First Cut is the Deepest (Harry Devlin)

by Edwards, Martin

  She shrugged. ‘He disgusted me, okay? But we worked together. I was afraid of making a scene. Women in the law have to put up with a lot. Nerys knew that. She should have trusted me. She let me down. I deserved better, after all…’

  ‘After what?’ Harry demanded when her voice trailed away. ‘After all you’d been through together?’

  She clenched her fists. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Like you said earlier, it’s none of my business.’

  ‘Spit it out!’

  ‘Well …’ Harry hesitated. ‘I mean, you say the two of you were close friends. I was just wondering - how close?’

  She bowed her head. When she spoke again her voice was muffled by tears. ‘It’s still none of your business, but you’ve guessed anyway. That stuff about Carl Symons - it ruined everything Nerys and I had together.’

  Harry exhaled. He wandered over to the edge of the canal, picked up a pebble and threw it into the water. It made a loud splash; he stood with his hands in his pockets and watched the ripples spreading out.

  Eventually she broke the silence. ‘What’s up with you?’

  He turned to face her, gave a grim smile. ‘Simply this. The more I learn, the more I realise there’s so much I don’t understand.’

  They retraced their steps along the towpath. Harry was limping and Suki had to slow her pace to accommodate his. At the gate nearest to Vauxhall Hey, they parted with a muttered goodbye and he climbed back into the MG. He sat at the wheel for a long time before he switched the engine on, mulling over what she had told him. For sure, the waters of the canal were less murky than the events surrounding the murders of Carl Symons and Nerys Horlock.

  He wasn’t ready to go back home and so he spent a couple of hours driving round aimlessly, trying to straighten his thoughts. He took the road north to Southport, passing the windswept sand-dunes and the pier that stretched over the apparently endless beach to the distant sea. As the grey of afternoon gave way to twilight, he threaded along the lanes of Lancashire back towards Liverpool, but when the Empire Dock complex loomed ahead of him he still felt as weary and confused as ever. After his race along the canalside, his thighs and feet were hurting and there was still an ache in his guts from all the booze he’d knocked back the previous evening. Perhaps he’d better write the day off to experience, settle down in front of an old black and white movie and hope that things made more sense tomorrow.

  The parking places nearest to the entrance to the building were all occupied, so he left his car three or four rows away. As he locked it, he heard a low voice calling to him.

  ‘Harry Devlin!’

  He peered through the gloom. Someone was standing in the shadows, perhaps a dozen paces ahead of him. A tall man wearing dark clothes, barely distinguishable from the gathering night.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘We’ve never met.’

  The man began to walk towards him. His voice had a Welsh lilt, no doubt about it. Harry didn’t recognise his face. His guts began to churn. This was the stranger Andrea Gibbs had warned him of. At last he had decided to make himself known.

  ‘What do you want?’ Harry demanded hoarsely.

  The man paused. Harry glanced round. There were no other pedestrians in sight, although he could hear the engine of a car as it shuttled round in search of a free space. The man was in a direct line between him and the entrance to the building. He dare not risk making a dash for the sanctuary of the old warehouse building. He was stiff after all the driving. Even if he turned on his heel and headed for the Strand, the man might easily outpace him.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for this moment for longer than you could ever imagine,’ the man said. He sounded croaky, as though he were tense with expectation and his throat had dried. As he spoke, he began to thread his way between the parked cars. He was wearing a leather jacket, Harry saw. Was a gun or a knife concealed in one of the pockets?

  Harry decided he did not want to find out. He would risk making a break for it. He spun round, lowered his head and charged in the direction of the car park exit.

  There was never a chance that the driver of the Sierra could have missed him. He ran straight into its path as it turned into the lane where he had parked. At the last moment before impact, he glanced up and into the windscreen, to see the horrified face of the man behind the wheel. As the wing of the car tossed him off the ground, his last conscious thought was of the irony that, rather than coming to his rescue, Brett Young rather than the Welsh stranger would be the one to kill him.

  Let It Bleed

  The blood is the life! The blood is the life!

  I always longed for immortality. To live forever was to achieve perfection. Now I’d say it was closer to perdition.

  There’s something you don’t know. When I was fifteen years old. I came home from school one afternoon and went upstairs as usual to get changed. I found my mother in the bathroom, drenched in blood. She’d slashed her wrists; a problem with some man or other, I believe. She didn’t leave a note to explain or to apologise. For a long time I hated her, called her a heartless bitch for what she’d done, but as I grew older I began to understand. I forgave her years ago for ending it all; that was her right. What still torments me is her failure to explain to me what was in her mind, even if only in a few lines, random jottings scrawled on a page torn out of an exercise book. A page like this, in fact.

  Since that day, things for me have never been the same. I’ve thought about it ceaselessly, trying to make sense of the absurd. Lately I have come to realise that it isn’t only death that we fear. We fear the dead themselves. My mother has haunted me since she killed herself. I’ve come to wish that she had taken me with her, on that journey into the dark unknown. For I have begun to recognise that eternal life would be a curse. Nothing to ache for, nothing but endless time and space for suffering.

  So much better to die young - wouldn’t you agree?

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Did you hear what I said? There’s someone to see you.’

  The woman’s voice was muffled. It was as though she had a bandage over her mouth. The words did not make immediate sense as Harry stirred in his bed. Even the slight movement made him want to weep. His face and ribs were sore, his left leg numb. Was he paralysed, dying? He tried to scream, but no sound came. Slowly, very slowly, he forced his eyes to open.

  A pinched face was hovering above his. The woman’s eyes were narrow, her lips pursed. The severity of her expression suggested that she expected to be dissatisfied with his reaction. She resembled a schoolteacher marking the work of the class dunce. He blinked, trying to adjust to the brightness of the strip light in the ceiling.

  ‘Uhhh …’ The sound rattled in his throat.

  ‘Take your time,’ she commanded. ‘There’s no rush. You’re not going anywhere at present.’

  He shifted his gaze - even his eyeballs were aching - and saw she was wearing a white uniform, polo shirt and trousers. He’d finished up in hospital, rather than the morgue. A wave of relief washed over him and he offered a silent prayer to the God in whom he was never quite sure whether he believed. He was in a small room for one, rather than a ward. Yellow flowers in a vase on the bedside table, umbrella plant silhouetted against the window. He tried to lever himself up, but was barely able to raise himself off the mattress. All the strength had drained from his body and he slumped back with a groan. Into his mind came the picture of Brett Young’s frightened, helpless stare as the car lifted his body into the air.

  ‘What … happened?’ He felt saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth, but wasn’t sure whether there was anything he could do about it.

  ‘You were in an accident.’

  Well, yes, I’ve gathered that. Irritation smothered the discomfort for a moment. The thought crawled into his mind that it was a good sign, it showed that in some small way he was on the mend.

  ‘Bad?’

  He held his breath as he waited for the answer. There was no sensation
in his left leg. He had a sick feeling in his stomach and guessed he’d been doped up with painkillers.

  ‘Could have been a lot worse,’ she sniffed. ‘You were lucky.’

  ‘Ah.’ The tension hissed out of him like air from a burst balloon.

  ‘You’ll need to take it easy, that’s all.’

  He made an attempt at a smile. She wrinkled her nose, but he couldn’t blame her for that. The way his cheeks were stinging, he probably looked like something out of The X Files. He began to cough, a hacking, old man’s noise. The aching of his ribs told him that coughing wasn’t a good idea. Perhaps the painkillers were wearing off. ‘It will be a while before I run a marathon.’

  ‘You’ll be right as rain if you show a smidgeon of common sense. Now, you have a visitor.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your partner, Mr Crusoe. Are you fit enough to have a few words?’

  ‘Send him in.’

  The face bobbed away. He tried to stretch his limbs. They didn’t like it and the sharp stab of reproof brought tears to his eyes. He swore hoarsely. Never mind. Think positive. He’d survived. The Welshman hadn’t managed to kill him after all. Neither had Brett Young.

  The door swung open and Jim said, ‘Another fine mess, eh? How are you feeling?’

  Harry made as if to reach for his partner’s hand, but his ribs were still hurting. So much for the discipline of positive thinking. ‘Shitty.’

  ‘You’re lucky to be alive.’

  ‘Don’t start telling me I should count my blessings. It’s true, I realise. Just don’t remind me.’

  ‘You had a narrow escape, old son.’

  ‘Yeah. Jaywalking can seriously damage your health. What time is it?’

  ‘Five o’clock. Some of us have done a day’s work. I was in the office before seven this morning. And before you ask, it’s Tuesday.’

  ‘Tuesday? Jesus. I’ve lost two whole days.’

  ‘Yeah, all that chargeable time. You’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness ever since you stepped under the wheels of that car. This is the third time I’ve turned up here at the General, wondering if I’d catch you in a lucid interval. The triumph of hope over experience, you know…’

  Harry grunted and rubbed his scalp gingerly. ‘I feel like someone’s been using my skull as a punchbag.’

  ‘You hit the ground head first, apparently. The nurse told me you were knocked senseless. I explained there must be some mistake. You never had any sense to start with. Just as well you didn’t talk me out of setting up those insurance premiums, eh?’ He rubbed his shovel-like hands together. ‘We’re probably going to make more money whilst you’re in here than if you were out doing the duty solicitor rota.’

  ‘Don’t say you had me run over as a way to make money.’

  ‘If I’d thought of it first, I might have been tempted.’ Jim straddled the visitor’s chair. ‘Can you remember the accident?’

  ‘Everything’s blurred. It wasn’t Brett’s fault, though. I was trying to get away from the Welshman.’

  Jim scratched his stubble. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sure you’re compos mentis?’

  ‘A splitting headache doesn’t mean I’m doolally,’ Harry said. ‘Let me spell it out for you. I’m not blaming Brett Young for the accident. I walked straight under the wheels of his Sierra. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t have helped hitting me.’

  ‘So it was Brett.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ For once, he wasn’t in the mood for riddles.

  The big man pulled his chair closer to the bedside and said softly, ‘The police are looking for him. In connection with the murders of Carl and Nerys. He’s disappeared, no-one can find him. Last time anyone other than you saw him was when he came to our office the day after Nerys was killed. He’s not been back home. The story goes that his girlfriend is beside herself with worry over what he might be up to on the run. His Sierra’s turned up, though. Things are falling into place - he must have dumped it in a panic after he hit you. He left it near the Catholic Cathedral. I’ve heard Mitch Eggar giving a statement on the regional news. He says he believes Brett can assist with their inquiries, and we all know what that means.’

  ‘Did Brett bring me in here?’

  ‘No fear. An ambulance was called. Not by Brett, I’m pretty sure of that. Some passer-by at the other end of the car park saw a vehicle hit you and rushed over. He found you sprawled across the ground and dialled 999. Just as well he did. In the dark, a car could have run over you at any moment and finished the job off.’

  The room was stuffy, but suddenly Harry felt cold. It had not occurred to him that Brett might have left him to die. ‘And the Welshman?’

  ‘What Welshman?’

  He closed his eyes, felt his head lolling back on the pillow. Talking had exhausted him. There were still plenty of questions, but finding out the truth about what had happened to him would have to wait. ‘Have they said how long I need to stay in here?’

  ‘Itching to get back to your desk, eh? No, I had a word with the sister before I came in. They’ve been worried about the concussion. A couple of ribs are cracked and you’ve made a mess of your leg, tore a lot of skin off, but not badly enough for you to need a graft.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ Harry mumbled.

  ‘No problem,’ Jim said with the brisk assurance of a man who’d never suffered a day’s illness since childhood. ‘It’ll heal soon enough. Mind, even by your standards, you’re not a pretty sight at present. You took a hell of a whack when you hit the deck. That’s why they wanted to keep a close eye on you. I gather they did a brain scan. Reckon to have found something there, by all accounts.’

  ‘You’re all heart,’ Harry said wearily. He was fighting to keep his side of the conversation going, but it was a losing battle.

  ‘That’s me,’ Jim said. ‘A true lawyer.’

  He fell into a shallow sleep, dreams coming in fragments. The sight of Carl Symons’ staring eyes, the thick blood necklace beneath his head. Suki Anwar running away into the distance, his body aching with defeat as he lost ground, realised that he could never catch her up. The dark shape of a stranger, pacing forwards in slow motion. I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time. I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time. As the phrase was repeated, the lilt disappeared so that the catarrhal Scouse growl was disguised no longer. A shaft of moonlight fell upon the man’s face. It belonged to Casper May. In his hand was an axe with a gleaming blade. I beat the truth out of my wife months ago. Yes, I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.

  He jerked back to consciousness, sweat running down his cheeks. Oblivious to the warning twinge from his rib cage, he shifted his position in the bed, raised his arms. He needed to touch his neck, make sure that it had not been cut. The skin beneath where he shaved was smooth, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. He opened his eyes and looked into the face of Juliet May.

  ‘Just as well I didn’t bring any grapes,’ she said. ‘I’d have finished them off all by myself, waiting for you to surface.’

  ‘I was - dreaming.’

  ‘Nightmare, by the look of things.’ Her tone was light, she was trying not to smile. He hadn’t seen her so relaxed since they had made love in Linda Blackwell’s cottage. ‘See, you’ve thrown your bedclothes off. Bad boy. The nurse will put you across her knee. And don’t think you’ll enjoy that. She’s a real Gorgon.’

  ‘Whatever happened to the angels you see in films and telly programmes, all sexy in their starched uniforms and black tights?’

  ‘Disappeared in the health service reforms, I guess. That lady looks like she wears knickers made out of emery paper. So what were you dreaming about? Being cosseted back to health by Hot Lips Houlihan while “Suicide is Painless” plays in the background?’

  ‘As it happens, I was thinking about Casper.’

  ‘So it was a nightmare. What are you worrying about him for? There’s no problem, none at all. He has enough on his plate at the mo
ment, wondering how to cash in on the geriatrics he’s taken under his wing. I’ve been left to my own devices this evening, so I thought I’d pop in and see the invalid.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She sat down and crossed her legs. ‘Remember this skirt?’

  It was a leather mini. She had wonderful legs, she could dress like a nineteen-year-old and get away with it. She’d been wearing the same skirt the first night they had made love.

  ‘Brings back memories.’

  ‘Some life left in the old dog yet, then. God, it’s hot in here. Why are all hospitals overheated? I’m sure it’s not healthy.’ She gestured to her purple jersey. ‘Mind if I take this off?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  She pulled the jersey off over her head. Underneath she was wearing a white top that revealed a flat midriff and her lack of a bra. Harry felt the first stirrings of desire. Perhaps lust was the best medicine.

  ‘I brought you something to while away the time,’ she said with a grin, handing him a green Penguin edition of The Daughter of Time. ‘It’s the one about the hospitalised detective. Couldn’t resist it somehow. Do you like the flowers I sent, by the way? Don’t worry, I didn’t give the florist my name. No-one here knows who they came from. I’ve done my best to be discreet. I told the nurse I was one of your clients.’

  Terrific. Really credible. How many clients visit their brief in hospital? ‘Uh-huh,’ he said with a grumpy cough.

  ‘So how are you, darling? Getting better, so I hear.’

  ‘Allegedly.’

  ‘Feeling sorry for yourself, eh? All men are the same. They like to be coddled. Low pain thresholds. You’d never survive giving birth.’

  ‘Maybe not.’ He had cramp in his leg and let out a groan. ‘Christ, I’m dying of thirst. Can you pour me some water?’

  There was a jug next to the bedside bouquet. She filled a tumbler and handed it to him. ‘So tell me, did you jump in front of the wheels of this car or were you pushed?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Visiting time is up in twenty minutes. Let me prop you up on a couple of pillows and you can give me the gist.’