The wooden deck ended beneath a balcony identical to the one that enclosed Juliet’s penthouse. Even though Tamara Dighton was filming in the Caribbean, Wayne Saxelby might be inside; he was self-employed and could come and go as he pleased.
A gull landed on the balustrade and peered at Harry with the mild distaste of a respectable householder confronted by someone selling clothes pegs from door to door. If he could make it across the deck, there were two small ledges cut into the old stonework that he could use as footholds to lift himself up on to the opposite balcony. Once there, he could attract attention.
If Wayne was at home. If not…
He’d go for it. The deck wasn’t so far below the balcony that he was likely to break his neck. Take a chance and aim for a soft landing. Failing that, he’d rather plunge to his doom in the churchyard than finish up headfirst in a container of rubbish.
He scraped his shoes dry on Juliet’s penthouse wall, an act of defiance that gave him a small surge of pleasure. With infinite care he hauled first one leg over the wall at the end of the balcony and then the other. Taking a breath, he launched himself on the short drop. His feet slipped as they struck the decking, but he seized the iron rail and steadied himself.
Moving at the pace of a nervous nonagenarian, he edged along the deck until he reached the opposite wall. Climbing up to the balcony proved tougher than expected. He’d put on too much weight. Twice when he tried to pull himself up, he slid back and for a heart-pounding moment feared he would trip and plunge down the light well. His shoulder hurt where he’d pulled the muscle, and his head ached with the concentration. Things they never trained you for at college. Given the week he’d had, it was a pity that survival skills didn’t form part of the Law Society’s programme of compulsory continuing professional development. At the third attempt he managed to scramble on to the low barrier. Jumping down on to the balcony that crept around the second penthouse, he could scarcely suppress a roar of triumph.
What if the penthouse was empty? Wayne might be anywhere. At Jim’s bedside, for instance. If nobody was around to help him escape, he might have to indulge in a little breaking and entering. Just his luck if the security systems that had betrayed his partner in the basement car park functioned to perfection on the top floor.
At the window overlooking the gardens, the blinds were drawn. Harry swore and knocked on the glass. No reply.
Two teenage girls in cropped tops and skimpy skirts were walking along the path that led from Chapel Street to Tower Gardens. One caught sight of Harry and grasped her friend by the arm, pointing up at him. They burst out laughing and waved. Nonplussed, he waved back and, grinning with delight, they strolled out of sight. Did they think he was a daredevil pinstriped burglar whose enterprise deserved appreciation, encouragement even? Only in Liverpool.
He turned the corner of the balcony. At the picture windows, again the blinds were drawn. No sign of life at all. He rapped hard: once, twice, three times.
Was that a noise from inside? The double glazing deadened sound; the property agents bragged about it. He held his breath and started counting. At seven, a hand parted the blinds and a pair of wide eyes looked out.
Harry had never imagined that the sight of a management consultant would send him weak at the knees with joy. He had to restrain himself from kissing the glass.
The blinds opened. Wayne Saxelby stood motionless, as if confronted by a three-headed creature escaped from the murals in the Stapledon. His amazement was forgivable.
He mouthed, ‘Can I come in?’
For a weird moment, it seemed that Wayne was deliberating whether or not to open the sliding doors. He must think he was hallucinating. Harry Devlin lurking on your upmarket balcony? Not what you paid sky-high rents for.
‘All right, Wayne?’
Wayne snapped out of his trance, as if at the click of a hypnotist’s fingers. He disappeared from sight and Harry was seized by a sudden terror that he wouldn’t come back. But within ten seconds he returned, key in hand.
‘I don’t know what to…to say,’ he said as the doors slid apart.
In the background, the Stone Roses were belting out I Wanna Be Adored. Typical Wayne, but Harry didn’t care.
He felt light-headed, almost delirious with relief. The temptation to dance and sing was overwhelming. He had to restrain himself from bursting into a chorus of I Will Survive.
‘I mean, for fuck’s sake, what were you doing out there?’
Wayne sounded as though suspicion might quickly turn to anger, as though Harry had been spying on his private quarters. Snooping around for intimate secrets of law firm management. Or, perhaps, of the lovely Tamara Dighton.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.’
‘It’s unbelievable. When I heard the tapping, I thought it must be a window cleaner. The last person I expected to see was you.’
‘I can explain.’
As soon as he spoke the words, he regretted them. He didn’t want to tell Wayne about his affair with Juliet. The man had done his best to save Jim’s life, but he’d never been the soul of discretion. Better fob him off. Yet how to account for his wandering around the penthouse floor balconies when he ought to be at work? The truth it must be. Or rather, a heavily censored version of it.
‘You’d better.’
‘Mind if I sit down? I must be getting old.’ He rubbed his sore shoulder. ‘Ten minutes’ exercise and I’m knackered.’
Wayne nodded towards a black leather sofa. The décor in the flat was minimalist. No pictures on the walls, no little touches of luxury. No sign even of Tamara’s legendary wet tee-shirt. His cherished laptop squatted on a small table, along with a couple of railway magazines. His father had been a railwayman and Wayne’s knowledge was encyclopedic. At the slightest provocation, he would harp on about the dockers’ umbrella, the overhead railway that skirted the waterfront until it was dismantled half a century ago. Who would have thought that Tamara Dighton would team up with a train-spotter? It might be true love, though Harry couldn’t help wondering if it had something to do with Wayne’s new-found wealth.
‘What’s this all about, then?’
Harry sighed. ‘It’s a long story.’
A grin crept across Wayne’s face. He was regaining his composure.
‘I’ve got plenty of time.’
***
‘I’ve shared a lift with Mrs. May a few times,’ Wayne said five minutes later. ‘Pleasant woman. Must have been quite a babe in her younger days.’
The patronising tone riled Harry. But what could he say? All he wanted was to make good his escape and get back to the office, without mentioning the photograph that he’d found in Juliet’s flat. He would rack his brains for the name of the woman in the picture, though identifying her might leave him none the wiser.
‘Suppose so.’
‘When Tamara bought the penthouse, Mrs. May had this younger bloke in tow. Looked like an Australian beach bum. All medallions and bleached hair. But he seems to have vanished.’ Wayne took a long draught of Fosters and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. ‘As for her ex, I’ve seen him around. But one thing puzzles me. If they are divorced, why panic at the thought of his finding you there, waiting for her to show up?’
‘He’s pathologically jealous.’ It sounded lame. Time to improvise. ‘I’d guess he never wanted to break up with her. Why do you imagine the beach bum made himself scarce?’
‘You’re just good friends?’ Wayne didn’t bother to disguise a smirk.
‘She used to help Jim and me with our marketing,’ Harry said hastily. ‘She specialises in P.R. and we hired her services for a while some years back. Before your time with us.’
‘I don’t mean to be unkind, but she didn’t exactly transform the firm’s image, did she?’
This wasn’t the moment to leap to her defence. The last thing Harry wanted was Wayne telling all and sundry that he carried a torch for Casper May’s ex-wife. He shrugged and said nothing.
; ‘Casper May’s a client of Jim’s, isn’t he?’ Wayne murmured. ‘You didn’t want to tread on his toes, I guess.’
It was a lifeline and Harry grabbed it. ‘No, of course not.’
‘He has a dodgy reputation. You don’t want to get mixed up with people like that. Especially after what’s happened to Jim.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, you’re on your own now, aren’t you?’ Wayne studied the subtleties of the pattern in the cream and grey carpet, as if trying to arrive at a decision. ‘By the way, there’s something I ought to mention. Just between you and me, if you don’t mind.’
‘Sure.’
‘That policeman has spoken to me again.’
‘Cusden?’
‘Yeah.’ Wayne exhaled. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Harry, but he pressed me hard about the call I made to you after I found Jim. He wants to know where you were at the time.’
Harry scowled. ‘I hope he isn’t suggesting that I battered Jim?’
Wayne spread his arms like a scarecrow. ‘Search me. I didn’t tell him anything, Harry.’
‘Nothing to tell. I was out on a…on a wild goose chase, that’s all.’
Wayne bowed his head again, said nothing.
‘What?’
‘He asked if I’d noticed anything unusual about your behaviour.’
‘Such as?’
‘I didn’t let anything slip.’
Through gritted teeth, Harry said, ‘There was nothing to let slip.’
‘Sure about that?’
‘Absolutely.’
Wayne fiddled with his watch, didn’t look Harry in the eye. ‘It’s just that…you haven’t seemed like your normal self these past few days.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The women in the office have noticed it. I overheard Grace telling Sylvia she is worried about you. You seem jumpy, neurotic.’
‘Neurotic?’ Harry gaped at him. He’d been accused of many things before, but this was a first.
‘Face it, Harry, this is what people are saying. Something odd is going on in your life. I saw it for myself when I spotted you in the gardens, with that bloke who was on the point of kicking your head in.’
‘I explained about Tom Gunter.’
‘Time to cut the crap, Harry. Admit it, your life’s out of control. Your mind is elsewhere. You seem bowed down. Little things have been getting on top of you. Like when some kids trashed your office.’
‘That wasn’t kids.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
Kids wouldn’t leave a message about Midsummer’s Eve.
‘God knows,’ he said wearily.
‘Grace thinks you’ve been working too hard.’
‘Me?’
‘Amazing, huh? Sylvia’s worried about you too, it’s written all over her face. With Jim gone…’
Harry stood up. ‘Thanks for your concern. I’d best get back to the office before anyone else starts fretting that I’ve metamorphosed into a panicky workaholic.’
‘All right.’ Wayne put out a hand. ‘Best of luck, Harry. I have this feeling you’re going to need it if you keep sticking your neck out.’
As the door to the penthouse closed behind him, a phrase from their conversation drummed in Harry’s ears.
You’re on your own now.
***
Back in his office, he dialled Carmel’s number, but the call went straight through to voicemail.
‘Just wondering how he is. Give me a ring when you have a moment.’
As he rang off, Sylvia put her head around the door. He’d never seen her face so ashen.
‘Have you checked your emails?’
Bad news from the hospital? Out on the balcony, he’d felt cold and shaky. But nothing compared to this.
‘Is it…?’
‘The police want to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘There’s been another murder.’
He stared. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ She sounded angry, as though she blamed him for bringing the roof down on all of them. ‘I only take the messages around here.’
‘Who’s been murdered?’
To his horror, a tear trickled down Sylvia’s cheek. She stifled a sob.
‘I can’t believe it…’
‘Who?’ he demanded. ‘Tell me.’
She cleared her throat.
‘Kay Cheung.’
Chapter Thirteen
Harry recognised Detective Sergeant Stan Sibierski’s pock-marked features the moment he walked into the interview room at police HQ. Sibierski was a morose Mancunian who reeked of cheap cigarettes and was famous for hating lawyers. According to Carmel, his wife had left him for a divorce specialist in a big legal firm and salted the wound by screwing him for a fortune in alimony. In Birkenhead Crown Court five years back, Harry had cross-examined Sibierski into hapless self-contradiction and secured an acquittal for a petty thief who regarded Walton Jail as his second home. Any hope the sergeant might have forgotten his humiliation was dispelled by a tight smirk as he introduced himself. The message couldn’t have been clearer if Sibierski had worn a tee shirt proclaiming Payback Time.
‘Last night my colleague DC Cusden asked about your movements after five o’clock yesterday evening. You told him you met someone in Widnes yesterday evening.’
Harry settled back in his chair. It was almost as comfortable as Juliet’s sofa. The suite of interview rooms had been refurbished to a high specification, all light Scandinavian wood and walls washed in summery pastel shades. All it lacked was piped music and an escalator connecting Police HQ with the Paradise Project shopping development so that suspects could indulge in a little retail therapy in between interrogations.
‘I said I went to meet someone. Not quite the same.’
Sibierski scrutinised Harry as though he’d found him on the sole of his shoe, following a stroll through a sewage farm.
‘Legal quibbles already, Mr. Devlin?’
‘Last time we met,’ Harry said, ‘we agreed it was important for investigating officers to be sticklers for accuracy.’
‘You declined to tell DC Cusden who you were due to meet.’
‘It didn’t seem important.’
Sibierski shook his head in a pantomime of disapproval.
‘You obstructed his inquiries.’
‘It’s no secret. Her name is Ka-Yu Cheung.’
‘You’d arranged an appointment with her?’
‘She rang me yesterday morning and asked to see me at six o’clock.’
‘She was a client?’
‘No, but we knew each other through work. She’s employed by the firm that cares for the plants in our office. And her partner, Tom Gunter, was once a client.’
‘Gunter, yes. You defended him on a charge of murder.’
‘Until he changed lawyers.’
The smirk returned, as if to say: good decision.
‘Did you bear him a grudge?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I never met a lawyer who liked to lose out on a fee.’
‘It happens.’
‘Why did Ms. Cheung want to see you?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘Didn’t you enquire?’
‘She didn’t want to talk on the phone. Said she’d explain when we met.’
‘You invited her to come into your office?’
‘She asked me to meet her at Widnes. The West Bank’
‘There’s a public house close to the river. I’ve sunk a few pints there in my time. Did you arrange to meet in the bar?’
‘No, at Runcorn Bridge. Or to be more exact, underneath it.’
Sibierski’s black eyebrows twitched in mock-surprise. ‘Do you arrange many client appointments under road bridges?’
‘I told you, she wasn’t a client. An acquaintance, that’s all.’
‘Funny place for a meeting.’
‘Her choice, not mine.’
‘Why would she want to meet there?’
‘I assumed she wanted to speak to me in private. Away from prying eyes.’
‘Sounds rather intimate.’
‘If we talked in a pub, we might be seen or overheard.’
‘Taking a risk, weren’t you? Middle-aged man. Respectable professional.’ Pleased with his ironic thrust, Sibierski winked at his fresh-faced DC, who gave a hasty nod of approval. ‘Meeting a young woman in an out-of-the-way spot like that?’
‘It’s hardly remote. There are paths along the riverside, a promenade. Houses a stone’s throw away.’
‘But what if she made some sort of allegation about your behaviour? You’d be in trouble, wouldn’t you?’ He could barely restrain a snigger. ‘Career on the line, reputation at risk?’
‘Kay wasn’t like that.’
‘What was she like?’
‘Intelligent. Attractive. Likeable.’
‘Quite a paragon. Are you sure she was only an acquaintance?’
‘I’d known her for years, since we took out a contract with Green and Pleasant to look after the plants in the office. I liked her. Describe her as a friend, if you like. We never socialised together.’
‘I suppose Tom Gunter wouldn’t have been happy if you had. Pity about her taste in men, eh?’
Harry couldn’t resist it. ‘We all make mistakes with the opposite sex, don’t we, Sergeant?’
Sibierski sucked in his cheeks and the young DC winced, waiting for the explosion. But it didn’t come.
‘And did you make a mistake with her, Mr. Devlin?’
‘Such as?’
‘Did you try it on with her yesterday evening?’
‘I never even saw Kay. I arrived more than half an hour late, due to the demonstration.’
‘Oh yeah, the moaning farmers.’ Sibierski had urban grime in his genes, and he wrinkled his nose to indicate his contempt for the rural lobby.
‘When I couldn’t see her, I walked around either side of the bridge, but there was no sign. Then Wayne Saxelby called to say that Jim had been attacked and I rushed off to the hospital.’
‘Were you shagging Ka-Yu Cheung?’
Harry leaned over the table towards Sibierski until the stink of unfiltered Woodbines made him want to throw up.
Waterloo Sunset: A Lake District Mystery #4 (Lake District Mysteries) Page 15
