First Cut is the Deepest (Harry Devlin)

by Edwards, Martin

  Harry was torn between chasing after her and kicking a man whilst he was down. Since he’d had much less to drink than Rick, he discarded both options and, bending down, began to haul the other man to his feet.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ Rick moaned, wiping his face with his sleeve. ‘The fucking cow.’

  Harry seized him by the shoulder. ‘Don’t you think you asked for it? You could do worse than take my advice and call it a night.’

  ‘He’s right,’ one of Rick’s partners muttered. ‘You’ve made yourself look a right bloody arsehole. Here we are, spending a king’s ransom on publicity and you go round picking fights with black women. Talk about a sodding own goal!’

  ‘Better find him a taxi,’ someone said as Rick began to mumble an incoherent plea in mitigation. ‘The sooner we get him home the better. We don’t want the legal press getting hold of this. They’d have a field day.’

  ‘Before you go,’ Harry said, not releasing his grip. ‘What was that about a tattoo?’

  Rick scowled at him. ‘It’s perfectly true, you know. Check out the left cheek of her backside, if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘You have it on good authority, then?’

  ‘I do. Although the poor devil’s dead.’ Tottering slightly, he leaned over to whisper in Harry’s ear. ‘Between you and me, I wouldn’t be surprised if she turned out to be the person who killed him.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Carl Symons, of course.’ Rick looked Harry in the eye, then placed a finger to his lips. ‘But he passed it on to me in strict confidence. Don’t tell anyone I told you.’

  Two of his colleagues put their arms under his shoulders and began to help him away. Harry shook his head in disgust and followed at a safe distance. As he edged towards the door, he caught sight of a familiar face in the group of people peering at the scene with fascination.

  ‘A paragraph for tomorrow’s paper?’ Harry asked. ‘High flying lawyer disgraces himself in wine bar?’

  ‘Stories like that are two-a-penny,’ Ken Cafferty confided. ‘You could write ’em every Friday night.’

  ‘What are you up to here, then?’

  ‘Picking up a bit of background colour on the late Nerys Horlock. A little bird tells me that you turned up at her office this very afternoon. Right?’

  Harry nodded. ‘Bad timing. The story of my life. So what do you make of it all?’

  ‘Tell you one thing I’ve discovered. Ms Horlock didn’t have many admirers amongst her fellow solicitors. Or are you going to start singing her praises?’

  ‘She never courted popularity. If you wanted someone to fight for you in court, Nerys would have been a good choice. She took no prisoners.’

  ‘Folk tell me her nickname was Cruella.’

  ‘Bestowed on her by a defeated opponent, I dare say.’

  ‘Or someone she sent a hefty bill.’

  They moved out into the cold night air. A few yards away, Rick Spendlove was vomiting into the gutter while one of his colleagues waved frantically at an approaching black cab.

  Ken shook his head and murmured, ‘By the way, you might have told me that Carl Symons’ head was cut off.’

  Harry stared at him. ‘Who said it was?’

  ‘Don’t act soft. I told Mitch Eggar, the truth’s like a tail-end batsman. It always gets out sooner or later.’

  ‘Eggar told me to say nothing about the crime scene. I’ve been in enough hot water not to want to upset him without good reason.’

  ‘You don’t seriously think they suspect you of killing Symons and Horlock?’

  ‘No, but…’

  ‘How long have we known each other? You can’t fool me. I’d bet a month’s salary that you’re as keen to figure out what’s going on as I am. Headless chickens are one thing, headless lawyers quite another. So why not put your cards on the table? I might even do the same.’

  ‘So someone in the police has been talking out of turn?’

  Ken smiled amiably. ‘I always look after my sources.’

  ‘Who tell you - what?’

  ‘That Symons was decapitated. Horlock too.’

  Harry closed his eyes. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Can’t have been a pretty sight you saw in that cottage,’ Ken said softly.

  ‘I didn’t like Symons,’ Harry muttered. ‘Nerys and I weren’t exactly friends, either. But I wouldn’t have wished that death upon anyone.’

  ‘It’s not just the beheading, either,’ Ken said. ‘I’m told that Nerys was - stabbed.’

  ‘Like Symons,’ Harry said slowly. ‘He was stabbed in the chest.’

  ‘That’s right. Any idea about the weapon which killed him?’

  Harry leaned against a lamp-post for support as he cast his mind back to the horrors of the scene in the cottage by the river. ‘None. Does it matter?’

  Ken beamed. ‘Might do. You see, I’m led to believe that both the killings were pretty much identical. In each case the victim was beheaded - but there’s something else. The weapon’s not been found, but the word is that little slivers of wood have been found in the chest wounds. Perhaps chippings from a wooden stave, the sort you’d have to drive into a body with a hammer or a mallet. You see what it means?’

  ‘The police are hunting for a homicidal handyman?’

  ‘Be serious.’

  ‘Listen, pal, if you’d seen what I’ve seen, you’d have had enough of being serious.’

  ‘All right. Anyway, about what’s happened?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Both victims had a stake driven through the heart. It’s just the same way you might kill a vampire.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sprawled across his sofa a couple of hours later, Harry pointed his remote control at the television set like an absent-minded gunman. He zapped from channel to channel, trying to banish his mental image of Nerys Horlock’s headless corpse. His stomach was empty and hurting. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but he was sure that if he tried even a biscuit he would throw up.

  He wondered if she had known her killer, what her final thoughts had been. Had there been bewilderment, terror, a stunned sense of betrayal? He hadn’t known her well, but he prayed that she hadn’t suffered for long, that death had at least come quickly for her.

  Ken was testing out whether there was any mileage in his vampire theory. It amused him and it was just possible - although Harry, a journosceptic, doubted it - that he even thought there was something in it. According to Ken, the shattered mirror in the Harbour Master’s Cottage offered corroboration. Vampires don’t like looking-glasses; they have no reflections. Symons and Horlock might have been victims of a deranged vampire-fixated sadist who prowled Merseyside by night and murdered innocent people in brutally ritualistic fashion.

  ‘You know what? We could be talking about a signature killer here.’

  No question, his cheeks had been glowing. It was the sort of story that might sell papers, lots of them. Yet for all his glee, he wasn’t confident that the time had come to run it. The police were holding information back, that was certain, and Ken owed them too many favours to want to antagonise them without good reason. Better to gamble on holding off for the time being, whilst he ferreted around for hard evidence about what had actually happened to Nerys. Ken had no intention of getting egg on his face if he could help it. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t prove the truth of his theory, but if it was obviously ridiculous, he didn’t want to face mockery from the crime team who worked for the city’s other major newspaper. He’d heard a whisper that they had their sights set on Brett Young as the prime suspect, but the libel lawyers had so far vetoed publishing even the slightest hint that Brett was in the frame. Ken was pinning his hopes on Brett’s innocence, but he wasn’t ready to gamble his reputation on it.

  At first Harry had scoffed at Ken’s guesswork, making lazy jokes about bats in the belfry. For him, vampires belonged in lurid B-movies, ludicrous but enjoyable. The mountains of Transylvania were a long way from Toxte
th. But now it was late and he was alone in his flat, Ken’s fantasy did not seem quite so childish. He recalled, too, that when he had walked into Symons’ home, he’d been aware of cooking smells. Thinking back, he’d probably detected a few whiffs of garlic. Just as well he hadn’t mentioned it to Ken. He’d probably have wanted to hold the front page.

  Harry swallowed a mouthful of black coffee. He hated murder, but it fascinated him to the point of obsession. Murder had robbed him of the only woman, at least since his long dead mother, to whom he had ever said, ‘I love you.’ Yet he had not been able to rest until he’d learned the truth as to why Liz had died. He wasn’t a masochist, he wasn’t simply playing games. The need to understand what drove a man or woman to kill their fellow human beings was an urge he couldn’t resist, even though he knew that the answers to his questions were never good enough, that the motives he uncovered could not suffice to justify the snuffing out of a life before its time.

  He glanced at the screen. In ten minutes, BBC 2 would be screening a film about American law students, The Paper Chase. When he’d first seen it, he’d decided that even though he still bore the emotional scars of struggling through his exams at Chester Law College, it could all have been much worse if he’d made it to Harvard Law School. While he waited, he segued from a chat show about child abuse to an erotic melodrama set in Leytonstone. Finally he took refuge in the regional news bulletin.

  Of course it was a mistake. The newscaster was already talking about the fire and Nerys Horlock’s death. There followed a shot of the scene outside the incident room. A fresh-faced reporter in an over-large anorak was standing on the pavement, doing justice to the gravity of the item by adopting a tense facial expression and staccato delivery style. He said that the cause of death had not yet been revealed. Nor were police commenting on a possible link between the case and the murder earlier in the week of one of Ms Horlock’s former partners. Mitch Eggar’s face suddenly appeared, wearing a solemn rehearsed-for-TV expression.

  ‘It’s early days yet. We are pursuing a number of lines of inquiry as a matter of urgency. Of course we ask any member of the public who might have information pertaining to the fire and the death of Ms Horlock to come forward without delay.’

  Then on to the next piece: something about the challenges posed by an ageing population. Harry let out a sigh. It was time to escape from reminders of the killings and of the possibility that if Mitch Eggar and company didn’t move swiftly, there might be more deaths. Whoever was responsible was not in rational mood. Neither Carl nor Nerys were easy people, but what could justify the savagery they had suffered?

  ‘…to a company owned by local businessman and philanthropist Casper May.’

  The jolt was as sharp as if he had touched an electric cable. The newscaster had been saying something about the old people’s homes that Juliet had mentioned.

  A new face filled the screen. Strong jaw, dark penetrating eyes. The nose had once been broken and imperfectly reset and the make-up people hadn’t quite managed to camouflage the scars that acne had left on his cheeks. Thick hair, turning grey, curled on to the shoulders of his slickly tailored jacket. The smile on his face was like a cheery logo chalked on to a granite tombstone. A caption read: Casper May, chairman of Third Age Care.

  ‘We offer a new concept in compassionate elder care,’ he said. His voice was a rich bass and he spoke with the confidence of one unaccustomed to contradiction. Harry was almost persuaded that Casper believed what he was saying. ‘In partnership with the public sector agencies, we can make sure that all those senior citizens who come to stay with us enjoy the comfort and attention they deserve.’

  Then it was time for news that a football manager had been sacked. If that counted as news. Harry switched off the sound. His skin was covered in gooseflesh. It had been scary to see Casper May in close up, as chilling as if his lover’s husband had broken into his living-room.

  For the thousandth time he asked himself why Juliet stayed with the man and for the thousandth time he realised that if he ever learned the answer, he would not like it. Suppose Peter Blackwell didn’t hold his tongue. Casper was unlikely to extend his solicitude to Juliet and the man with whom she had betrayed him.

  Harry shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. He’d never seen Juliet as worried as she had been at Wavertree. He didn’t believe she was the type to panic, but he’d never seen her under pressure before. People did strange things when they were trapped in a corner. As the credits for The Paper Chase finally slid on to the screen, his thoughts were far from Harvard, far even from the burned-out office of Nerys Horlock. He couldn’t stop thinking about Casper and the need to make sure that he never learned the truth.

  The doorbell woke him the next morning. At first he buried himself under his duvet, hoping that the noise would simply go away. It must be a mistake. No-one in their right mind ever called at this time. He’d stumbled to bed at one o’clock, exhausted as much from lack of food as from the lateness of the hour.

  The bell kept shrilling. A memory crawled into his groggy mind of an occasion when he had received an equally insistent summons - that morning he would never forget, when a pair of detectives had come to tell him that Liz was dead. Perhaps Mitch Eggar was at the door. He might have dreamed up a reason to ask more questions. He groaned and glanced at the clock. Half six on Saturday. So much for his customary lie-in. Policemen never went away. Better get it over with. Whatever it was.

  He shrugged on a dressing-gown and headed for the door. As he bent towards the spyhole, it crossed his mind that his visitor might be someone else altogether. Within the past few days a killer had called at Carl Symons’ cottage, had paid a visit to Nerys Horlock’s office. Might that same person now be here at Empire Dock?

  The face he saw through the spyhole was pallid and framed by long black hair. As he stared into her green eyes, he relaxed. Impossible to believe that Carl and Nerys had been stabbed and decapitated by this small, skinny woman.

  ‘Hello, Andrea,’ he said as he opened the door. ‘What brings you here?’

  Andrea Gibbs was wearing a long dark coat, but that didn’t disguise the fact that her whole body was shaking. Her voice faltered when she asked if she could come in. He moved aside and she stumbled into the hallway. He thought she was about to lose her footing and he put a hand on her shoulder to check her fall.

  ‘I’m sorry …’ she began. She eased free of him, as if in an effort to regain her dignity, but then her face crumpled and he saw tears well up.

  ‘The lounge is through there,’ he said quickly. ‘Sit yourself down and let me make you a coffee. It’ll do us both good.’

  He padded into the kitchen and plugged in the filter machine. Glancing back into the living-room, he saw her pacing around, as if she were unable to keep still. From the frown on her face he guessed she was trying to make up her mind about something. The search for clean mugs diverted him for a few moments and then he heard the door in the next room closing softly. He looked again. She had vanished.

  He raced out and saw her at the other end of the corridor, waiting by the lifts. He hurried towards her, trying not to imagine what the neighbours would say if they saw him bare-legged and obviously semi-naked under the gown, haring after a distressed young woman. He could sense her fear. Catching up with her, he reached out and touched her wrist. Her skin was so cold that he jerked his hand away in surprise.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  The faintest touch of colour appeared in her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. I should never have come here, disturbing you so early in the morning. It was a mistake. Unforgivable.’

  ‘Listen, it’s too late to run out now. You’ve already dragged me out of bed. Come back and tell me what’s bothering you. My coffee’s not so terrible.’

  The lift doors opened. She hesitated, then said, ‘You’re right. I owe you that.’

  He led her back, careful not to brush against her. The chill of her flesh had startled him. Having hung up her coat, guided her
into a chair and ascertained that she took neither milk nor sugar, he brought in two steaming mugs and settled himself on the sofa, biding his time until she began to feel more comfortable.

  She sipped at the drink, concentrating on it, not lifting her eyes. He remembered the call she had made to his office. At last he had the chance to discover what had prompted it and why, abruptly, she had hung up on him.

  ‘You’ve been working?’ he asked eventually. She was casually dressed, in jersey and jeans, but that signified nothing. In her job, she wasn’t on display to the clients; she was no more than a voice at the other end of a telephone.

  ‘At Brunswick Dock, that’s right. I work on a legal advice hot-line.’

  ‘Not so hot in the middle of the night, I don’t suppose.’

  ‘You’d be surprised how many people have nothing better to do at three in the morning.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Over the years, he’d learned the art of putting nervous witnesses at their ease. Talk about trivial things, let their confidence build.

  ‘God, yes.’ She even gave a tentative smile, as if relieved to find a safe topic to talk about. ‘They can always find something to agonise over. Whether they can sue their neighbours for growing a conifer hedge that blocks the light from their living-room, that sort of thing. It’s not exactly high pressure stuff. And even though there’s a lot of repetition, it’s different from private practice. No filling in time sheets, no running round to court. I don’t miss all that, to be honest.’

  ‘You trained with Symons, Horlock and Young, you reminded me.’

  ‘And I hated every minute,’ she blurted out. As if she had said too much too soon, she added quickly, ‘Believe me, I put my heart and soul into the work, but it was such a let-down. It was so much worse because I hadn’t expected that. When I took my degree, I’d fallen in love with the law. It fascinated me. In a way, it still does.’

  ‘Takes all sorts,’ he said easily.

  ‘Laws are - oh, I don’t know - our lifeblood.’ For a moment her green eyes shone. ‘I mean - how could we survive without them? But when I started off as a trainee, I found that all that mattered was how to work the photocopier and collect the partners’ dry cleaning because they were too important to do the menial jobs.’