If he isn’t already. ‘How about the old Botanic Gardens?’
‘At Wavertree? God, I’ve not been there since I was a kid.’
‘It’s not exactly Kew, but at least it’s quiet. Not much danger of bumping into anyone we know. We’ll be able to talk.’
‘I’ll be there by half twelve. Meet you outside.’
She banged the phone down. He shut his eyes. Had she let something slip? Was it possible that Casper had cottoned on?
‘Asleep on the job?’ Jim demanded.
Harry opened his eyes and gave his partner a sheepish grin. ‘Just collecting my thoughts.’
Jim grunted. ‘How did you get on?’
‘I’m afraid Mr and Mrs Margetson came face to face with the spectre of failure.’
‘The judge threw out their claim?’
‘He certainly wasn’t moved by the spirit of equity.’
Jim grinned. ‘I’ve been getting a will executed at a rest home in Edge Hill. An old lady’s dying and she wanted to leave her goods and chattels to a deserving cause. Everton Football Club, actually. She’s expressed the testamentary wish that they use the proceeds to buy a decent penalty taker after last night’s fiasco. Tell you something. There’s a lot of police activity up in that neck of the woods this morning. Flashing blue lights, screaming sirens, the works. That whole area is swarming with panda cars.’
‘So what’s new?’ Perhaps Brett Young had crashed through one red light too many this morning. For the moment, Harry had other things on his mind. ‘By the way, I’ll be going out for lunch soon.’
‘Once you’ve collected your thoughts, eh?’ Jim gave a sorrowful look at the mound of paperwork and departed with a shake of the head.
It might not be too bad, Harry told himself on his way out of the office. Even if Casper had somehow learned about the affair, it needn’t be the end of the world. It wasn’t as if the man had been a model of fidelity. Nowadays he was a prominent businessman, a pillar of the community. With any luck, he’d realise that vengeance never achieved anything. Despite his wounded pride, he might be willing to let his wife’s lover fade into the background. Perhaps he’d learn the right lesson and start to work at his marriage with Juliet. There might yet be a happy ending.
Then again, wasn’t that a formation of pigs flying over the Liver Building?
Juliet’s Alfa was already waiting in Botanic Road when he arrived. It was a sleek silver car, not the sort commonly found round here. He gritted his teeth: she paid lip service to the need for discretion, but he was beginning to understand that she was by nature a risk-taker. And, truth to tell, that was part of her appeal. She opened the passenger door and he climbed in beside her. She was tense and breathing hard.
‘What’s the matter? Is it Casper?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘At least, not yet.’
He breathed out. That was all right, then. ‘So why are you worried?’
‘It’s that bastard Peter Blackwell.’
Oh shit. ‘What’s he done?’
‘Nothing much so far. But he’s trouble, I’m sure of it.’
‘You’ve changed your tune. Twenty-four hours ago he was one of the good guys.’
‘I know, I know, don’t rub it in. But that was before he and I talked alone. He called me yesterday evening, not long before Casper was due home. He’d obviously been drinking, his voice was slurred. I’ve known him for ages, I thought we were friends, but what he said shocked me. It was as if I was connecting with the real person for the very first time.’
‘We all say things when we’re pissed that we don’t really mean.’
‘You don’t understand. This was horrible. He said some filthy things about you and me. Said I was a cheap whore. Asked what my husband would say if he found out I was screwing a two-bit solicitor.’
Harry’s stomach lurched. ‘He threatened to blow the gaff?’
‘Not in so many words,’ she said slowly. ‘It was more as though he enjoyed making me squirm.’
‘It was the booze,’ Harry said, more confidently than he felt. ‘As soon as he dries out, he’ll come crawling back to you, full of apologies and promises that he’ll never do it again. Look, why don’t we have a walk round? You look as though you could do with a bit of fresh air.’
When they were out of the car, she said, ‘I wish I could be so sure. Some things - once they are said, they can’t be unsaid.’
He turned up his coat collar. ‘Have you discussed this with Linda?’
‘Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first.’
They turned on to the main road, keeping their counsel as the cars roared by on the dual carriageway. The old stone gatehouse was boarded-up, its drainpipes rusted, its single door padlocked. Pinned to a signboard by the main entrance was a single piece of paper, a notice of election of a municipal councillor for the Smithdown Ward. The polling date was the previous May.
They walked towards the walled garden. He’d once heard that this place had originally been intended as the site for the city’s gaol. Instead it had been turned into a botanical garden, but after the Luftwaffe had bombed the borders and wrecked the glasshouses, the plants had been moved to another part of Liverpool and this place had been left to moulder.
He put his hand on hers. ‘It’ll be all right. You said it yourself, Peter has had a rough time. Probably best to cut him some slack. What’s he going to do, anyway? Buttonhole Casper on his way into work? Apart from anything else, I doubt if he’d have the guts. He needs the booze to get through the day. The odds are, he just couldn’t hack it.’
‘It’s too easy for someone to cause mayhem,’ she muttered. ‘An anonymous phone call. A note. There are all kinds of ways he could shaft us with the minimum of personal inconvenience. I can picture him, sitting in that crummy flat of his and laughing till he wept at the thought of the pain he’d caused.’
‘Have a word with Linda. She’s on your side. She’ll give him a good talking-to.’
‘Oh, she’s loyal, no question about that. But even with her, I need to watch my step, believe me. Peter is her only child, the only family she has left since she lost her husband. And she’s still very much the doting mummy. Her boy can do no wrong. You must have picked that up when you came to West Kirby. It’s strange, it’s something that sets us apart. I’ve never had a son, never wanted kids.’ A shadow passed across her face. ‘That’s not quite true, actually. I never got the chance. I had a hysterectomy when I was a student. I was only twenty-one.’
‘I’m sorry.’ In all their moments of intimacy, she’d never mentioned that before.
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. Who wanted a screaming brat anyway?’ She halted for a moment under the shadow of a cherry tree. ‘That’s what I told myself and Casper didn’t seem to mind. He never seemed bothered about founding a dynasty. Maybe he’s begun to change his mind lately, God knows.’
He brushed against the glossy leaves of a huge old rhododendon bush and cleared his throat. The conversation wasn’t getting any easier.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m rambling. Back to Linda. I was saying that she idolises Peter, her whole life revolves around him to this day. If anything, she’s been even more intense lately. It’s her main topic of conversation some days, how badly life’s treated him. She was desperate for grandchildren, but her daughter-in-law wasn’t the maternal kind. Now Peter’s divorced, it’s just the two of them together. I daren’t say anything that seems critical of him - she might fly off the handle.’
‘Listen, she won’t want Peter to sour things between you and her. Besides, if she despises Casper as much as you said, the last thing she will want is for her darling son to snitch on you to him.’
Juliet paused by a metal bench. It was smothered in graffiti about the sexual tastes of Noel and Kylie and gleeful quips about the contrasting fortunes of the Liverpool and Everton football clubs. Swallowing hard, she said, ‘You’re right, of course. It frightens me, though, Harry. I’ve always been so sure that Casper would never find
out about the two of us. Now, even if Peter does manage to keep his mouth shut - I’ll never feel safe.’
‘This is just a squall. Promise.’ He put his arm around her shoulder. There was something oddly comforting in clichés. Perhaps he should have spent more time trawling through soap operas to expand his repertoire.
‘Wish I was so sure.’ She aimed a kick at the gravel of the pathway, bringing up a flurry of dust. ‘Truth is, though, I can’t help thinking things will never be the same again. When Casper arrived home last night, I was shaking. Even he noticed, and he’s not exactly famous for his sensitivity.’
A pram-pushing mother approached them, a gooey-mouthed infant staggering in her wake. The child leered at Harry.
‘Say hello, sweet pea.’
Harry ventured a wary smile. The child responded by allowing her lunch to ooze out of the corners of her mouth. He waved jerkily and hurried on, Juliet following close behind.
‘So what did you tell him?’
‘Oh, I just said I had a raging headache.’ She gave a sour laugh. ‘Told him I might be sickening for something, just for good measure. At least he managed to keep his paws off me in bed. He told me he was being considerate, though I wouldn’t mind betting his dolly bird in London had worn him out.’
They were strolling past straggly herbaceous borders. There wasn’t much colour at this time of year. Cotoneasters poked their branches over the walkways. A few pansies had survived the autumn chills, but so had a scattering of spiky weeds. Over to the right in the inner walled area were a couple of skips full of garden rubbish and a pile of rubble. The bricks in the wall were crumbling; several coping stones had disappeared. Appearances might be deceptive; perhaps the gardeners hadn’t abandoned the unequal struggle and an impoverished council hadn’t let a lovely place go to rack and ruin. The artistic director from the Tate might have been hired to create an avant-garde ambience of decay and desolation. Very fin de siècle.
‘So far, he doesn’t suspect anything?’
‘No, he was in good humour. I wasn’t at risk of a smacking, even though I didn’t rush into his arms the moment he stepped through the door. At least I’ve got something to thank his girlfriend for. Plus the government. I gather he’s up for a place on a task force, would you believe? He said he’d agreed to let his name go forward. Those were his very words, for God’s sake.’
They had reached the perimeter. A curved archway, roofed by a climber’s million tiny green leaves, enticed Harry. Slipping his hand in hers, he led her into the tunnel, but after fifty metres they reached a chained gateway dividing the garden from the main road and had to retrace their steps.
‘He’s offered to put his hand in his pocket over some training initiative. He’s buying a chain of residential care homes for the elderly and he’s offered to bring a load of young Scousers off the dole to care for them. Aren’t the elderly lucky?’
‘What’s the idea, a maximum security wing for troublesome geriatrics?’
‘Oh, it’s some kind of scam, of course. I’m never told the details, but I suppose there’s some way of washing dirty money by putting it through the books of the homes.’ A magpie dropped a piece of bread at their feet. Juliet bent down, picked it up and threw it to a pigeon strutting past the broom hedge. ‘His philanthropy is only skin deep. But what do the authorities care? The unemployment figures look good, so does he. Everyone wins.’
‘Except for the old people?’
‘They’re confused, they’ll probably bless his name.’ She sighed. ‘As long as Casper stays in a good mood, I suppose that’s something for us to be thankful for.’
They had reached the heart of the garden now. Two battered and empty urns, two headless seated figures in stone. Decapitated. He shivered, tried to banish the memory of Carl Symons’ corpse.
‘And you’ll speak to Linda?’
‘Maybe.’ Her expression was thoughtful.
His thoughts roamed as they walked along the top pathway, glancing back through the gate that led to Wavertree Park. Truanting boys were playing soccer, small children in the distance shrieked as they fooled about in the playground. He felt a touch of drizzle on his cheeks.
‘I think you should. She will tell Peter to apologise, everything will be wrapped up nicely.’
‘Until the next time he goes on a bender.’
The path curved and he motioned her to join him on a bench. He brushed away the bits of stone and dirt before she sat down, trying to ignore the sickly smell wafting towards them from the litter bins.
‘I’m sure there won’t be a next time.’
‘There’s always a next time,’ she said.
He didn’t drive straight back to the office, knowing he would find it difficult to concentrate on work. Despite what he’d said to Juliet, it was impossible not to dread the prospect of Peter Blackwell, in a drunken fit of bravado, ratting on them to Casper May. And even at the best of times, he often found it difficult to concentrate on work.
A short detour would take him to Nerys Horlock’s office. He could turn up on her doorstep, perhaps suggest that they nip out to a café for half an hour. He hadn’t had any lunch and his stomach was rumbling. If she wasn’t still at court or busy with a client, he could take the opportunity to find out why she had rung him at home the previous evening. The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed that she had called. They had never socialised together and although they sometimes did battle on behalf of their clients, at present they didn’t have any cases on with each other. He could only assume that it was something to do with the death of Carl Symons.
He realised something was wrong as soon as he approached the road where she had her office. A policeman on a motorcycle was parked next to a sign which said Diversion - Road Closed. A tape and a row of cones stretched across the road. He followed the arrows pointing him down a street which led in the opposite direction and parked fifty yards down. Even as he climbed out of the car, he was conscious of the churning of his stomach. No longer hunger, he realised, but apprehension.
Avoiding the policeman’s eye, he hurried along the pavement. Rain was falling and he almost slipped on the wet slabs. He’d forgotten his umbrella, but it didn’t seem to matter. Turning the corner into the adjoining road, he paused to take his bearings. He’d been here once before, to discuss a divorce settlement. Nerys Horlock’s office was the last of a small parade of shops. He remembered it as a poky place, susceptible to the smells from a fishmonger next door. Nerys got by with a teenage switchboard girl and Irma, the loyal secretary who had followed her from Symons, Horlock and Young. She ran a tight ship; experience had taught her the need to keep down costs.
He hoped, though, that she hadn’t economised on insurance. As his gaze travelled down the row of shops, he saw that fire had blackened the frontages of the last two or three. It wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar sight. Inner city Liverpool had its share of arsonists. Nerys’s office, he noticed, seemed to be by far the worst affected. The ground floor windows were protected by security grilles but those above had been stoved in and were now covered by temporary sheeting. There was still a smell of burning in the air; the rain hadn’t yet washed it away.
He swore. All lawyers dread fire. For all that they have the occasional urge to burn problem files, they know their livelihood is locked inside their filing cabinets. Then again, if it was only Nerys’s business that had been destroyed, she might yet have something to be thankful for.
A policeman in a fluorescent wet weather jacket loped towards him as he stood and stared. ‘Come on, sir. On your way, if you don’t mind. Nothing here for you to see.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I’d have thought it’s pretty obvious, sir. There’s been a fire.’
‘But Nerys Horlock - is she all right?’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know Ms Horlock?’
‘I was coming to see her.’
‘You’re a client? I’m afraid all meetings have been cancelled indefinitely.’
>
‘No, I’m a solicitor. Nerys Horlock rang me yesterday evening. She wanted to talk about something.’
‘Yesterday evening?’ The man leaned towards him. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘And what time would that be?’
‘I think she said it was seven o’clock. She was still in the office, planning to work late.’
‘Perhaps you’d better have a word with my sergeant, if you don’t mind, sir.’
‘Has something happened to her?’ Harry blinked the raindrops out of his eyes and stared at the policeman. ‘Tell me. She’s dead, isn’t she?’
‘Now,’ the policeman said, all cordiality wiped from his voice, ‘how would you know that?’
Chapter Eleven
‘So why do you think she wanted to talk to you?’ Eggar asked.
Harry put his elbows on the table and let out a sigh. The bitter taste of police station coffee lingered on his tongue. So far, he wasn’t having the best of days. But perhaps to be suspected of a murder he hadn’t committed was a lesser evil than coming face to face with Casper May after Peter Blackwell had blown the gaff.
‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d be thinking you don’t believe me, Mitch.’
‘You’ll be telling me you want to call a solicitor in a minute.’
‘Don’t bet against it,’ Harry said. ‘Frankly, this hasn’t been the most reassuring conversation I’ve ever had.’
‘Can you wonder?’ the detective asked comfortably. ‘It really is pretty unfortunate from your point of view. One minute you’re chumming up with the wife of a major league villain, the next you’re finding the body of an old adversary from the CPS. You give me an explanation so lame it can barely hobble and before I can draw breath, you turn up at the scene when one of your toughest competitors has come to an unpleasant end. I have to ask myself if it’s a coincidence - or something else. See how it is, Harry?’
‘I take it Nerys was murdered?’
‘I haven’t said that, have I?’ Eggar showed his teeth in a mirthless smile. ‘You’re a lawyer, you ought to be sensitive to the precise use of words. You’ve been told what’s in the statement to the press. Nothing more, nothing less. “The body of a thirty-two-year-old woman has been found following a fire at the office of Liverpool solicitor Nerys Horlock. The police are treating the death as suspicious”.’
First Cut is the Deepest (Harry Devlin) Page 13
