First Cut is the Deepest (Harry Devlin)

by Edwards, Martin

  Casper May stepped forward, his hand outstretched. Harry gripped it. He half-expected to be pulled to the ground and then pistol-whipped, but Casper’s handshake was unexpectedly limp. Somehow Harry found that rather shocking. He breathed out noisily.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Oh yes. Of course. Thank you.’ He was jabbering wildly. ‘It’s just that - I didn’t expect to be seeing you.’

  ‘My property people have been handling the legal side so far, but I decided the time was right for me to meet you. I like to know the firms I’m dealing with.’

  ‘Well, yes. Yes, naturally.’

  ‘Congratulations on winning the tender, anyway. your partner put together a first class presentation, persuaded us he could handle all the work associated with transferring the homes into my company’s name.’

  ‘We’ve been well advised on our marketing strategy,’ Harry said faintly. So the beauty parade Jim had mentioned was for the legal work associated with the old people’s homes Casper was taking over.

  ‘It shows. You’re a small firm, but I don’t have any prejudices about that. Who says size matters, eh?’

  Casper laughed and Harry joined in. His cheeks felt warm; he was sure guilt was making him blush. He was remembering something Juliet had once confided in him.

  The door to the corridor swung on its hinges and Jim bustled into reception. ‘So you’ve met our new client? I tried to tell you that I was expecting Casper, but you were too busy rushing out to court.’

  ‘If only I’d realised. I never expected to come face to face with - such an important client.’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up.’ Casper had a way of speaking that was pleasant yet icy. Harry could imagine him conducting a business negotiation in the same tone as giving an order to knee-cap a defaulting debtor. ‘The fees you quoted in the tender, you won’t be swanning off to the Bahamas on the profits. The work’s price-sensitive. We want a quality service, naturally. But let’s face it, the old folk in these homes are more bothered about incontinence pads than whether the leasehold agreements stack up. We need the legal stuff sorted out as cheaply as possible. That’s why it’s good to come here and see that - your overheads are kept rigorously under control.’

  It was a euphemism, Harry realised, for saying that the yucca was visibly in need of intensive care and the coffee-stained copies of Private Eye on the reception table were six months old.

  ‘Casper and I were planning to talk for an hour or so, then grab a bite of lunch,’ Jim said. ‘Care to join us?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Harry said, ‘but I have to see someone else. Can I just have a word, Jim, before I leave you to it?’

  He nodded to Casper May and led his partner back to his room. Once the door was safely closed behind them, he said urgently, ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘I tried, more than once. In the end, I thought I’d surprise you. The margins are tight, I shaved our quote to the bone, but it’s good work and who knows where it will lead?’

  Harry banged his fist on the desk. ‘He’s a fucking criminal!’

  Jim stared at him. ‘I don’t believe this. What do you think your clients are? Boy scouts?’

  ‘That’s different. Casper May’s a Premier League villain. We don’t want to be beholden to a feller like that. He’s bad news.’

  ‘Listen, the money he’s paying isn’t bad news. We need it, Harry, or have you forgotten what the Loan Arranger told you?’

  ‘Yeah, but there are limits.’

  ‘We’re drafting a set of leases, for God’s sake, not selling a shipload of heavy armaments in breach of a UN embargo. I don’t understand you. This is just the sort of break we’ve been looking for. What’s the problem?’

  ‘What about Juliet?’

  Jim put his hands on his hips. ‘I didn’t consult her. Thought it better to keep her out of it, in the circumstances. When I was putting the tender together I kept in mind what she’d said about presenting to target clients, but that was all. Satisfied? Ethical dilemmas resolved?’

  He fired the questions like arrows. His cheeks were red with anger. Harry ground his teeth. It was time to haul up the white flag. Otherwise the questions would get very awkward. ‘All right, all right. I’m sorry. It was just a surprise, that’s all.’

  Jim placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘Sure. You’ve done well.’

  ‘You’re not convinced, are you?’

  ‘No, you’re right. We’re not our clients’ keepers. But let’s just not get too close to him, okay?’

  ‘No danger of that,’ Jim said. He was relaxing now, honour satisfied. ‘Apart from anything else, his aftershave makes me want to puke.’

  As soon as Jim had departed to rejoin their new client, Harry dialled Juliet’s number. ‘I need to see you,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘Are you free?’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Tell you when we meet. I’ll come over to your office, okay?’

  ‘Yes, but I wish you’d explain…’

  He was already on his way, tossing the receiver back on to its base and within five minutes, he was parking outside Juliet’s office. Linda was in the outer room, tapping away on the keyboard as he arrived. When she looked up, he was shocked to see how haggard she looked. It was as if she’d aged ten years even since she’d visited him in hospital.

  ‘Juliet’s on the phone at the moment,’ she said. ‘She won’t be long. She told me she was expecting you. You’re on the mend, then?’

  Harry nodded. ‘And I realise it’s a silly question, but how are you?’

  ‘I’m still not quite sure Peter’s death has quite sunk in yet. I keep hoping I’ll wake up and find that he’s still there, at the other end of the phone.’

  ‘I’ll always be grateful for the help he gave - that both of you gave - after Juliet found the body.’

  Linda ducked her head. ‘That was the start of things, wasn’t it?’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘The death of Carl Symons. Do you think they’ll ever catch the man who did it?’

  ‘You mean Brett Young?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t believe everything you read between the lines in the papers,’ Harry said. ‘I’m still not sure he’s guilty.’

  ‘But…’

  Juliet’s door opened and the familiar husky voice said, ‘Harry. What’s the problem?’

  Harry glanced anxiously at Linda. ‘It’s Casper.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I was talking to him before I rang. Jim’s only taken him on as a bloody client.’

  Juliet’s eyes opened wide. ‘You’d better come in. Mind making us a coffee, Linda?’

  She waved Harry on to the sofa in her inner sanctum and closed the door behind her. ‘Linda’s in a bad way. She insisted on coming in, but she’s not up to it, that’s obvious. After she’s fixed the coffee, I’m going to send her back to Parkgate. And now you tell me your return to work hasn’t gone to plan. What on earth’s Jim up to?’

  When Harry explained, she burst out laughing. ‘It’s priceless. Truly priceless. At least you’re still in one piece.’

  ‘I did wonder at one stage if he was measuring me up for a concrete overcoat.’

  ‘Well, they are digging up Edge Lane at the moment,’ she said, her eyes gleaming. ‘You could still finish up buried in a trench if you don’t play your cards right.’

  He forced a grin but said, ‘This isn’t going to work, is it?’

  ‘What do you mean? The mere fact you’ve met Casper, that Jim’s handling a contract for him, it doesn’t change anything. The Law Society hasn’t issued a rule against sleeping with your clients’ wives, has it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ Harry said. ‘They’ve banned most of the other ways that your average solicitor gets pleasure. But that’s not the point. Now I’ve met him…’

  ‘What difference does it make? At least now you can put a face to the name.’

  He
looked at her. Teasing smile, strong jaw. A woman who knew what she wanted, a woman who liked to get her own way. His heart was pounding, but no longer out of lust. He’d never been cut out for an affair with her, he realised that now. He was boxing out of his weight. But for the time being, their relationship still amused her. She wouldn’t let him be the one to end it. Rick Spendlove, he thought, must have felt like this, in the moments before he drowned. It was as if he were fighting for survival, as if his very life was at stake. But he could scarcely breathe any more.

  He couldn’t bring himself to go back to his desk yet. Instead he left his car in the park by the entrance to the Kingsway Tunnel and hurried back to the magistrates’ court. He was about to go inside when he glanced down Dale Street and saw Suki Anwar a hundred yards away, heading in the direction of India Buildings, where she was based. Lengthening his strides, he weaved in between the shoppers and office workers and caught her up before she reached North John Street.

  ‘We must stop meeting like this,’ he said as he dropped into step beside her.

  ‘And you ought to stop following me,’ she snapped. ‘Pestering me. Now if you don’t mind, this briefcase is packed with files. I need to get back to work.’

  ‘You recognised Sheryl, I presume?’

  ‘Sheryl?’ Her pace slackened, but she was doing her best to look blank.

  ‘I don’t suppose that was the name she used. Any more than you’re called Chantal.’

  A spasm of pain creased her face, giving him a glimpse of what she might look like when she was old and wrinkled. She paused on the kerb before crossing the road. Her shoulders had drooped. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not.’

  At least, he thought, she knew him well enough now to understand that he would not give up, that it was easier in the long run to admit defeat. He gestured to a café on the other side of the road. ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘I told you, I’m rushed off my feet. Since Carl died…’

  ‘Ten minutes. No more, I promise.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘So you’ve been entirely frank with me, have you?’

  Her eyes were flickering to and fro, like an animal cornered by a hunter, trying to map an escape route, but afraid that there was no hiding place. ‘Ten minutes?’

  ‘Fifteen at most,’ Harry said with a cheeky grin.

  She didn’t smile back. ‘You can buy the coffee.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  The café was called the Pool of Life. Carl Gustav Jung had coined the phrase for Liverpool in the early years of the century. According to rumour, he’d identified the concept of the collective unconscious after a night out in an Irish bar in Victoria Street. The Pool targeted the tourist trade and there were boards all over the place depicting pretty well everyone of note who’d had the faintest connection with the city. It wasn’t yet lunchtime and the only other customers were a couple of old ladies in smart winter coats, probably on a day trip from Wirral, discussing their operations in penetrating high-pitched voices.

  Harry chose a table at the back, next to a picture of Adolf Hitler. The Führer’s other claim to fame was that he’d come to Liverpool to visit his auntie when he was nine years old; if only she’d had the foresight to push him under the wheels of a bus on Scotland Road. It took Harry ages to catch the waitress’s eye and when she finally ambled over he had to fight the temptation to snap in guttural tones that his patience was exhausted. Once she’d finally taken his order, he turned to Suki and said, ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  He put his elbows on the table and cupped his chin in his hands. ‘Because the cat’s out of the bag. I know you worked at the Handcuff Hotel. Quite a secret for an ambitious young lawyer to keep. I’m not saying you’d kill to make sure the truth stayed buried, but remember how the caution goes. If you remain silent, it may harm your defence.’

  ‘You bastard. This is none of your business.’

  ‘Solicitors are being killed, Suki. The Law Society risks being made redundant. This isn’t a time for finer feelings.’

  ‘It’s not your job to play detective.’

  ‘No, but I’m not going to sit back and do nothing.’

  She exhaled. ‘You’re not going to let this go, are you?’

  ‘Can’t. Sorry.’

  ‘All right. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Why you did it, for a start.’

  She swept back the hair that kept falling into her eyes. ‘Surely that’s obvious. The money.’

  ‘But there are plenty of ways of earning a few quid. Why prostitution?’

  ‘I was desperate, okay? Halfway through my course I was up to my neck in debt. I’d fallen out with my parents, there was no way they’d give me a penny. I’d no idea of how to live on a budget, my tastes were pretty expensive and things got out of hand. Simple as that. I needed cash, and plenty of it, or I’d never make it as far as my finals.’ She pushed the menu card aside and leaned across the table. Their fingertips were almost touching. He was conscious, more strongly than ever before, of her sexual appeal. He could understand why she’d gone down a storm in the Handcuff Hotel. ‘The life my parents had as first-generation immigrants - it wasn’t for me. Justice has always fascinated me. I wanted to help people, wanted to see justice done. And so I wanted to be a lawyer, wanted it more badly than anything else in the world. Can you understand that? I don’t suppose you can.’

  ‘Now you’re doing me an injustice,’ he said. ‘Okay, then, how did you get mixed up with the Handcuff Hotel?’

  ‘I shared a house with four other girls in Moss Side, near to City’s football ground. One of them had a friend who’d spent a while on the streets, feeding a drug habit. I made a few enquiries, was put in touch with someone. And before I knew what was happening, I was being offered the chance to supplement my income, whipping men for fun and profit.’ She gave him a bleak smile. ‘They reminded me a bit of learned counsel, chuckling dutifully when the judge cracks a joke at their expense. But you know something? I became the queen of the torture chamber. The punters loved what I did, begged me for more. Me and the other girls, we reckoned they were football fans, Manchester City supporters. They had the same masochistic streak.’

  The coffee arrived. Harry could hear one of the old ladies complaining about the quality of her hip replacement. Perhaps he ought to suggest that she took the hospital to court. He poured and then asked gently, ‘Was Carl Symons one of your clients?’

  Startled, she knocked her cup, spilling the drink over the melamine table top. Hoarsely, she said, ‘What in God’s name makes you say that?’

  Harry picked up a napkin and mopped the coffee with neat, deliberate movements. Quietly, without looking at her, he said, ‘I’m right, then?’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question!’

  He glanced up into her scared eyes. ‘You’ve answered mine, though.’

  For a moment he thought she was trying to summon up the nerve to brazen it out, but her powers of invention deserted her. ‘Yes,’ she mumbled. ‘That’s where we met. People always thought he was a sadist, and so he was. But he liked to feel pain, as well as inflict it. He was the most odious man I’ve ever met. I’m glad he’s dead, okay? No, more than that. I’m fucking ecstatic.’

  He’d not heard her swear before and the brutal way she fired the last sentence made him shiver.

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘If I had,’ she said, ‘do you seriously think that I’d admit it to you?’

  ‘Why not?’ He licked his lips. ‘Come on. It’s good to talk. Besides, I’m not the police and you’re in confession mode.’

  She took a sip from her cup. He sensed she was fighting to regain her composure. ‘I asked you, how did you know Symons patronised the Handcuff Hotel?’

  ‘I’ve never understood why you let him get away with rape. You don’t lack guts. He must have had quite a hold over you, I decided, he must have been able to threaten to destroy your career if you even bre
athed a word.’

  ‘I owe you an apology,’ she said. ‘I’ve underestimated you. When Symons was killed, I thought you were just a nosey-parker I could pump for information to make sure no-one would suspect the truth about my past. And here I am, telling you my darkest secrets.’

  ‘I’ve never denied being a nosey-parker.’ Harry sighed. ‘I suppose you and he both thought you were safe. Symons remembered the old adage about not fouling up in your own backyard. He wasn’t foolish enough to patronise the Liverpool brothels, so when he wanted a good thrashing he drove down the motorway. You’d pushed it all to the back of your mind, presumably. You’d qualified, you’d found a good job. I don’t suppose you ever dreamed that one day you’d come face to face with a former client.’

  ‘I remember his big fat arse,’ Suki said viciously. ‘Even that wasn’t as ugly as his head. Or as bald.’

  ‘What happened when you met in the office?’

  She shook her head. ‘Both of us were stunned, I guess. He recovered his composure first, as you might expect. At first, he was fine. Talked about the need for discretion. He wanted to test me, I see that now, find out how much he could get away with. It sounds stupid, but it was almost like a bond. Each of us could have wrecked the other’s career. It’s pathetic, but I was so grateful that he was determined to keep things quiet.’

  ‘I see.’ Harry thought he could picture Symons toying with her, planning how to shift the relationship of exploiter and exploited from the seedy confines of a Mancunian brothel to the bland environment of a government office.

  ‘Work kept us together. I reported to him. He was helpful, even made jokes about turning the tables and showing me the ropes. I guessed that people would start thinking that we were having a relationship. When I mentioned it, he was relaxed. “Let them,” he said. “Better that than they have an inkling of what we used to get up to, don’t you agree?” What I didn’t realise was that he was using it as a cover, so as to help him explain things away if and when he took things further than I wanted. Because, you see, I’d put the Handcuff Hotel a long way behind me, but Carl Symons’ sex drive was still as strong as ever.’