Introduction © 2012 Kate Ellis
Appreciation © 2012 Michael Jecks
Excerpt from All The Lonely People © 2012 Martin Edwards.
The quotations on the title page of each part of the book are taken from Dracula by Bram Stoker
Dedicated to my Helena
Introduction
Martin Edwards is a solicitor…and so is his creation, Harry Devlin. But there the similarity ends as, fortunately for Martin (who specialises in employment law - a branch of the law hardly noted for its danger and violence), his encounters with murdered corpses are confined to the printed page.
The author of over forty short stories – and the winner of the Crime Writers’ Association Short Story Dagger – Martin Edwards is the editor of the CWA’s annual anthology. He is also the author of legal books and more than a thousand articles. Recently he has become deservedly well known for his excellent crime series set in the Lake District featuring Daniel Kind and Hannah Scarlett. However, as a native of Liverpool, I find I have a particular affection for his Harry Devlin novels, the seventh of which is The First Cut is the Deepest.
Harry Devlin operates in the insular world of Liverpool’s legal profession and the Liverpool of his investigations is certainly the Liverpool I recognise. From city centre offices, to the Dock Road with its dilapidated warehouses awaiting ‘redevelopment’ and the swish new apartments near the Albert Dock; from the run down, seedy districts to the affluent suburbs, this is the city I was brought up in and rarely has anybody captured its unique atmosphere as well as Martin Edwards. Liverpool’s many notable features are used to wonderful effect in his stories – even the more peculiar ones such as the Williamson tunnels, a labyrinth dug through the red sandstone beneath the Edge Hill area of the city in the early 1800s on the instructions of a retired tobacco merchant, possibly to create work for the unemployed of the time. The tunnels make a dramatic appearance in The First Cut is the Deepest but to say any more would be spoiling the surprise.
It’s not an easy matter to create a credible amateur detective but somehow Harry Devlin is completely believable. Harry himself is a damaged, all too human character, a man who is far from perfect but who is driven by a love of justice – a humane and likeable lawyer with good intentions. His estranged wife, Liz, died in tragic and suspicious circumstances in All the Lonely People, the first novel in the series - which was shortlisted by the CWA’s John Creasey Memorial Dagger - and, although Harry has a great liking for women, he has never had much good fortune with the opposite sex.
In The First Cut is the Deepest Harry embarks on a torrid and ill-advised affair with Juliet May, the wife of one of Liverpool’s greatest villains. In a memorable early scene Harry and Juliet discover the decapitated body of a crown prosecutor during one of their steamy trysts. Then another member of the legal profession is murdered so Harry is forced to ask the inevitable question - who is killing the lawyers? And why is Harry being stalked by a sinister Welshman with an equally sinister agenda of his own?
This is one of Martin Edwards’ darkest books, well plotted, intelligent, thrilling and totally enjoyable.
Kate Ellis
Strangers in the Night
…he can direct the elements, the storm, the fog, the thunder: he can command all meaner things; the rat, and the wolf; he can grow and become small; and he can at times vanish and come unknown. How then are we to begin our strike against him?
How long have you been afraid of me? Last night I noticed your glance in my direction when you thought I wasn’t looking - and I saw the dread deep in your eyes. I kept my secret for so long, but in the end you were sure to learn the truth. Perhaps you guessed sooner than I realised. After all, it’s simple when you know: you recognise the clues which were there all the time, make sense at last of so many oddities, things that didn’t quite add up. And now that you know, you are being eaten away by fear.
Do you remember telling me once why the law drew you like a moth to the flame? All of us need rules, you said, and we must believe in rules. Rules which draw a line between right and wrong. What is left for us if we don’t have faith, if we can’t cling to the belief that life is more than chance and accident? Without justice, the world is wild and dangerous. But the law’s a lousy mistress, we should have learned that by now. She’s fickle and shameless. Each time you put your trust in her, she lets you down.
So let’s forget the law; it can’t deliver us from evil. The time has come to face reality. Inside your heart, you know I’m killing you.
No more deceit: the choice is simple. One of us has to die. And I’ll be honest with you, I’m scared too. Yet there’s no escaping our destiny. My flesh tingles as I close my eyes and picture in my mind the darkness that lies ahead of us.
Chapter One
‘Forget it, it’s too risky.’
‘That’s half the fun, isn’t it?’ asked the voice at the other end of the line.
‘What if he finds out?’
‘No-one need ever know,’ Juliet May whispered, ‘apart from you and me.’
Outside in the corridor, someone banged on Harry Devlin’s door, made him jump. ‘The last client who said that to me,’ he muttered, ‘finished up with five years for money laundering.’
‘Then thank God it’s your body I’m after, not your legal advice.’
Harry tightened his grip on the receiver. ‘Hey, whatever happened to safe sex?’
‘Overrated, don’t you agree? Listen, there’s nothing to worry about.’ She was amused, her tone persuasive. She’d have made a good advocate, he thought, could have persuaded a hanging judge to let her off with a neck massage. ‘Casper is in London until tomorrow evening. Everything’s perfect. The house is in the middle of nowhere. This may be the best chance we ever get.’
The door rocked on its hinges. Jim Crusoe was standing outside, hand on hips, forearm raised to show the face of his wristwatch. Harry saw the time and gave his partner a caught-in-the-act grin. He could feel his cheeks burning. Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, he said, ‘Sorry, I forgot. With you in half a minute.’
Jim grunted and slammed the door. Harry said into the phone, ‘I’m late for a meeting at our bank. A date with the Loan Arranger.’
A giggle. ‘Don’t tell me, he’s got a sidekick called Tonto. Does this mean you have to take out an overdraft to buy the champagne for tonight?’
It was a bitter day in November. The morning news had warned of gales and now he could hear them roaring in from the waterfront. The office heating had broken down at lunchtime and the cold was seeping into his room through cracks in the window frames. Yet his palms were damp and anticipatory lust wasn’t entirely to blame.
‘I haven’t said I can make it tonight.’
‘Don’t play hard to get,’ Juliet said. ‘You want w
hat I want.’
Was that true? He was breathing hard, conscious of the pounding of his heart. ‘Adultery isn’t good for your health.’
‘You’re not commiting adultery. It’s years since your wife died.’
This wasn’t the time to quibble about matrimonial law or the proper interpretation of the Book of Leviticus. He didn’t want to finish up like a discredited politician, arguing that his deceits were ‘legally accurate’. ‘If Casper hears about this,’ he said, ‘we’ll both finish up in intensive care. Maybe worse.’
‘Forget him. You ought to relax. The trouble is, you’re too uptight.’
‘He’s dangerous. You’ve said so yourself.’
‘I can picture you tensing up,’ she said softly. ‘Don’t worry, we can have a nice soothing bath together.’
He couldn’t help imagining her arms as they stretched around him, her long fingers probing the cavities beneath his shoulder blades, the sharp red nails starting to dig into his back. Closing his eyes, he could smell her perfume, taste the champagne on her lips, feel the thick mass of her hair brush against his cheeks, then his chest.
‘But…’
‘No buts, Harry. Remember the Tarot reading I gave you? You’re in for a life-changing experience.’
That’s what I’m afraid of. He sucked air into his lungs. It was supposed to be an aid to rational thought.
‘Seven thirty,’ she said, filling the silence. ‘It’s less than four hours away. I can hardly wait, can you?’
Another angry knock at the door. Harry let out a breath. So much for rational thought. Well, whoever chose as an epitaph - ‘he was always sensible’?
‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t.’
Carl Symons swallowed the last loop of spaghetti and wiped his mouth clean with his sleeve. He turned up the volume on the portable television on his kitchen table. The bellow of the wind outside was drowning out even the determined cheeriness of the weather forecaster.
‘Not a night to be out and about, with storms across the region and the likelihood of damage to property. And a word for all drivers from our motoring unit: don’t travel unless your journey is absolutely essential.’
Carl belched. The wind and rain didn’t bother him: he wasn’t going anywhere tonight. He’d left work at five sharp so as to get home before the weather worsened, the first time in months that he hadn’t worked late. Even so, it had seemed like a long day. Unsatisfactory, too. He’d emailed Suki Anwar, asking her to come to his office at four, and the bitch had sent an insolent reply, refusing on the pretext that she had an urgent case to prepare. As if that wasn’t enough, on his way to the car park, he’d caught sight of Brett Young behind the wheel of his clapped-out Sierra. For a moment he’d thought Brett was putting his foot down, trying to run him down as he was crossing Water Street. He’d had to skip through the traffic to gain the safety of the pavement on the other side. He’d felt himself flushing and he could picture Brett giving a grim smile at his alarm. Bastard. A lying bastard, too, one who had got what he deserved. Carl wasn’t sorry about what he’d done.
He laughed out loud and sang in a rumpled baritone, ‘Je ne regrette rien.’
It made him feel better. He’d forget about Suki and Brett. Better to spend a couple of hours working on his report for tomorrow’s meeting. It would assuage his conscience for that prompt departure from the office. And he did have a conscience about it. His parents were long dead, but they had inculcated in him the puritan work ethic; he prized diligence above all things. Not even his worst enemy - whoever that might be; he suspected that he was spoiled for choice - could accuse him of laziness. Later, he might relax with a film. Channel 4 was showing an old black and white movie called Nosferatu.
He wondered whether to have a Mars bar and decided against it. The lager had better stay in the fridge as well. Tomorrow he intended to wear his best suit and he’d noticed that the trousers were getting tight. He’d always nourished a deep contempt for people with pretty faces, people like Suki and Brett. Only fools judged by appearances: good looks were a mask for weakness. Yet he’d always secretly prided himself on his flat belly. He’d lost his hair young and he’d never been a Robert Redford, but at least he wasn’t overweight. Truth was, he needed to look the part at the meeting: nowadays presentation mattered in everything, including the prosecution service. So - how best to present the latest conviction rates? The figures were looking good; the trick was to make sure everyone got the message that the credit belonged to him. No-one could deny he’d justified his promotion. A Principal Crown Prosecutor owed a duty to the taxpayer. He’d told the appointment board that it was vital to be selective. No point in pursuing the ones who were sure to get away. The secret was to target cases where the evidence was cast-iron so that not even a Liverpool jury could fail to bring in a verdict of guilty.
A deafening crash outside almost knocked him off his feet. He swore loudly. A roof tile gone, by the sound of it. He’d already spent a fortune renovating this place. Trouble was, it was too exposed. He’d bought it after receiving confirmation of his promotion in the summer, intrigued by its setting on the bank of the Dee, looking across to the Welsh hills. Once upon a time, before the silting of the river had destroyed the old Dee ports forever, there had been a small anchorage here. This house had once belonged to the harbour master. Now its isolation was part of its charm to Carl; he liked his own company best. Over the years, he’d realised that he didn’t have much time for his fellow human beings. So often they whined about being used, when in truth they had asked for it. The prospect of evenings alone held no terrors for him: he was no longer his own boss during the working day, but still he preferred to do as he pleased. But if the cost of maintaining the house continued to rise, rising further in the hierarchy would no longer be merely an ambition. It would be a necessity.
He turned on the outside light and opened the door which gave on to a York stone courtyard at the side of the house. The wind stung his cheeks and blew the rain into his eyes as he stood on the threshold. Shivering, he blinked hard and finally made out the fragments of slate scattered across the paving and the grass beyond. On the other side of the low wall, the waves were lashing the shore like flails on the back of a galley slave. He had never seen the Dee so wild. A sudden gust caught the wooden door and almost snapped it off its hinges. He swore, then heaved the handle and shut out the night.
Why did I say yes?
Harry killed the engine of his MG and sat hunched over the steering wheel, staring through the rain-streaked windscreen into blackness. On his way over here, radio reports had told of the gales leaving a trail of destruction from the mountains of Snowdonia all along the north coast of Wales. A woman swept away in a swollen river, a dozen caravans tossed into the sea. Now the storm was ripping through Wirral. He couldn’t help shivering, but it had nothing to do with the elements.
He should not be here. Not so much because of guilt, more because he was sure that one day his affair with Juliet would end in tears. Perhaps worse. Casper May had betrayed his wife a hundred times, or so she reckoned. He beat her too: Harry had seen the bruises and his tears of rage had trickled over them. Casper had, it was true, come a long way since his days as loan shark, charging rates of interest that would have made Shylock’s eyes water. His security firm was due to go public soon and nowadays he saw more of government ministers than pleading debtors. The politicians were keen to build bridges with business and to wine and dine an entrepreneur famed for his charitable fund-raising: he might be persuaded to volunteer a donation to party funds. But respectability was only skin deep. If he realised he’d been cuckolded by a small-time solicitor, honour would need to be satisfied.
Harry had heard the story of a rival security boss who had undercut Casper for a contract to look after a dockside container terminal. A week after he’d gone missing, he’d been found inside one of the containers with a hood over his head and a gag in his mouth. The body was discovered on the same day that Casper was lunching with a ta
sk force from the Regional Development Agency, sharing ideas on how to make the north-west a better place to live in. He’d sent flowers to the widow, a woman he’d slept with in his younger days. The names of the scallies who had kidnapped the man and left him to die were common knowledge in the pubs of Dingle, but no-one had ever been charged. When Casper May was involved, it made sense to look the other way.
It still wasn’t too late. He could turn the MG round now and set off for home. Why not settle for beer rather than the bottle of Mouton Cadet he’d stashed in the boot, maybe watch the late vampire film on Channel 4 and admire Max Schreck’s uncanny impersonation of an inspector from the Inland Revenue? He could call Juliet tomorrow and make an excuse. Even if he said something about seeing her around, she’d guess that it was over. No great loss for her: she would soon find someone else to amuse herself with.
But as he buttoned his coat up to the neck to keep out the cold, he realised that for him it was too late after all. No longer was it a matter of choice. She was waiting for him in the lonely cottage. He could not help but seize the chance to be with her again.
Carl turned the key in the mortice lock, but there was no escape from the wind in the living-room chimney. A frantic sound, he thought, the sort a beast might make if caught in a trap. He shook his head, surprised at himself. He wasn’t given to flights of fancy. Imagination was a nuisance. It played no part in the preparation of a case for court, in the effective prosecution of criminal offenders.
He cursed as the picture on his television began to flicker and the actor’s voices in the Fiat commercial became garbled and discordant. Suddenly the programme cut off and the fluorescent overhead light went out.
Blindly, he stumbled towards the hall, cracking his knee against a cabinet as he crossed the uneven floor. He had to remember to duck his head under the low beams as he went through the doorway. Everything seemed unfamiliar in the dark. He tried the light switch next to the stairs. Nothing. A power line must have been brought down in the storm.
First Cut is the Deepest (Harry Devlin) Page 1
