The Devil in Disguise

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Maybe he liked to keep Frances dangling on a string.’

  ‘You’re doing him an injustice. It would be nearer the truth to say that he treated women with an old-fashioned courtesy and attentiveness. Even someone who is no doormat can find that very appealing.’

  ‘I’d like to know what she thinks about your idea.’

  ‘This is difficult for me to express in the right way,’ Ashley began slowly. He fiddled with his napkin, not looking Harry in the eye. ‘But I have some reservations about mentioning this to any of the Kavanaugh trustees.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  Ashley hesitated for a moment before replying. ‘Well, you see, the last time I saw Luke, he told me that he was expecting trouble within the Trust. There was a serious problem with one of the trustees. He said he’d been agonising over it, but he felt he had no choice but to act.’

  ‘Which trustee? And how was he going to act?’

  Ashley seemed to be choosing his words with care. ‘There was no point in asking for more information than he was prepared to disclose. Besides, it was none of my business. The only thing that bothered me was Luke’s distress. He’d been sleeping badly. The whole affair, whatever it was, had been preying on his mind.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Melissa and I invited him round for dinner just before we set off for Toronto. We talked while Melissa was out in the kitchen. I said the best thing would be to consult the Trust’s solicitors.’ He smiled. ‘Doing my best to drum up business for you, as usual.’

  ‘One of these days, I’ll put you on commission. But don’t hold your breath. As a matter of fact, Luke did speak to me.’

  ‘He did?’ Ashley was clearly relieved.

  Harry recounted his last conversation with Luke Dessaur and Frances’s belief that, in the days leading up to his death, Luke had been afraid of something. ‘If only he’d given me a clearer idea about what was on his mind. Was it this problem with the unnamed trustee - or something else?’

  ‘What else could it have been?’ Ashley demanded. ‘He wasn’t rich but he didn’t have money worries. He told me years ago that he’d left everything he had to cancer charities, in memory of Gwendoline. That shows you the sort of chap he was.’

  Harry nodded. ‘Like you, I didn’t cross-examine him. I wish now that I had.’

  Ashley closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Of course, I’d like to believe that this business about an errant trustee was entirely unconnected with his death.’

  Harry studied him. ‘Have you been able to guess who Luke was talking about?’

  After a pause, Ashley said, ‘No, no. I haven’t.’

  But he was blinking nervously and Harry thought: You may be a good book dealer, but you are a poor liar, my friend.

  As Ashley was settling the bill, Harry spotted Pino and waved him over. ‘I see my old boss is still one of your most reliable customers. You know something? He was the first person who ever brought me here for a meal. It was when I qualified as a solicitor.’

  ‘Ah, a great cause for celebration!’

  ‘Tell you the truth, I think he was just ecstatic that I’d said I was planning to leave his firm. But do you know the lady he’s with, by any chance?’

  ‘I must be discreet!’ Pino said, putting his finger to his lips. It was akin to Mae West taking a vow of celibacy.

  ‘Of course,’ Harry said. ‘As you always are. I mustn’t be nosey. Not that there’s anything to be nosey about. Geoffrey’s divorced, isn’t he? He’s every right to take a lady friend out for dinner.’

  ‘Absolutely! And he and Miss Blackhurst have become regular customers these past two or three weeks, I’m glad to say.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  Pino beamed and said, ‘I tell you one thing, Harry. In confidence, of course.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Harry said, crossing his fingers behind his back.

  ‘I would not be surprised if Miss Blackhurst were to become the second Mrs Willatt one day.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Believe me. I see the signs. It is a love-match, that one.’

  Harry looked back at the couple in the corner. Geoffrey Willatt had recovered his composure and was holding forth, probably on the iniquities of the Lord Chancellor’s treatment of the legal profession. Vera was gazing into his eyes, looking at him with the fondness of a butterfly collector studying a rare specimen. And for the first time in his life, Harry felt sorry for Geoffrey Willatt.

  Back in his flat, Harry stayed up till the early hours, drinking more than was good for him and watching the late-night film. It was Night Moves, an old favourite not least because Gene Hackman played a long-suffering investigator by the name of Harry Moresby. Easy to identify with the character: he had a relentless need to know, an obsession with finding out things. Trouble was, it never did him any good.

  Harry knew many of the scenes by heart. Eventually the detective would discover the truth about the disappearance of the wild child Delly, solve her murder and put a permanent end to her stepfather’s criminal scheme. But still the outcome would be disastrous for him. As the credits rolled at the end of the film, he would lie injured and helpless in a motor boat which kept going round and round in ever-widening circles.

  Harry took another draught from his can and reviewed the day’s events. There were too many questions. What was Vera’s game? Why had she needed to fake the references she had supplied to Charles Kavanaugh? And was it possible that one of the trustees was also a murderer?

  He toyed with the idea. Frances, Tim and Roy all lived alone and so, presumably, had no verifiable alibi for the time of Luke’s death. Matthew shared a house with his girlfriend, but he too might have been able to get the chance to commit the crime. He was chilled by the thought that he had been in their company on the night of Luke’s death and searched his memory for clues that might point him in the right direction. But there were none.

  He sighed. What good would it do to try to learn if Ashley was right? Nothing could ever be proved. Turning up stones was usually a mistake. Yet he knew he would not be able to resist temptation even though, if Liz were still alive, she would surely be as cynical as Ellen Moresby, the errant wife who reproached her husband when he insisted he must go out on a case.

  ‘Why?’ she asked in a line that always haunted Harry. ‘So you can pretend you’re solving something?’

  Chapter 9

  Another morning, another murder. No doubt this time, no question of suicide or accident. A young woman had been found dead the previous evening in Upper Parliament Street, a pair of scissors driven into her back. According to the early bulletin on Radio City, the police were linking the case with a number of other killings.

  As he shaved, Harry thought about the crime. So the Scissorman had struck again. For a couple of years now he had been stabbing prostitutes to death. All his crimes had been committed in northern cities; his last two victims had been Liverpool girls. The murder of a whore seldom made headline news but the media had finally seized on the Scissorman case after the trial of a suspect called Norman Morris had collapsed. An offender-profiling expert had declared himself confident that Morris was the guilty man and a woman detective working undercover had persuaded Morris to boast drunkenly that he was the man the police could not catch. The only snag was lack of evidence. And on the day of the Scissorman’s first murder in Liverpool, Morris had been with his publisher in London discussing a book about his ordeal.

  Pulling on his shirt, Harry reflected that for as long as miscarriages like the Morris case occurred, there would be plenty of work for MOJO - and for Kim. It was so easy to be deceived by appearances. Morris was odious but innocent: for all anyone knew, the real culprit could be perfectly respectable, a pillar of society. A professional man, perhaps even a lawyer. As far as Harry was aware, no solicitor had yet metamorphosed i
nto a serial killer. But there was always a first time.

  The Scissorman’s latest killing was the talk of the Crown Court. Never before had two consecutive murders in the sequence been committed in the same city. In the robing room everyone was speculating about whether the murderer had settled in Liverpool. As Harry listened to the conversation, he could not help hearing in his mind the raucous cry of Davey Damnation.

  ‘And I gave her space to repent of her fornication; and she repented not!’

  Quentin Pike was sitting in a corner, a bundle of unopened files on his lap. Usually he was at the heart of any group of gossips, but this morning he seemed uncharacteristically quiet. Harry wandered over to him and was startled to see that the tubby lawyer’s eyes were red and puffy.

  ‘You all right?’ As soon as the words left his lips, Harry realised it was a foolish question.

  ‘The dead girl,’ Quentin said in a voice barely audible above the buzz of conversation all around. ‘A sergeant downstairs mentioned her name. Half-caste girl called Celine. She is a client of mine. Was a client of mine.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘The stupid little bitch,’ Quentin said savagely. He was talking to himself rather than to Harry. ‘She was hell-bent on destroying her life. Heroin, cocaine, you name it. And she was a pretty girl. Delicate features, despite the shit she pumped into her system. Of course, she had the usual whore’s c.v. Parental abuse, taken into care, a long list of petty misdemeanours. She’d kept me busy since she first reached the age of criminal responsibility. I warned her, believe me, I warned her. I said she’d be dead before she was twenty-one.’

  ‘And how old was she?’

  ‘Sixteen the week before Christmas,’ Quentin said. ‘I overestimated her survival instinct.’

  Harry put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘We aren’t our clients’ keepers.’

  Quentin Pike turned to face him. ‘No, but I tell you one thing. If I don’t mourn that silly girl, no-one else will.’

  He clambered to his feet and, tucking the files under each arm, made his way unsteadily out of the room. Harry closed his eyes. Murder, he had learned, was like that. It was not a simple matter confined to the killer and the slain. So many lives were touched. The ripples kept spreading outwards.

  Trying to rid his mind of the idea that had begun to form about Davey Damnation, he headed for the cafeteria and spotted Kim in the queue for service. He sidled up behind her and whispered, ‘Will you let me put a little magic into your life?’

  She jerked round; her cheeks were pink. ‘My God, Harry, I wondered who it was.’

  ‘Sorry if I startled you. But it’s a serious proposition. A magician of my acquaintance is performing tonight at the Labour Club in Jericho Lane. He’s invited me along and I wonder if you’d like to come. And by the way, would you like to get me a coffee?’

  When they were seated at a table, she said, ‘I had no idea you were into magic.’

  ‘I’ll try anything to make money out of the Legal Aid Board.’

  ‘In your dreams. They long ago mastered the black arts themselves.’

  ‘In that case, I may have to settle for entertainment. Can I tempt you?’

  ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been inside a Labour Club. At one time of day I was an active member of the Party. But it changed after it was taken over by the smarmy army. People who spent more time talking about justice, less in actually making it happen. Other things became more important to me than politics. Especially MOJO.’

  Harry stirred his coffee with infinite care. ‘Speaking of which,’ he said without looking at her, ‘are you any nearer to reaching a decision?’

  ‘About what to do?’ She sighed. ‘I had a call from London last night. They’re starting to push. I decided I ought at least to speak again to Quentin this morning. But he’s not in the mood for business discussions today.’

  ‘Yes, I was speaking to him a couple of minutes ago. He’s taking the death of his client badly. You know, a strange thought crossed my mind...’

  He hesitated. He’d been on the point of saying something about the Scissorman and Davey Damnation, but now did not seem the right moment. Besides, Kim had started to talk about Quentin.

  ‘He cares about his work more than most people realise,’ she said. ‘That’s something I have to weigh in the balance. If - if I did sell my business, I’d want the firm that took over to look after my clients. If they didn’t, no-one else would. But I’d trust Quentin to fight for them.’

  ‘So - you are thinking of making the move?’

  She bent her head low over the coffee cup. ‘God, Harry. It’s one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make. The job means so much to me. But I don’t want to let you down.’

  ‘London isn’t the end of the world.’

  ‘I mustn’t be unfair. Being Chief Executive of MOJO isn’t a nine-to-five job, any more than yours is. How often do you think we would see each other if we were two hundred miles apart? We need to be realistic. If I move, what sort of future is there for our relationship?’

  He finished his drink. ‘Do you want it to have a future?’

  ‘I - oh, I just feel guilty, that’s all. Since we started to go out together, it’s as if I’ve messed you around all the time.’

  He moved his head close to hers. ‘I’m very fond of you, Kim. You know that. But I’d hate you to pass on the job, stay here and always resent me for it.’

  ‘This magic show.’ Her voice faltered slightly. ‘When will you be picking me up?’

  Walking through the city streets in a daze, he found himself on the other side of the road from the magistrates’ court. Davey Damnation was in full flow, haranguing a couple of hapless trainee solicitors.

  ‘And I will give unto every one of you according to your works!’

  Harry had always had a soft spot for Davey. The man’s sheer persistence, his determination to rant away come rain or shine seemed perversely admirable. But he knew nothing about him, neither where he lived nor where he came from. Nor whether he was capable of deeds to match his wild words. Harry stared at the scarecrow-like figure, trying to decide what - if anything - he should do when someone shouted his name. With a guilty start, he glanced over his shoulder, to see Matthew Cullinan hurrying down Dale Street towards him. He was accompanied by Inge Frontzeck.

  ‘Just the man! Sorry for bellowing, but you were obviously miles away.’

  Harry mustered a smile. ‘Plenty to think about.’

  ‘Tough morning in court, eh? Never mind. Win a few, lose a few. You remember Inge, do you?’

  She blushed. ‘How could he forget after our meeting at the Piquet Club?’

  Harry surveyed her. She looked quite different when not dressed for work. Elegant make-up, expensive jewellery. Over her shoulder was slung a bag emblazoned with the logo of the city’s most prestigious fashion store. She was hanging on to Matthew’s arm as if afraid that if she let go she might never see him again. He felt a spasm of jealousy. If only Kim had been the proprietorial kind. But then she would have been a different woman and he would not have cared for her so much.

  He indicated the bag. ‘Shopping trip?’

  Matthew grinned. ‘Just as well we bumped into you. Another couple of hours and we’d both have been paupers.’

  She brushed his cheek with a finger. ‘I don’t remember you breaking into your capital this morning, Matt.’

  ‘You never gave me a chance. I’m surprised your plastic cards haven’t melted after all their activity. You know what women are like, Harry.’

  ‘Er - yes,’ Harry said, although experience had taught

  him that he certainly didn’t. But he was puzzling over a contradiction he sensed in Matthew Cullinan. Matthew liked to make a big thing out of his desire to shun the limelight, especially where his charitable works w
ere concerned. But when you came to know him, his manner was hardly that of someone anxious to do good by stealth. Perhaps it was simply that Harry knew so few upper-class people of any description, let alone any who wished to do good by stealth.

  ‘Look,’ Matthew said to Inge, ‘Since we’ve stocked up with enough food to feed an army, why don’t we invite Harry here to dinner? Tomorrow evening, perhaps? Do come, if you don’t have anything else on.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you...’ Harry hesitated. In other circumstances he would have been rifling through his collection of excuses for avoiding tedious social engagements. But he wanted to seize any chance to find out a little more about the Kavanaugh trustees.

  ‘You’ll have to check with Mrs Devlin first, of course,’ Inge said.

  ‘Well, no. My wife - she died three years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Inge paused. ‘Is there someone you’d like to invite along as well? A friend?’

  Harry thought about Kim’s reaction. A magic show at a Labour Club, fine. But a posh evening with people whom she would dislike on sight would certainly put the kiss of death on their relationship. If it wasn’t dead already. ‘Actually, there isn’t...’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Matthew said heartily. He fished in his wallet for a business card and scribbled on the back of it. ‘This is where we live. Say eight o’clock?’

  Harry cringed inwardly but managed to force a smile. ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ he said.

  The couple waved and were gone. And when he glanced back across the street, Davey Damnation too had disappeared.

  Stephanie Hall was waiting in reception when he arrived back at New Commodities House. On the way, he had resolved to put Davey out of his mind, telling himself it was crazy to think that the pavement preacher could be capable of murder. Stephanie’s shoulders were hunched and although she had a magazine in her lap, she was ignoring it. Harry could sympathise with that: the dog-eared copies of Which New Multimedia System? that Jim had left lying around hardly made compelling reading.