‘Tell me why you want to know.’
Suki wasn’t as patient as Irma. As he explained his latest theory, her eyes widened. At one point she clutched at her throat and he wondered if she were about to vomit.
‘You’re serious about this?’ she demanded when he paused for breath.
‘I’m hardly likely to make it up, am I?’
‘I - I don’t know what to say.’
‘Just tell me if I’m on the right track. Was it Carl’s case?’
When she nodded, he let out a breath and slumped back in his chair. At last he’d fathomed it. He’d been wrong, terribly wrong, when he’d changed his mind and decided that Brett Young must be the killer. This time, though, he was sure there was no mistake. And, as had happened in the past, he felt no sense of triumph, no urge to order champagne in a fit of self-congratulation. To solve a puzzle was to do much more than merely to play a game. Learning the truth laid bare the lives of others, exposed their secrets and lies, provided a reminder - as if he needed one - that no matter how deeply passions burned, killing someone was beyond excuse. He’d known several people who were murderers. Some had been clients whom he had done his best to defend. He wouldn’t have described many of them in tabloid terms, as evil through and through. Yet their crime, even when committed in a moment of aberration, set them apart for ever. Murder, he kept finding, could be explained but never justified.
‘Carl had a habit of calling a conference with victims of crime to explain his decision not to prosecute in a case of that kind,’ Suki said. ‘He was always careful to play it strictly by the book. His file was immaculate. You couldn’t argue with his judgment or suggest that he’d been hasty or not cared enough to do the right thing. Lack of evidence strong enough to enable a jury to convict, that was the point. It’s never easy to prove guilt beyond reasonable doubt. The police hated him, you know. They’d bring him a case and he’d knock it back, saying that they had to do more work. Even if they’d sweated blood to pin the crime on the suspect.’
‘I remember you telling me that he liked to pick winners,’ Harry said. ‘It made his figures look good. When Carl Symons prosecuted, you could bet the accused had no hiding place.’
Suki nodded. ‘Funny kind of ruthlessness, wasn’t it? The sort that lets the guilty go free, rather than be tarnished with failure to have them sent down. It isn’t only the do-gooders who are soft on crime.’
‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Wait a moment. I copied this for you.’ She delved into her handbag, pulled out a photocopied sheet and, with a quick glance round to make sure no-one was looking, shoved it into his pocket.
‘What is it?’
‘A note of Carl’s meeting when he explained his decision. Destroy it after you’ve read it, okay? You’ll see he admits he didn’t make himself popular. But then, he never cared about that.’
‘No.’ Harry sneezed. ‘He never did.’
‘Are you all right? I’d get changed out of those wet clothes, if I were you.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said as he got to his feet. The hard work of the evening was still to be done. ‘You didn’t have to slip me the note. Thanks anyway.’
‘It’s okay. And - about the things we were talking about the other day, you will keep quiet, won’t you?’
‘Trust me.’
‘I think I do.’ She laughed. ‘Even though you’re a solicitor.’
‘I hope things run a bit more smoothly for you from now on.’
‘Did I mention that my section leader has given me the chance to act up until Carl is replaced? He even dropped a hint that I’ll be in line for a permanent promotion next year if I keep him happy.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Yes.’ Her dark brown eyes had begun to shine. Perhaps it was the buzz from the alcohol after a long hard day in court. ‘It’s true what they say, isn’t it? Every cloud has a silver lining.’
Last spring, the Mays had moved house. Casper had decided that someone who rubbed shoulders so regularly with the great and the good ought to live in suitably prestigious premises, so he’d acquired one of the most spectacular homes on the peninsula, a black and white manor house overlooking the Dee at Parkgate.
Harry drove slowly along The Parade. He remembered visits here in the summers of his childhood, when his parents had always treated him to a Parkgate ice cream whilst they devoured the local shrimps. The three of them had walked along the front and he’d gazed across the silted-up river and the salt marsh, struggling to picture the resort when the Dublin packet and the Welsh ferry had sailed from here, in the days when Parkgate had been one of England’s major ports. Lady Hamilton had lived here as a girl, Handel had visited en route for the first performance of The Messiah. Milton’s Lycidas had been shipwrecked nearby. Talk about Paradise Lost.
On a cold, dark and wet November evening, as the rain slanted down on to the promenade, it was hard to believe the place had a notable history. There were no pedestrians in sight and hardly any cars; the windows of the houses and flats were curtained against the night. He caught sight of the bell tower of a private school at the end of the promenade, a landmark that told him he had almost reached his destination. He pulled up outside wrought iron gates whose centrepiece was Casper’s initials and announced himself into the entryphone.
‘You found it easily enough, then,’ Juliet’s disembodied voice said.
‘Parkgate’s pleasant enough, but there aren’t too many million-pound mansions perched above the promenade.’
‘We’re going to have an unforgettable night,’ she said dreamily.
You never spoke a truer word. He watched as the gates swung open and headed up the long curving drive. As his car passed through the trees and eased to a halt in front of the gabled porch, he felt a little like Philip Marlowe, arriving at the Sternwood place. But his suit wasn’t powder-blue and he’d never claim to be well dressed.
She was waiting for him, opened the front door before he’d stopped leaning on the bell. She was looking at her best: silk top, leather skirt, black stockings. Her hair shone; he longed to touch it. She was about to greet him with a kiss, but when she saw his expression, she hesitated.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Yes,’ he said. It was a good way of putting it. ‘Something’s wrong.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fifteen minutes later, the two of them left the house in silence. As they stepped outside, the security lights switched on automatically. Strange to think of the Mays guarding against burglars, for which petty thief in his right mind would dare to rob Casper? The harsh glare showed up the streaks that tears had left on Juliet’s face. What he had told her had left her distraught. He hated himself for causing her pain. But what else could he do? The truth had to be told at last.
Pulling his jacket up over his head, he raced across the gravel courtyard. When she had caught him up, he rapped on the door of the annexe. He could tell that the building had once been a stable block. In the estate agents’ phrase, it had been sympathetically converted into living quarters. Suitable for a family retainer. Apt, really. Nowadays a place like this might be called a granny annexe, but at present it was a refuge for Juliet’s personal assistant.
Linda Blackwell opened the door. She wasn’t wearing her glasses and she blinked several times, as if trying to make sense of their blurred features. When she recognised Harry, with Juliet behind him, she took a step back. Her features had frozen in a mixture of bewilderment and fear.
‘Harry … what is it?’
‘I know the truth, Linda.’
She swallowed. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I know all about Peter. And what he did.’
‘What? You’re not making any sense.’
‘He was a murderer, Linda.’
Juliet pushed him to one side. ‘Tell him it isn’t true, Linda. Tell him it isn’t true.’
But Linda Blackwell had begun to weep. The tears flowed as if a dam had burst. Her knees buckle
d and she gave out a wail, a terrible and elemental sound. She was like an animal, a creature of the wild, a mother about to witness the betrayal of her young.
Compared to the average granny flat, Harry thought, the converted stable block would have provided suitable accommodation for the Queen Mother. Juliet evidently had more sophisticated taste when it came to interior design than she did in her men. The beamed living-room was stuffed with more antiques than the Lady Lever Gallery, yet the effect was somehow homely. In the background, a clock chimed every quarter hour. the armchairs were deep and comfortable. He guessed that Linda Blackwell was yearning to be swallowed up in the upholstery as he explained the reasoning that had brought him here.
‘When we were talking, Peter said something about Tuesday. It didn’t sink in at first that it was his ex-wife’s name. It was only when I learned that Rick Spendlove had once had a fling with a secretary called Tuesday Jones that I made a connection.’
‘She was one of those who liked to keep her maiden name,’ Linda said. ‘It’s the modern thing, I know. Feminism. Personally, I was glad to take my husband’s name. That’s what marriage is all about, isn’t it? Sharing everything.’
‘And you were very happily married,’ Harry said softly.
‘Yes. We always were. You know what they say - “’til death do us part.”’
‘But Peter wasn’t so lucky, was he? Tuesday began an affair with Spendlove after your husband died. The accident knocked both you and Peter sideways, didn’t it?’
She bowed her head. In a muffled tone, she said, ‘It came out of the blue. Ron was still a young man. Young at heart, that’s for sure. He went out that morning full of the joys of spring.’
Harry breathed out. He wasn’t used to hearing about happy marriages. To a lawyer whose wife had left him and who handled his fair share of divorce work, the idea that a couple could live together in harmony often seemed like an absurd flight of fancy. He told himself not to be jealous, that Linda was only talking like this out of desperation. She’d lost her husband and her son.
‘And he never returned, did he?’
‘Those wicked boys,’ she said, her voice hollow. ‘If only they’d realised the harm they’d done. If only they’d been made to realise.’
‘It was a group of kids, wasn’t it, throwing stones from a bridge over the M62? They hit the car and your husband crashed. The police had an idea who the culprits were, but couldn’t prove anything. Besides, most of them were under ten. The age of criminal responsibility.’
‘But the ringleaders weren’t,’ Linda said. ‘An example could have been made of them.’
‘You and Peter both demanded a prosecution, I gather?’
‘It wasn’t a question of vengeance,’ Linda said earnestly. ‘Not so far as I was concerned. It was just - the right thing to do.’
‘The CPS reckoned there wasn’t sufficient evidence.’
‘Peter said it was a cover-up. They’d been so slow making a decision. We were patient for a long while, we understood the police needed to carry out proper investigations, but we thought it was only a question of time before someone was charged. We spoke to the detective who was leading the inquiry. He was sympathetic, he warned us it would be difficult, but he wanted to bring them to court. The police always know the guilty ones, you know, even if they can’t prove it.’
‘I’m not sure that’s always true,’ Harry said gently.
Linda sniffed. ‘It was Carl Symons’ case and he pulled the rug out from under us. Peter was incensed. He wrote letters to the newspapers, he got in touch with his MP. None of it made a blind bit of difference. Nobody took much notice. People made sympathetic noises, but they said nothing could be done.’
‘Symons met him to explain his decision, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, he tried to make out that he was being sympathetic to the bereaved. Really, it was a back-covering exercise. Peter saw through that straight away.’
‘I’ve seen Symons’ notes of the discussion. It’s obvious there wasn’t a meeting of minds. The irresistible force had met the immovable object. Didn’t you want to attend, see if you could do anything to persuade the authorities to change their mind?’
For the first time in their acquaintance, Linda was looking her age. The lines around her eyes and mouth seemed to have multiplied. ‘I couldn’t face it. By that time, I’d had enough of the whole sorry business. I told Peter that we were powerless, that there was nothing we could do, but he simply wouldn’t give up. He wanted to see justice done for his father. He was a good son. The best anyone could have.’
‘Did you realise that your neighbour was the lawyer dealing with the case?’
‘Not at first. This all happened before Symons moved in next door. It was only when Symons sent that snotty letter to Peter about blocking his garage access that Peter told me who he was.’
‘He blamed Symons personally, didn’t he? Symons had let the youngsters he thought responsible for his father’s death get off scot free. He let the death of your husband eat away at him, it became an obsession.’
‘Loyalty, that’s all it was, Harry. Perhaps you wouldn’t understand.’
Harry bit his tongue. He reckoned he did know a bit about loyalty, but now wasn’t the time for an argument about it. ‘I suppose that’s how he developed his grudge against lawyers. This feeling that they’d conspired against the two of you. Cheated you both out of revenge for your husband’s death.’
‘Oh, I tried to persuade him that it was time to move on, that we couldn’t spend the rest of our lives in mourning. But it wasn’t easy.’
‘Maybe because you weren’t entirely convinced of that yourself?’
She spread her arms. ‘Possibly.’
‘And the more he dwelt on your husband’s death, the further he and Tuesday grew apart?’
‘They were never suited. I had to let him go when he wanted to marry her, but I knew it would never work out. A pretty face and a nice chest are never enough. They didn’t have much in common. He was intelligent, she had as much brain as a second-hand rag doll.’ Her voice was shaking. ‘Where Peter was sensitive, Tuesday simply wanted a good time. A marriage needs more than physical attraction to make it work. A mother always knows whether a woman is right for her son, Harry. Your mother will have been the same with you, I’m sure.’
‘I’ve learned something about families lately. Logic doesn’t play much of a part where blood ties are concerned.’ He sighed. ‘So Tuesday took up with her boss, Rick Spendlove?’
‘I doubt if he was the first man she’d slept with since marrying Peter. What changed was that she stopped caring about whether he found out about her affairs or not. Eventually, of course, he discovered what was going on. Even then, he was willing to forgive her. But she would have none of it. She thought Spendlove was going to marry her when the divorce came through. Her fancy man didn’t touch matrimonial law himself, no-one in his firm did. Not lucrative enough compared to corporate stuff, I suppose. So he recommended her to consult the Horlock woman.’
‘And Nerys screwed Peter in court.’
‘She ruined what was left of his life.’ For the first time in the conversation, Linda’s voice broke with emotion. ‘I never met the woman, but what she did was unforgivable. She treated it like a crusade, as if it were her personal mission to bring my son to his knees.’
‘Nerys was always a formidable opponent,’ Harry said. ‘She never varied her style.’
‘Perhaps, but what mattered to me was the way she set out to cripple him. You saw the hovel he was living in. He was drinking far too much. I wasn’t blind, I could see it. So I begged him to come and live with me, but he wouldn’t agree, even though I stayed with him regularly, just wanting to be near him. But he said he needed his own place, it was a question of dignity.’
‘Nerys was only doing her job.’
‘If that’s true,’ Linda said with sudden brutality, ‘her job was a bag of shit.’
For a little while, nobody spoke. E
ventually Juliet said, ‘Did you have any idea what was going through Peter’s mind?’
‘That he was planning to kill them? No, of course I didn’t. If I had, don’t you think I would have stopped him? I thought no more of the three of them - Symons, Horlock and Spendlove - than he did. But I didn’t want him to wreck his health, make things even worse than they already were, just because of those stupid lawyers.’
‘He saw them as vampires, though,’ Harry said relentlessly. ‘Did he talk about that?’
‘Oh, we talked all the time. We’d always been close. I couldn’t have wished for a more devoted boy. He came to think that every solicitor was as bad as the ones who had tormented him. I did my best. I’d tell him there were a few rotten apples in every barrel. They used to say that about bent policemen, didn’t they, until they found out the barrel was full of them? Anyway, it was no use.’
Harry nodded. ‘I could feel his hostility the moment I mentioned I was a solicitor.’
‘Can you wonder?’
‘Oh, I see why he resented us, persuaded himself we’d shattered everything he cared for. The way he saw it, a solicitor had protected the people who’d killed his father, prevented them from getting their just deserts. Another solicitor had slept with Tuesday and ruined the marriage. A third helped Tuesday to cripple Peter financially. Hardly surprising that he felt the whole profession was conspiring against him.’
‘He had nothing left to live for,’ she said, ‘it was desperation that drove him to murder. Not that I realised it at the time. He’d talked about making them pay, but I thought that was sheer bravado. What can one man do against the legal establishment? I blame myself. Perhaps I should have done more.’
‘He was a sick man,’ Juliet said. ‘It wasn’t your fault. You did your best for him.’
‘So did you,’ Linda said. ‘You made sure he had the best help money could buy. I thought he’d turned the corner. You gave me hope, I’ll never be able to repay you for that. When he came out of the hospital, he seemed to be getting back on an even keel. I knew it was going to be a long haul, but I didn’t have a crystal ball, not even your Tarot cards. I couldn’t guess what was about to happen.’
First Cut is the Deepest (Harry Devlin) Page 33
