‘Hello, Harry.’ Her voice was husky and warm. ‘Don’t worry about it. How are you? Or is that a silly question in the circumstances?’
He took a breath and waved a hand at their surroundings. ‘Don’t apologise. If people couldn’t ask silly questions in the magistrates, we’d all be out of a job.’
Almond eyes gazed into his. Her expression resembled that of a nurse at a gallant soldier’s bedside. ‘It must have been awful for you.’
‘As long as they don’t lock me up.’
‘Ah, Suki, my dear! Splendid! I’ve found you at last!’ The voice hailing her from down the corridor belonged to a middle-aged barrister who in girth and gait bore a startling resemblance to a penguin. His face was split by a smug beam as he waddled towards them and Harry sensed that he thought she fancied him.
‘Uh-oh,’ she said under her breath. ‘I’m late for a con with counsel. Nice to see you, Harry. We ought to talk some time, okay? Will you be at the Legal Group seminar tonight?’
Harry frowned, vaguely trying to recall the junk mail he’d binned the other day. ‘All about professional negligence, right?’
‘That’s it!’
‘Well…’
‘Not that you’d ever be negligent, I’m sure. But it does us no harm to be kept up to the mark, does it? And you can count it towards your tally of continuing education points. See you there, I hope.’
She moved away to greet the barrister, her face a mask of charm. As he turned to leave, Harry realised that she had not said a word about Carl himself, the victim of the crime. If Suki was heartbroken about Carl’s death, she was hiding it well. He remembered Muriel’s account of her conversation with Nerys Horlock.
Walking back down Dale Street, he wondered why she seemed keen for him to attend the seminar in the evening. Perhaps she was simply trying to drum up numbers; he had a vague idea that she had been elected to the committee of the Legal Group in the summer. Even if she was burning to know more about Carl Symons’ death, it might simply be a prurient interest in the death of a former lover from whom she had parted on bad terms.
In normal circumstances he would find a Legal Group seminar on professional negligence as enticing as a couple of hours of self-flagellation. If he turned up this evening he might also face the hassle of having to fend off questions about Symons. But perhaps that was a price to be paid if he wanted to understand the prosecutor’s fate. And he did want to understand it. Badly.
After rifling through his desk drawers, he came up with the pocket diary the Group issued to its members. It was crammed with useful information about how to create a website and conduct investment business, but Harry used it to note the price of vinyl LPs he fancied from the second-hand shop downstairs. He’d never before consulted the seemingly endless list of professional development courses. Tonight’s subject was sure to touch a nerve. Everyone made mistakes from time to time: it was common knowledge that each time the QEII set sail, half the luxury cabins were occupied by beneficiaries of estates overpaid in error by dozy probate lawyers. A further check revealed that the venue for the seminar was to be the Titanic Rooms. Perhaps the Group’s committee had an unexpectedly sly sense of humour.
Jim bustled in, clutching a sheaf of bills and red reminder notices. ‘We’ll soon be touching the new overdraft limit. Maybe the Loan Arranger was right and we ought to cut back. We should think about pulling the advertising campaign.’ He saw Harry’s feet on the desk and scowled. ‘Knocked off for the day?’
‘Good morning in court. I even got old man Goater off.’
‘Jesus, that’s a crime against society in itself.’
‘Miracles do happen.’
‘Like us making some decent money?’
Harry considered his partner. It was never easy to read Jim’s mind. ‘You’re really worried?’
‘Things are tight. I put in a tender for new business yesterday, but the legal aid cuts don’t help. It’s the old story. The courts are open to everyone. Same as the Ritz.’
‘My sentiments exactly. I’ve realised I’ve been burying my head in the sand about the threats to our livelihood. So I’ll be going to the Legal Group talk on avoiding negligence tonight. A chance to keep ahead of the game, pick up a few tips on best practice.’
Jim frowned. ‘What are you up to? Is the speaker some gorgeous blonde?’
Harry was all injured innocence. ‘Why do you always suspect me of having an ulterior motive?’
‘Because you’re Harry Devlin, that’s why.’
The phone rang. Suzanne chanted Juliet’s name in an irritatingly suggestive manner. Harry wondered whether the girl was getting the wrong idea. Or rather, the right idea. He shook his head at his mounting sense of insecurity. Just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he said, ‘Would you like to speak to Juliet May? Tell her you want to cancel the marketing plan?’
Jim pulled a face. ‘Better leave it till I’ve done a bit of number-crunching. Can you speak to her, put her off for a bit?’
She’s not easily put off - believe me, I know. ‘Leave it to me.’
As the door swung behind his partner, Harry asked Juliet how were things.
‘It’s going to be all right, I’m sure. Nothing more from the police. I bet they must have a few leads now. With any luck, they’ll arrest someone soon and we won’t be troubled again.’
‘Don’t bank on it. I was talking to a journalist half an hour ago and as far as he can tell, they haven’t got a clue.’
‘So many suspects they can’t figure out where to begin, that’s their only problem. If this man Symons could antagonise the Blackwells, he could upset anyone. I can’t believe he’s much of a loss to the legal profession.’
‘Being a nasty piece of work isn’t a barrier to entry. In some firms I know, it’s part of the job description. Why else do you think we keep crying out for an image makeover and help from people like you? Though I ought to warn you, Jim’s fretting about money. He may change his mind about the media strategy.’
‘No problem. I have contacts, I can negotiate hefty discounts. He needs to trust me the way you do.’
Do I? Harry changed tack. ‘When does Casper arrive home?’
‘Half seven. He rang me on his mobile from Euston a few minutes ago. He was talking about taking me out for a slap-up meal, sounded really pleased with himself. His bimbo must have been in good form last night. I’m almost tempted to make him jealous.’ She giggled. ‘Only joking.’
Harry laughed too. But nervously.
Daniel Roberts walked down Old Hall Street and bought a newspaper from a vendor with a pitch opposite the main entrance to the Titanic Rooms. There were a couple of paragraphs on the front page about the continuing investigation into the death of Carl Symons. A superintendent was quoted as saying that his team was following up a considerable number of leads. Daniel took that to mean that they didn’t know where to start in their investigation. He’d read somewhere that the more time that passed after the discovery of the body, the less likely it was that a culprit would ever be charged. A thought occurred which caused him wry amusement. Perhaps they could do worse than call on Harry Devlin for help.
He’d driven over from his cottage in the mountains and spent a productive afternoon in the basement archive of a local newspaper. He was thirsty to know more about Harry. The more information he had, the better. It had occurred to him to check on press cuttings. He’d needed to tell a few lies to the plump woman responsible for archive material, but he didn’t mind that. All his energies were directed on one goal; he could not allow himself to be deflected. He had himself become a hunter. The thought pleased him, prompted a grim smile. The experience would be grist to the mill when he next worked on an entry in the Journal.
Harry Devlin’s name cropped up several times in connection with sudden, violent death. It was almost as if he were drawn to it. Daniel skimmed through reports of criminal cases in which Harry defended kill
ers. In one case, he’d been a witness, giving evidence in the trial of someone who had done away with three people in a converted church. Above all, there was the stabbing of his wife Liz. From the guarded wording of early reports about her murder, Daniel guessed that Harry himself had been a prime suspect at first. Odd how the story had fizzled out; the police had intimated that the case was closed, but it seemed as though no-one had ever been brought to justice.
The file contained clippings with smudged photographs. Liz had been caught in a holiday snap, an attractive wide-eyed woman laughing at the camera. And then there was Harry. Daniel gazed at the strangely familiar face. Harry’s jaw had a determined set, but his features were creased in bafflement, as if he were puzzling over a secret that someone was keeping from him.
Daniel glanced to his right and his left. The woman in charge was discussing her diet with a colleague at the far end on the cellar. He slipped a pair of nail scissors from his pocket and snipped out the photograph of Harry, tucking it inside his wallet.
He’d walked over to the woman and thanked her for her help. On his way out of the building, he had exulted silently, clenching his fists in a fierce passion as he told himself that he now possessed a picture of the man he was seeking.
Before he returned to his cottage for another night without sleep, he wanted to see Harry. It was important now that he could put a face to the name. He was wary of keeping watch outside Crusoe and Devlin’s office. A preliminary reconnaissance the previous day had convinced him that he must rule out Fenwick Court. It was too overlooked. Far better to bide his time.
The information sheets he’d picked up at the Legal Group’s offices had mentioned a seminar on professional negligence at the Titanic Rooms tonight. All members were urged to attend. He could not be certain that Harry would show up for it. But he’d decided to come and look out for him, just on the off chance. With the newspaper folded out in front of his face, he stationed himself on the steps leading up to the doorway of a bank that had been converted into a wine bar. From his vantage point, he could keep an eye on everyone who entered the building.
A fine rain was falling as people began to drift towards the Titanic Rooms. A couple were carrying huge umbrellas emblazoned with their firm’s name which threatened to poke out the eyes of anyone walking in the opposite direction. Suddenly he noticed a man in an overcoat which had seen better days approaching from the direction of Exchange Flags. His collar was turned up against the cold but even though the photograph filched from the newspaper was poor in quality, Daniel had no doubt. This was Harry Devlin.
Excitement ran through his body like an electric current. At last he was closing in on the man he had been seeking for so long. As Harry pushed through the revolving doors, Daniel had to make an effort of will to resist the urge to advance from the shadows and follow his quarry inside. He breathed deeply, trying to master his emotions, unaware of the raven-haired woman he’d met the previous morning at the Legal Group’s offices. She was crossing the street when she caught sight of him gazing after Harry. She paused in mid-stride as she recognised him. Then she hurried into the building, as if frightened that she might catch his eye.
Harry hadn’t been inside the Titanic Rooms before. The building had once housed the offices of one of the city’s smaller shipping lines and after the company had collapsed it had stood empty for more than a decade. An enterprising developer had bought it for a song, given it a new name and turned it into a conference centre. The doomed ship had sailed from Liverpool and the chance to cash in on an Oscar-winning movie was too good to miss. The foyer was full of White Star Line memorabilia supposedly carried away by survivors of the tragedy. Harry suspected that most of it had been manufactured during the past eighteen months in a factory out in Bootle or West Derby. Probably by the same people who turned out Beatles artefacts by the lorryload for sale to credulous souvenir hunters.
He claimed a vacant seat at the far end of the front row, nodding to a couple of solicitors he knew. Turning up at the last minute had spared him the need to dodge their questions. He was conscious of people staring at him and shifted uncomfortably: what must it be like to be an animal in a zoo, constantly goggled at by the masses? All he’d done was stumble across a murder scene, for God’s sake.
Suki Anwar was sitting immediately below the dais for the chairman and speaker; she’d donned a conspicuously short skirt in honour of the occasion. The seminar was to be given by a doyen of the Yorkshire Law Society, introduced by Rick Spendlove, the recently elected chairman of the Group. The guest was sipping from a tankard of Boddingtons and muttering that he earned less in a year than the Lord Chancellor spent on wallpaper for his toilet. Rick nodded absent-minded agreement whilst engaging in a minute survey of Suki’s long legs.
Glancing round, Harry saw Andrea Gibbs following him in. Their eyes met, then she coloured and looked away. Why had she made that abortive call to him? Perhaps he would have the chance to ask her before the evening was over. Turning his head, he caught Suki intercepting Rick’s gaze. She raised her eyebrows and Rick treated her to a full-wattage smile.
Rick was a tall, powerfully built man who had played rugby for Cambridge University and made sure that everyone knew it. The game had flattened his nose and scarred his jaw, giving him the appearance of a nightclub bouncer, albeit one whose c.v. included not only a Blue and a first in law but also a rating as one of Enterprise Spotlight’s Lawyers for the Millennium. He’d have figured prominently, also, in any listing of Sex Addicts for the Millennium. Since his second wife had left him some time back, he’d been playing the field as if his life depended on it. When he wasn’t checking into hotel bedrooms, he strode the corridors of Boycott Duff, where he was one of the senior partners. The firm was the biggest and most prosperous in the north of England. It was also famously ruthless, but had recently been embarking on a marketing offensive to show that the partners’ hearts were in the right place. Only last week Rick had, amidst a fanfare of publicity, launched a fund to build a hospice for AIDS sufferers in memory of Diana, Princess of Wales. Any day now, he’d be making an impassioned speech in support of the victims of landmines.
Dragging his eyes away from Suki with evident reluctance, Rick got to his feet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for turning up in such splendid numbers. We have a first class speaker tonight. I think many of you know Willis Arkwright from Batley. He never pulls punches, doesn’t Willis, and I expect he’ll be landing a few tonight on those of our fellow professionals who let us all down by being guilty of sloppy legal practice.’
Rick coughed and switched on his caring expression. ‘But first, it’s my painful duty to express on behalf of the Liverpool Legal Group our sense of loss and grief following the death the night before last of a well-known local practitioner. I refer, naturally, to Carl Symons. Carl was known to many of you first during his time in private practice and latterly as a prosecutor. He was an able solicitor and we extend our sympathy to the Crown Prosecution Service in its loss.’
It wasn’t much of an epitaph, but perhaps there wasn’t much more to be said. No-one in the room seemed woebegone as Willis Arkwright began his talk. Cautionary tales of couples who married bigamously because harassed lawyers had forgotten to sort out the decrees ending their previous marriages and brain-dead conveyancers who thought that buying holiday homes in Spain raised the same legal issues as purchasing a bungalow in Southport.
Ah well, Harry thought, there but for the grace of God. His mind began to wander. Perhaps Carl had had a secret life which might explain his barbaric killing. The best way to find out would be to talk to the people who had known him best. Since he was such a loner, that seemed to point towards the people he’d worked with. Like Nerys, Brett, Suki and Andrea.
Once Willis Arkwright had finally run out of breath, the formal part of the evening was over. Andrea disappeared immediately in the direction of the ladies’ and while Rick was doing his good-host bit, Harry walked up to Suki and asked if she’d like a drink. T
en minutes later she was on her second vodka and lime and he judged the moment right to ask if she knew whether Symons had any family.
‘Not that I know of. He was an only child. I think his father died when he was at school and he lost his mother years ago.’ A sharp, bitten-off laugh. ‘He wasn’t the kind you associate with the phrase “nearest and dearest”.’
Harry wondered if people said the same about him. Banishing the thought, he said, ‘A workaholic?’
‘Something like that.’ Suki looked him in the eye. It was a trick she had, flattering yet doubtless effective as a means of eliciting confidences. ‘So did the police give you a hard time?’
‘I’ve had happier experiences.’
‘Did Eggar give you any clue as to what they were thinking?’
‘Such as?’
‘Well … I mean, it’s weird, isn’t it? Who could have done such a terrible thing? And it was terrible, wasn’t it?’ She bent forward and whispered in his ear. ‘I’ve heard the inside story from a young constable I’m friendly with. He told me Carl’s head was cut off. Why would anyone want to do such a thing?’
‘If the police do have any ideas about motive, they haven’t taken me into their confidence.’
She brushed a hair out of her eyes. ‘People tell me you like to play the detective. Haven’t you picked up any clues?’
‘Sorry. Perhaps I don’t deserve my reputation. What about you? Don’t you have any ideas why anyone would have wanted to kill Carl?’
She spread her arms. ‘It’s a complete mystery.’
‘Presumably the police have talked to you?’
‘Oh yes, along with everyone else in the office. Not that I could help them much.’
‘You didn’t know him well?’
She gave him the smile that was, he suspected, her customary first line of defence. He told himself not to be disarmed. There was no denying that she was attractive; the real question was whether, as Muriel believed, she had something to hide.
First Cut is the Deepest (Harry Devlin) Page 10
