He gave a short account of the events he could remember from Sunday. Even to order his thoughts in a semi-coherent fashion was tiring. She sat next to him, holding his hand almost in an absent-minded way as he talked. When he’d finished, she lifted his fingers to her lips and kissed them one by one.
‘You poor thing. So Brett Young has done a runner?’
‘He’ll be afraid the police have him in the frame for killing his two ex-partners. Rational thought isn’t his strong point.’
‘Makes you wonder how he ever qualified as a solicitor. I thought that was what you were all supposed to be good at. Detached, objective judgment.’
‘You obviously don’t know that many solicitors.’
‘One I know very well indeed, thank you,’ she said, squeezing his hand. ‘And that’s quite enough. Mind you, I’m very glad he’s not been too badly injured. Though I have to say, darling, I have seen you on days when you’ve looked more gorgeous. Swollen lips, yellowing bruises, they’re not my favourite turn-on.’
Yet you sleep with a man who hurts you. Harry felt a sudden flame of jealousy spurt up in his heart. He moistened his lips and said, ‘Let’s just say I’m in no hurry to look in a mirror.’
‘Sensible,’ she said with mock gravity. ‘Okay, so where are we? Brett’s the prime suspect so far as the police are concerned, but no-one apart from you and this Gibbs girl have any idea about this chap with the Welsh accent who’s keeping you under surveillance. Are you absolutely certain you don’t have any idea who he might be?’
‘Cross my heart and hope not to die. I’ve been racking my brains ever since Andrea first mentioned him to me, but I’ve drawn a total blank.’
‘A client whose case you messed up? Sort of Phantom of the Law Courts?’
‘You may not believe this, but I don’t make a habit of treating my clients so badly that years later they set about stalking me with a view to murder.’
‘We all make mistakes.’
‘Maybe I make more than my fair share. Even so, none of this stacks up. I’ve known plenty of Welsh people. You can’t spend a lifetime in Liverpool and not. The bloody country’s only just round the corner. Yet I can’t imagine who this feller could be. Even when I heard him speak, his voice didn’t ring any bells.’
She furrowed her brow. ‘Then there’s only one conclusion, isn’t there?’
‘That it’s the same man who killed Carl Symons and Nerys Horlock?’
‘Got it in one. Someone with a grudge against lawyers. Maybe he’s not an embittered ex-client, just someone who dislikes solicitors in general.’
‘The Lord Chancellor’s bad enough.’
She waved away his feeble attempt at humour. ‘Perhaps he’s simply picked names from a list at random.’
‘And he chose me.’
‘Remember what the Tarot said that time? That something special and unexpected was going to happen. You were going to be sought out.’
‘I thought it meant my numbers coming up on the Lottery.’
‘You always were a sucker for wishful thinking.’ She fired a quick smile, as if she’d wondered if he might misunderstand and think she was referring to their relationship. ‘Cheer up. He can’t get you in here. The place is bristling with security cameras, chaps in uniforms on the look-out for baby-snatchers and nurse-bashers. You’re quite safe.’
‘For how long? I can’t live off the National Health Service for the rest of my life.’
‘You won’t be moving for a day or two, I guess. Even though the suits will be telling the medics they need your bed, I doubt they’ll turf you out just yet. The sister said they’d be moving you on to a ward tomorrow morning. You can have a few words with the police. If you can remember enough to come up with some sort of description, they may be able to pick this fellow up before you’re discharged. Perhaps he’s already known to them, someone who used to be a patient in a psychiatric unit, something like that.’
‘Terrific. And if they don’t have a clue where he might be, presumably I borrow a neckbrace from orthopaedics to give me a bit of protection for the next time he decides to try his luck.’
‘The police may be willing to offer you a guard. Or you could keep your head down for a while. Take a holiday.’
‘What, go into hiding until the fatwa’s lifted? I’m not the legal profession’s answer to Salman Rushdie, you know.’
‘Fed up with the Satanic nurses, are you? Well, you’ve had a rough time, you could use a break.’
‘Yeah, and if I mess Jim about any more, he’ll probably break my neck himself.’
‘Don’t be silly. You can’t help it. There’s this lunatic out on the streets and until he’s caught, it makes sense to take precautions. If you’re careful, there simply won’t be a problem. He may even have been scared off on Sunday afternoon. Perhaps Brett spotted him and he panicked. That’s why he didn’t try to finish you off.’
‘Presumably he thought Brett had done his dirty work for him,’ Harry said gloomily. ‘It was bad enough when I thought I only had Casper’s wrath to fear. Now that seems like the good old days.’
Juliet stretched her limbs. ‘I hate to sound unsympathetic…’
‘That’s what people say when they’re about to be very unsympathetic,’ Harry interrupted.
‘Okay, okay. I’m truly sorry about what you’ve been through. But I was talking to Linda this afternoon. If you think your life’s in a mess, what about her? She worshipped Peter. His death has ruined her life.’
After a pause, Harry said, ‘You’re right, of course. I’d forgotten all about her. Selfish of me. How is she?’
‘She’s still staying in our annexe for the time being. She’s been keeping busy, she says it’s her way of staying sane after everything that’s happened to her lately. The last couple of mornings, she’s even insisted on coming into the office, helping me to keep up to date with work. And she’s been over at Peter’s flat, going through his things.’
‘Has she any other family?’
‘No-one close. She doesn’t even have much in the way of friends apart from me. She’s always lived for her son. Apart from Peter, she’s devoted herself to her work. The best assistant I could have. I wish I could do something to help her. There’s money, sure, I can put my hand in my pocket. But it comes down to this: nothing can bring her boy back.’
Harry thought about Liz. Same thing: you could fix a damaged roof, but people were irreplaceable. ‘You need to keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t do anything silly.’
Juliet nodded. ‘I’m worried. Whenever we talk, she goes to great lengths to convince me she’s calm and in control, but I’m sure it’s all an act. Deep down, she’s in turmoil. Trouble is, she’s a proud woman. Strong, independent. We’ve known each other a long time, but she’s very self-contained. Keeps her feelings to herself, so you can never be sure what’s raging under the surface. Someone like that is hard to look after.’
‘Tell her I’m thinking of her, will you? She saved us the night Carl Symons was killed.’
‘You’re dead right. We owe Peter too, despite what he said to me when he was drunk.’ Juliet paused. Her hesitancy was uncharacteristic. The thought struck him that he couldn’t recall having seen her blush. Embarrassment was foreign to her. But something was on her mind. ‘Look, I don’t know how to say this, but there’s one thing I’d better get off my chest. When I told you Peter was dead, this weird look came into your eyes. It was as if you were looking at a stranger. Someone you were scared of.’
The conversation was moving into dangerous waters. He sensed a need to plot his course with care. ‘It came as a shock, what you told me. That must have been it.’
She took a breath. ‘I wondered - if you suspected that I might have had something to do with his accident.’
He wasn’t mobile enough to squirm, but he felt as uncomfortable as he had when he’d first woken up in the hospital bed. ‘I don’t know why…’
‘You’re not good at evasion, Harry,’ she
said, softly insistent. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
He couldn’t bring himself to admit the truth. It seemed to him that if he did, their relationship was finished. At the back of his mind, there also lurked a fear that that might not be the worst that could happen. ‘You’re making something out of nothing. I know you wouldn’t harm him. Your friend’s boy.’
‘I did say that I wished him dead, remember?’
How could I forget? ‘It was the heat of the moment,’ Harry said. ‘He was a sad mixed-up drunk who deliberately set out to hurt you.’
‘I’ll be honest,’ she said, and it was as if she were talking to herself. ‘It’s a good thing I didn’t have a gun at the moment when he threatened me. I might have pulled the trigger. You know me. I’m a bit crazy at times.’
You know me. Not even warm: she remained a mystery to him. He was even beginning to think that the more he got to know her, the less he understood what made her tick. ‘Most of us are a little crazy, every now and then,’ he said. ‘The police are satisfied Peter’s death was an accident, aren’t they?’
‘Yes.’ She swallowed. ‘Yes, they are.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘You wondered, though, didn’t you? Wondered whether I had it in me - to kill in cold blood, then make it look like an accident.’
‘I wonder about lots of things. That’s one of my problems. Life’s a lot easier if you don’t have any imagination. But of course you didn’t kill Peter.’
She took his hand. ‘Okay, let’s say no more about it. He’s gone and we’re still here together. That is, unless you’ve decided you’ve had enough of me.’
The pressure on his palm warmed him. She’d guessed that at times she frightened him; perhaps the thought even turned her on. But he was afraid of losing her. ‘Or you of me.’
She dropped his hand, slipped hers under the bedclothes, raising her eyebrows at what she found. ‘Well, well. Seems to me like you’re a long way down the road to recovery.’
He gave her a crooked smile. ‘When I get out of here, you’ll have to be gentle with me.’
She leaned over the bed, let her tongue touch his dry lips. ‘So you do want to see me again?’
He could smell her subtle perfume and it made him want to put his arms round her, pull her down beside him. Hoarsely, he said, ‘Yes. But what do you want?’
She closed her eyes and breathed out, breasts moving beneath her skimpy top. ‘I wish I knew, Harry. I wish I knew.’
Next morning he was transferred to a small open ward. His head and body still ached, but even the hypochondriac in him could accept that he would soon be fit again. A doctor came to have a look at him and said that he didn’t expect the concussion to have any lasting effects. There was every chance that he would be discharged within the next twenty-four hours. Encouraged, he chatted idly about soccer with a man in the next bed and after his companion fell asleep he glanced at the paperback that Juliet, tongue firmly in cheek, had brought for him. But somehow he couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for re-investigating the mystery of the Princes in the Tower. More pressing things were on his mind. Like whether he should tell Mitch Eggar that Brett had run him over and whether his desire for Juliet still outweighed his fear of the consequences if Casper May found out.
He’d put the book down and was on the point of dozing off himself when he heard the door of the ward being pushed open. His eyelids were drooping and he didn’t bother to look up. People kept coming and going; hospitals were always full of passing strangers. Footsteps rapped against the floortiles. He was vaguely aware of someone reaching his bedside. A polite cough roused his attention.
He found himself staring at someone he had seen only once before. The tall Welshman who had pursued him into the path of Brett Young’s taxi. The man who had been pursuing him, the man responsible for his present invalid state. He was staring down with undisguised fascination, as if scarcely able to credit that Harry was still alive.
Harry’s heart felt as though it were crashing against the walls of his chest. He scarcely dared to breathe. Helplessness swamped him. It was as if he’d been afflicted by paraplegia. A quick glance confirmed that the football fan in the next bed was still slumbering. An old chap in the bed opposite was snoring peacefully. There was a screen round someone at the far end of the little ward. The beds in between were empty. In the heart of a busy hospital, in the midst of a large city, Harry had never been so alone.
‘Harry Devlin.’ A soft voice, deep but not unmusical.
Harry could barely muster a groan. ‘What do you want?’
He’d asked the same question of Juliet the previous evening, but now he dreaded the answer. The Welshman’s brow furrowed. His skin was pale, as though he’d spent most of his life indoors, yet he had a spare athletic build. He shifted from one foot to another in an awkward manner, like an overgrown schoolboy expecting a reprimand.
‘I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time. I can’t tell you how long. All my life, it seems.’
He was talking half to himself, in a tone of amazement. His dress was casual, navy blue sweater and dark denim jeans that were worn at the knees. The way his hands were clasping and unclasping reminded Harry of himself on that never-to-be-forgotten day that he’d asked Liz to become his wife. The man was nervous. Not a shadow of a doubt. He might have murder on his mind, but he was as tense as a Victorian virgin on her wedding night.
Under the bedsheets, Harry clenched his fists. All might not yet be lost. Perhaps he could talk himself out of trouble. It might be a vain hope, but anything was worth a try. He loved life, for all that he had experienced some of its agonies, and he would not let it go without a fight.
‘I’m flattered,’ he said slowly, forcing out each syllable with care, desperate not to reveal his fear. ‘But I must be honest. I don’t understand.’
‘It’s a long story, Mr Devlin.’
Good. Let’s keep him talking.
‘You see, it’s about my mother.’
That bastard Freud, he has a lot to answer for. ‘Right. You want to tell me about it?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not making much sense, am I? Especially to someone who’s recovering from a bad accident. How are you feeling? I should have asked that before anything.’
‘Fine. Thanks. Could have been much worse.’
The man nodded slowly. ‘Yes. I should have introduced myself, incidentally. My name’s Daniel Roberts.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘The name means nothing to you. Why should it? But perhaps if I give you another name, that will help to explain why I’m here.’
‘All right, then. Let’s hear it.’ Every muscle in Harry’s battered body was tense. He was sure that the man was about to tell him something shocking, something to make him cringe with shame. But he could not begin to guess what it might be.
‘Maria Ellen Brady.’
The name hit Harry like a punch in the stomach from a trusted friend. It was so unexpected. He could not speak, simply gaped at the man in bewilderment.
‘Yes, it’s true,’ Daniel Roberts said. ‘She was my mother, but she gave me away. Years later, she married a man called John Garett Devlin. And they had one son. A boy called Harry.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘Is that better?’ Daniel asked a couple of minutes later.
Harry gulped down another mouthful of water from the tumbler the Welshman had filled. Once again, he’d been knocked flying. He was dazed, unable to make sense of what he was being told, far less capable of deciding whether or not to believe it. His visitor didn’t mean to kill him, that seemed certain. Relief washed over him like a tide. But what he said could not be true - could it? Wires must somewhere have become crossed. Daniel Roberts was deceiving himself. It was a case of mistaken identity. Had to be.
Had to be.
‘I’m sorry,’ Daniel said. ‘Stands to reason that I’ve shocked you. Believe me, I’ve rehearsed this scene a thousand times and the truth is, I�
��ve never got it right yet.’
‘Well,’ Harry mumbled after a pause, ‘that’s a feeling I’m familiar with myself.’
‘The last thing I’d intended was to introduce myself in this way, at your bedside in a hospital, but it didn’t seem right to wait any longer. I screwed my courage up to visit you at your flat and then I messed everything up. It was a mistake approaching you in the car park. I see that now. You jumped out of your skin. Before I realised what was happening, you’d run under the wheels of that taxi.’
‘You were the one who called an ambulance,’ Harry said slowly, working it out for himself. He had to make sense of things in manageable bits, solve the multitude of mysteries one at a time. ‘I’d assumed it was Brett - that is, the driver who hit me.’
‘You know him? My God. One thing I can say for sure is, the fellow didn’t stop. I glimpsed him through the window and panic was written all over his face.’
‘I saw that too.’
‘Understandable, perhaps. Even so, he shouldn’t have put his foot down like that. He drove straight off. I should have taken his number, but I was in a state of shock myself.’ Daniel was talking quickly. Harry sensed he was nervous, perhaps unused to saying much. But now the words were pouring out. ‘You were crumpled up on the ground. I was petrified, instinctively thought you’d been killed. Imagine it. I come face to face with my half-brother after all these years and he ends up dead before I’ve even told him my name.’
Half-brother. The words, the whole idea, were so alien that Harry blotted them out of his mind. He wasn’t ready to learn a foreign language. Better to concentrate on the things he could take in. He cleared his throat and said, ‘So you were the passer-by, the one who dialled 999?’
‘I dragged you out of the way of the traffic, that was the first thing I did. The car hit you a glancing blow…’
‘It felt worse than that,’ Harry said, rubbing his damaged cheek. It still smarted to the touch.
‘Those cuts and bruises don’t look too clever, either,’ Daniel said, disconcertingly blunt. ‘Just as well it didn’t hit you head on. The crack when you hit the deck was bad enough. Anyhow, I left you propped up between a clapped-out Mini and a BMW. The sublime and the ridiculous, you might say.’
First Cut is the Deepest (Harry Devlin) Page 22
