First Cut is the Deepest (Harry Devlin)

by Edwards, Martin

  ‘Come on,’ she snapped, ‘how many solicitors do you know without one? Besides, I should have thought it would be mandatory to have a portable back-up in an out-of-the-way spot like this. At least there’s no harm in asking.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Harry’s heart was thudding. ‘This solicitor, you don’t know anything about him, do you? He might turn out to be someone I did battle with in court today. The cat would be well and truly out of the bag then, wouldn’t it? How long before word got around? You know what Liverpudlians are like. Their idea of a secret is something you mustn’t tell to more than three people. Who’s to say that Casper wouldn’t get to hear of it, sooner or later?’

  ‘All right, all right,’ she said sulkily. ‘I’ll go on my own. I’ll tell him I turned up here because I needed to call on Linda urgently. Something to do with work. Then I saw the tree had come down.’

  ‘What if he offers his help, wants to come over here to take a look-see?’

  ‘Don’t worry. It won’t be hard to put him off.’ She waved a hand. ‘I’ll make up a story.’

  The throwaway remark jolted him. He realised that she enjoyed making up stories, took it in her stride. Her creative imagination ought not to have come as a surprise, he supposed. She did make a living from promoting the image of solicitors, after all. But he felt like a fly caught in a web.

  ‘Okay. If you think it’s for the best.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ She stared at him, her eyes narrowing. ‘I’m not just some old nympho, Harry. I have some idea about doing the right thing. I’d never let Linda down.’

  ‘I only meant…’

  ‘Oh forget it.’ She pulled on her suspender belt and stockings. ‘If you like, you can go home now. Let’s face it, the evening’s been ruined.’

  ‘I’m staying,’ he said doggedly.

  ‘Up to you.’ She finished dressing in silence. When she spoke again, her tone had softened. ‘Harry, I’m as sorry as you are about this. We were doing fine, weren’t we? Too good to be true, I suppose. I won’t be long, promise. Ten minutes should do it. You’ll probably be proved right and there’ll be nothing much Linda can do about this until the morning. But I won’t be able to take it easy until I’ve broken the news. I owe her that.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll be waiting for you. And whatever happens, we can finish the champagne, can’t we?’

  Left alone in the candle-light, he padded around, trying to get his bearings in the unfamiliar house. He’d often spoken to Linda Blackwell on the phone and he’d met her at Juliet’s office. He recalled a smart woman with metal-rimmed spectacles and blonde hair in a bob. She was a widow, he gathered, in her early fifties but looking ten years younger. Her manner was always crisp and business like. It came as no surprise that her home contained neither chintz nor clutter.

  The bed he’d shared with Juliet had a hard mattress and a plain British Home Stores duvet. The furniture was functional pine. There weren’t many personal touches apart from a symmetrically arranged group of framed photographs on the dressing table. Linda on her wedding day; she looked about nineteen, slim and pretty. Her late husband had been a tall handsome man with a mane of long fair hair. There were snaps of the couple with a baby in dungarees, who became an awkward gap-toothed schoolboy, a young man standing proudly outside medical school and finally a morning-suited bridegroom kissing a blonde in a low-cut white dress. It took Harry a moment to identify him as the gruff chap he’d met at Juliet’s office. Another picture showed Peter, a few years older, standing next to a signboard at the front of a low-level industrial unit bearing the legend Blackwell Prostheses. Perhaps Peter would be useful to know, Harry thought, if Casper chopped his legs off. Although he hadn’t taken to Peter on brief initial acquaintance, he was uncomfortably aware that the Blackwells had done Juliet and him a favour by allowing them the opportunity to spend the night together. And now it had all gone wrong.

  Linda’s bed was a double, presumably for comfort rather than company: there was no evidence of any boyfriend and only a single toothbrush in the bathroom. There was a cardboard box marked in neat lettering Peter’s school reports. Linda Blackwell was a devoted mother and Harry sighed, composing a mental picture blurred by time of his own long-dead parents. Would they have kept souvenirs of his childhood? How different would his life have been if they had survived?

  Even from glancing round the cottage, he could guess that Linda was the perfect secretary, someone who took pleasure in filing things in their proper order. Thank God he’d never married someone so obsessively tidy; she’d have filed for divorce on the grounds of messiness within a matter of months. The downstairs rooms were equally neat, except for the sofa cushions which he and Juliet had swept aside during their first embrace of the evening. Women’s magazines filled a rack; Delia Smith and Catherine Cookson dominated the bookshelves; the cd tower was stacked with Enya and Phil Collins. The vinyl of the kitchen floor gleamed; the place would have suited a photo-shoot for an article about ideal homes if it were not for the tree trunk making the utility room look like a stage set for theatre of the absurd.

  Perhaps Juliet was right. This did not feel like a gossip’s home. He could persuade himself that the person who lived here could be trusted with the secret. But even if Linda kept her mouth shut, what future could he and Juliet possibly have together? She was a woman who had fads. Reading the Tarot, more recently Feng Shui. He didn’t deceive himself; he was one more short-term craze, a change from the usual run of well-heeled men she fancied. Some day soon she’d find someone else who amused her more.

  He sprawled on the sofa and flicked through a magazine he’d pulled from the rack. There was a double page spread about addiction, aimed at mothers with problem children. The snippets of information in the sidebars struck a chord: there was talk about shopaholics and binge eaters, cases where enjoyable activity became compulsive. The causes of addiction, a psychiatrist was quoted as saying, were usually emotional. A period of stress rooted in unhappiness was almost always to blame. It made sense. Time had passed since his wife Liz had been murdered, but the wounds had yet to heal.

  He’d met Juliet after Jim had asked her if she could improve the firm’s profile and he’d been smitten at once. At first he’d tried to fight his instincts; it was easy to come up with a dozen good reasons why an affair was doomed. But the excitement of finding that she reciprocated his interest had drowned the still small voice of common sense. Their affair had begun one night in the spring and now he found it increasingly impossible to imagine life without her. Whenever he felt lonely, he needed to pick up the phone and talk to her. Once when he’d called her at home, Casper had answered and he’d had to pretend to be a market researcher for a timeshare company. By the time Casper had said, ‘I’ve already got a five-bedroom villa on the Algarve, so why don’t you stop wasting my time and just fuck off?’ and banged the phone down, his shirt had been wet through. The health warnings didn’t need to be spelled out: sleeping with a violent man’s wife could seriously damage your health. The trouble was that he couldn’t bring himself to give her up.

  The magazine article didn’t offer much help. A doctor advised that the only way to conquer the problem was to avoid temptation. The best course for addicts was to supplement an avoidance strategy backed-up with regular self-help group meetings. Somehow Harry couldn’t see that working. Nicotine skin patches and chewing gum were no more use than hypnotherapy, acupuncture or methadone. Nor could he rely on family support. He didn’t have a family, it was as simple as that. He’d been an only child and his mother and father had been killed in a car crash when he was a teenager. With no-one around to reinforce his memories, sometimes he found it hard nowadays to remember much about them. Liz had left him for someone else and been stabbed to death a couple of years later. It seemed natural to him to be alone. Only on odd occasions, when Jim spoke about his own wife and children, did Harry wonder what he might be missing. Jim might not be quite the textbook family man - Harry had once caught
him in flagrante with a woman police officer - but he did have someone to go home to. Maybe there was something to be said for a conventional way of life, if the alternative was sleeping with the wife of another man who might kill you if he ever discovered the truth.

  ‘Harry!’

  He heard her call his name at the same moment that the front door crashed open. Her voice was breathless and frightened. His skin tingled.

  ‘What is it?’

  He raced into the hall. Juliet was standing on the threshold, gasping for air. Her face was streaked with tears. As he put his arm around her, she began to weep. It was a dreadful sound, desperate and afraid. Her body heaved and he hugged her urgently, whispering words of comfort.

  ‘It’s all right, darling. I’m here. You’re safe.’

  ‘It’s - it’s not all right,’ she wept.

  ‘For God’s sake, what’s happened?’

  ‘He’s dead! He’s dead! And - his head … oh Christ!’ She gulped in air as greedily as if she were drowning. ‘It’s … it’s been cut off.’

  Chapter Three

  Twenty minutes passed and still she sobbed. Her body rocked against him as again he raised the tumbler to her lips.

  She winced as the brandy burned her tongue. ‘Thanks,’ she said in a muffled voice.

  ‘Have some more.’

  Straining hard to smile, she said, ‘Sorry, I’m not usually hysterical. But it was so vile…’

  They clung to each other. He brushed her cheek with his lips. ‘You’re not being hysterical. It’s only natural.’

  ‘His head,’ she said thickly. ‘The eyes were staring at me. Oh God, Harry, I - I’ve never seen a corpse before. Let alone … shit, it was so horrible … you can’t imagine, you just can’t imagine.’

  He ground his teeth, wishing he could say something to help. There were no words for comforting someone who had just seen a decapitated corpse. When he spoke, it was less gently than he’d intended. ‘I’ve seen a dead body more than once, remember?’ He paused. ‘Including my wife’s.’

  She flinched as if he had slapped her face. ‘Oh, Harry, I’m sorry. I remember you once told me about going to the mortuary after she was stabbed.’ The words were starting to come a little more easily now. ‘God, how could you bear it? I know you were head over heels in love with her. This is a man I’ve never even met, but even so …’ She touched his hand. ‘Guess I’m not as brave and devil-may-care as you thought, eh?’

  He squeezed her fingers and said quietly, ‘So much the better. I suppose it was the neighbour?’

  ‘No idea.’ She frowned and pulled away from him. He realised how strong she was; already the shock was beginning to give way to the first stirrings of speculation. It would take time for the full enormity of what she had witnessed to sink in. ‘I - I assumed it was him. If it’s someone else, Linda’s bête-noir has a lot of explaining to do.’

  ‘That’s for sure. Okay, then. You left here…’

  ‘The storm was dying … oh Christ, what a choice of words!’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. You took the other fork in the path, found the house not far away?’

  ‘Yes, I was afraid I might get lost, but the trees thin out. The place is near shore level, I couldn’t miss it. There’s a brass knocker on the door, much the same as the one here. When I lifted it, the door opened. Not properly shut. So I stepped over the threshold, flashing the light and calling, “Anyone there?”’

  ‘Did the house seem empty?’

  Her eyes widened as a fresh terror swept over her. ‘You’re not suggesting that - whoever did it was still there when I walked in?’

  ‘Just asking.’

  ‘Oh Jesus.’ She hesitated, her eyes glazing for a moment as her imagination worked. ‘I heard nothing. That bothered me. I thought someone must be there, if the door wasn’t locked - so why weren’t they answering? I remember shivering, but I walked into the hallway. I could see a mobile on an occasional table. Perfect. But I could hardly make my call there and then. It would have been too embarrassing if the owner had popped out of the loo or bathroom and found me standing there, chatting away on his portable phone without a by-your-leave. So I shouted out two or three more times.’

  ‘Still no answer?’

  ‘Nothing. Then I noticed that the floor was covered in pieces of broken glass. Bits of mirror. There was an empty hook on the wall. It was as if someone had grabbed it from the hook and smashed it on the ground. I was scared by now. Even if the man had gone to bed early in some kind of temper, he surely couldn’t have slept through that storm.’

  Through her thin clothes, he could feel her heart beating faster as she relived the scene. ‘I’m amazed you didn’t turn round and leg it back here.’

  She nodded. ‘I thought about it, believe me, but I told myself not to be such a coward. I looked round one door. It was the living-room. No-one there. Same with the little dining-room. At the end of the hall was the way into the kitchen. I peered inside. He - he was lying there.’

  She shed more tears, burying her face in his chest. He increased the pressure of his grip on her. ‘You’re safe with me, love.’

  She looked up at him. ‘How can you be sure?’

  Harry moistened his lips. ‘Whoever did this will be long gone. Promise. Now - did you see a weapon of any kind?’

  ‘Nothing. But I wasn’t looking out for one. The sight of the body hypnotised me. He’d been stabbed, for good measure. At least I think so. His chest was soaked in blood. Saturated. I hated it, I wanted to throw up, but I was paralysed. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. It felt as though I’d been staring at it for hours. Really, I suppose it was a minute at most.’

  ‘Sure. You weren’t out so very long.’

  ‘Long enough. The moment I was outside, I did puke. I couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘Best thing.’

  ‘Maybe. I tell you, I’ve never moved so fast as I did on the way back here.’

  ‘I suppose the next thing is to call the police.’

  ‘You - you think we have to?’

  He stared at her, trying to fathom what was going on behind the tear-streaked face. ‘What’s the alternative?’

  ‘I was just wondering … I mean, do we really want to get involved?’

  ‘Better face up to it. We are involved. It’s the last thing I’d wish for, but we can’t forget what you’ve seen.’

  She shuddered. ‘Understatement of the year. Why do we have to say anything to anyone at all?’

  ‘I’m a lawyer,’ he said helplessly. ‘Believe me, I often wish I wasn’t. But we don’t have a choice. There’s no option but to report the death.’

  ‘This isn’t the right moment to go chasing a good citizenship award.’ Her face was pinched with tension. ‘We have to be careful. You and I shouldn’t be here together. Casper has friends in high places. Believe it or not, he plays golf with a superintendent once a fortnight. We could be in big trouble. People talk.’

  ‘Of course they do. That’s why we need to use our heads.’ He paused, then said gently, ‘Think for a moment. Suppose we do steal away into the night. What happens? Linda Blackwell is left well and truly in the shit. All of a sudden, that tree becomes the least of her problems. Sooner or later a body is discovered in the next house along the path. The police come calling on her, wanting to know if she was here tonight, whether she heard or saw anything. You told me she and this neighbour, whoever he is, weren’t on good terms. Assuming he’s the victim - and the smart money says he is - she’ll be treated as a suspect.’

  ‘You can’t be serious!’

  ‘You may think it’s crazy, but what if the two of them have been locked in some kind of dispute? The police are bound to check her out, if only to eliminate her.’

  Juliet pulled away from him. ‘You’re exaggerating. I can’t see a problem. She has an alibi. She can explain that she was staying at her son’s house this evening.’

  ‘On a night like this, you might expect a widow who lives in
a place as remote as this to stay at home, keeping an eye on her property. They’ll dig around, you can depend on it.’

  ‘You’re worrying over nothing.’

  ‘It’s not nothing,’ he said, obstinacy hardening his tone. ‘If this man has been murdered, the police aren’t going to treat it like a parking offence. Their forensic people will take his house apart. There’ll be trace evidence, you’ll have left your fingerprints. You weren’t wearing gloves when you picked up the mobile.’

  ‘Strange as it may seem for the wife of Casper May,’ she snapped, ‘they don’t actually have my fingerprints on file. Nor my DNA.’

  ‘Won’t they wonder who was sick outside the house?’ He grasped her by the shoulder. ‘Listen, your husband isn’t the only one with friends in the Merseyside Police. I have a few, as well. And I promise you, they aren’t going to skimp on this one. Let’s not take too many chances. If the detectives do find out that we were here and then did a runner after you discovered the body, all hell will let loose. We’d both be pulled in for questioning. Try explaining that to Casper. You’re relying too much on your PA’s discretion. To say nothing of her son’s.’

  She eased out of his grip. Her brow was furrowed; he sensed that she was weighing the risks in her mind. ‘Peter, yes. Linda’s strong, but he’s different. He’s not an easy guy, he’s had a rough time lately. I mean, he’s no fool. At one time he was training to be a surgeon. After he gave that up, he built up a good little business. But it’s all fallen apart. His wife left him, his company failed. One of the problems is that he likes a drink. I’m not sure I’d stake my life on him keeping his mouth shut.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  A low groan. ‘All right. You win. But what do we tell the police? How can we explain why we’re here? We can’t tell the truth, that’s for sure.’

  ‘When you’re in a hole, the first rule is - stop digging.’

  She leaned forward and seized his wrist. ‘Harry, swear to me you won’t even hint that we’re having an affair. We have to come up with some good reason for being here. It’s for your sake as much as mine. If Casper gets the faintest hint…’