The Devil in Disguise

by Martin Edwards

  She gave him a searching look. ‘So he’s been sharing his pet theory with you?’

  ‘I understand you’re not convinced.’

  She shook her head. ‘Ashley’s getting carried away. He does that. Every so often, he gets a wild idea into his head and nothing can shift it. Like marrying me, for instance.’

  ‘He once told me it was the best thing he ever did in his life.’

  ‘He’s kinder than I deserve. No-one could accuse him of marrying me just for my money. The last ten years can’t have been a picnic. I’m not easy to live with, Harry. I’ve spent more hours in therapy than you’ve had hot dinners, but still I have days when I find life is simply - too much. Perhaps I had that in common with Luke.’

  ‘How close were you to Luke?’

  ‘We knew each other for years, yet we never talked intimately. But I always sensed that somehow he was - dissatisfied with life. He was lonely. Which is why he liked to spend so much time with us. Ashley wasn’t a blood relative, but he was the closest to family that Luke had.’

  ‘So you’re not surprised by the idea that Luke might have committed suicide?’

  ‘I could understand it. He was in his fifties, a widower.’ She sighed. ‘When I told myself that life must go on, I was barely twenty-one, still with everything to look forward to. Very different. Besides, in a strange kind of way, perhaps something good did come out of my father’s death. Daddy took the view that no young man would ever be good enough for his only daughter. Ashley is a dear, but he would never have been Daddy’s cup of tea. He’s never been a go-getter, never will be. But as soon as I phoned him with the news that Daddy had been killed, he rushed back from France. He’d been out there back-packing. We’ve been together ever since. Whenever I think I’m going to scream if I hear one more word about clues and red herrings, I remember that. He was a tower of strength when I needed one.’ She mustered a smile. ‘So perhaps we won’t go ahead with the exchange of murders plan, after all.’

  Harry looked across to Ashley. He was sealing up a parcel which contained an ancient and dust-jacketed copy of The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club. Its cost to the purchaser was fifty times that of an immaculate modern reprint, but collectors prized scarcity over substance. Harry shook his head. Not all the mysteries of crime fiction were to be found between book covers.

  When her husband had bidden farewell to the collector and ambled over to join them, Melissa said, ‘Harry knows Juliet May.’

  ‘I understand she is a regular here,’ Harry said.

  ‘One of my best customers. She loves mysteries, buys them by the carload. As a matter of fact, she often calls in around this time on a Saturday.’

  ‘Matthew Cullinan introduced them,’ Melissa said. ‘Harry dined at Matthew’s last night.’

  Ashley’s eyebrows rose. ‘Rubbing shoulders with the aristocracy, eh?’

  ‘After sampling Inge’s cooking at the Piquet Club, I felt the invitation was an offer I simply couldn’t refuse. Though I should have gone easier on the champagne. My head’s still buzzing.’

  Melissa slipped off the table. ‘I must go. Keys please, darling.’ As she held out her hand, she said to Harry, ‘My car’s in dock until Monday. I only popped in to borrow the Lexus. And see what happens? I end up kicking my heels for half an hour whilst he prattles on about Dorothy L. But I enjoyed our chat. See you.’

  Ashley blew a kiss at her departing back. ‘Can’t be easy, being married to a crime book-seller. Did I tell you I’d picked up a collection of first editions by Freeman Wills Crofts? He’s one of my all-time favourites. Not exactly Tolstoy, but it’s still sad that his work is so neglected today. Anyway, tell me about your dinner. Did you happen to touch on - the matters we spoke about the other day?’

  ‘Matthew and I did have a word about the Trust.’ Harry paused. He was conscious that he acted for the Trust and for Roy Milburn as an individual, as well as for Ashley. His instinct was always to interpret freely the professional rules on conflicts of interests if it seemed right to do so. Nevertheless, he would have to tread carefully. ‘Matthew did mention that he was concerned about the state of the Trust’s finances. He’d even raised the matter with Luke.’

  ‘What exactly was the problem?’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘Sorry, I’m being too inquisitive. But it’s not just idle curiosity on my part. If there is anything connected with Luke’s death that needs to be exposed, I hope you will be prepared to... Hello! Were your ears burning a few minutes ago?’

  Ashley’s last remark was addressed to Juliet May, who had appeared in the doorway laden with bags. But Saturday shopping did not seem to have ruffled her; evidently her head for champagne was better than Harry’s.

  ‘Hi, you two. Harry - we must stop meeting like this. And why should my ears have been burning, Ashley?’

  ‘I gather you both dined with Matthew and Inge last night.’

  ‘A thoroughly enjoyable evening.’ She gave Harry a cheeky grin. ‘Don’t you agree?’

  He felt himself blushing. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

  ‘You too. Ashley, have you had any luck with the Fredric Brown?’

  ‘It’s in the back room. The shipment from the States arrived yesterday and I haven’t finished unpacking it all yet. Hang on a couple of ticks and I’ll dig the book out.’

  As he disappeared from sight, Juliet said, ‘Small world, don’t you think?’

  Harry cleared his throat. ‘I have a confession to make.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Sounds interesting.’

  ‘I remembered you saying that you often called in here around the middle of Saturday. I’ve been killing time with Ashley and Melissa in the hope that you’d turn up.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘You see - I’ve been meaning to watch a rerun of Vertigo at the Philharmonic Picture Palace tonight. You mentioned last night that, with your husband being away, you were at a loose end at present, so I wondered...’

  She clapped her hands in delight. ‘How kind!’

  ‘Of course,’ he said hastily, ‘I realise you probably won’t be interested at all. And I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea. If you don’t...’

  ‘I promise,’ she said in a solemn tone, ‘I haven’t got the wrong idea. And I am interested. I love that film. Thank you.’

  Ashley returned, carrying a book in a protective plastic wrapper. ‘Here you are,’ he said to Juliet. ‘A first edition of The Screaming Mimi. Shall I put it on your account?’

  ‘Please.’ She turned to Harry and said, ‘Lovely to bump into you again.’

  ‘And you.’

  After she had gone, Ashley said, ‘Lovely woman.’

  ‘Yes.’ Harry had an uncomfortable sense that his face and mind were too easy to read. In his haste to change the subject, he found himself offering to buy rather more books than he had space for in his flat or time to read. All the same, it had been a worthwhile visit.

  ***

  Less than two hours later, he and Stephanie were together in his MG, taking the turn from the A55 that led to the centre of Colwyn Bay. It had begun to drizzle, reminding Harry of a wet holiday spent here with his parents when he was six or seven. He could remember sitting in his dad’s old Austin 1100, parked on the promenade, waiting for the next train to emerge from the tunnel in the cliff at the edge of the bay, since the old man had promised him an ice cream then if he hadn’t made a nuisance of himself in the meantime. The Costa del Sol it wasn’t, but he cherished the memories, all the same.

  On the way over here, he had been regaling Stephanie with tales of the unexpected from the life of a Liverpool lawyer. She was a good listener and his story about a matrimonial dispute over custody of the single set of false teeth possessed by a couple from Huyton had kept her entertained all the way from Connah’s Qu
ay. ‘Back to business,’ he said as they stopped at traffic lights. ‘Where do we go from here?’

  ‘Vera told Charles’s next-door neighbour that she used to live in a mansion just up the road from the Welsh Mountain Zoo. Look, there’s a sign to it.’

  They climbed the hill that overlooked the resort and the bay and soon found a group of large houses which might, allowing for a little poetic licence, have fitted the account that Vera had given of her time here. Stephanie started knocking on doors, with Harry at her side, spinning a yarn about a long-lost aunt whom they were looking up on the off-chance. It had enough of a ring of truth to prevent the doors being slammed in their faces.

  ‘You lie admirably,’ he said after they had drawn a blank for the third or fourth time.

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ she said. ‘Put it down to a vacation job I had before I went to uni. I worked in telesales.’

  ‘Ever considered employment in a legal aid office? Anyway, one thing is beginning to bother me. Suppose Vera lied too? She may simply have come here once on holiday.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘That’s the life of a private detective. Come on, let’s try this place before we start down the mean streets of Mochdre.’

  This time they struck lucky. Their call was answered by a sweet little grey-haired lady who proved to have both time on her hands and an axe to grind. Harry was impressed by the way in which Stephanie sensed at once the need to demonise the missing aunt and adjust her story accordingly. Her talent for telling a tall story would have been envied by any of his criminal clients.

  Within a few minutes they were ensconced in Amy Lewis’s sitting-room, taking tea and listening to the story of how, almost five years earlier, her path had crossed with that of Vera Blackhurst.

  ‘I used to play bridge with a man called Ieuwan Croft, see? He and his wife Blodwen had retired to that huge place you may have seen on the other side of the road. Tara, they called it.’

  Stephanie and Harry nodded. It was a miniature Versailles with a spectacular outlook; they had seen a Bentley and a sports car parked outside. Ieuwan Croft, they were told, had run one of the largest haulage firms in Wales until a mild stroke had prompted his retirement. He and his wife had become friendly with Amy Lewis and her husband and when Mrs Croft had died, Ieuwan had needed to advertise for a housekeeper.

  ‘And guess who answered?’ Amy Lewis demanded.

  ‘Not Auntie Vera?’ Stephanie cried, clapping a hand to her mouth. ‘My dear old mum always used to say that

  she would come to a bad end! She’d never have guessed

  that Auntie would have wound up keeping house for a millionaire.’

  ‘And not just keeping house either, if you ask me,’ Amy Lewis said darkly. Her own husband had died a matter of days before Mrs Croft, and Harry deduced that she had fancied herself as a suitable second wife for the wealthy Ieuwan. But Vera had been more than a match for her.

  ‘A brassy tart, if you ask me,’ Amy Lewis said. ‘Sorry, dear, I know she’s your auntie, but I have to speak as I find.’

  ‘No, no,’ Stephanie said. ‘My mum used to say exactly the same. Those very words, even. She had no time for Auntie Vera, that’s why I never tried to look her up whilst Mum was alive.’ She gave their hostess a trusting smile. ‘You know, it’s funny, you remind me a lot of dear old mum. Something about the eyes.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you, dear. Another fairy cake? Well, where was I? Oh yes, within a matter of weeks Ieuwan had given up playing bridge and was spending all his time out on the seafront, sitting arm in arm with her ladyship. I knew her game, all right. But there was nothing I could do.’

  Six months after Vera’s arrival in his life, Ieuwan Croft suffered another stroke and died. Natural causes, nothing suspicious about it, Amy Lewis grudgingly admitted. ‘And no prizes for guessing who he left most of his money to?’

  ‘Surely not Auntie Vera?’ Stephanie cried. She was living the part. Harry was in serious danger of collapsing into hysterics. ‘No wonder she never got in touch again!’

  ‘Was there no other family?’ he asked, trying to suppress his amusement.

  ‘No children, but plenty of cousins, nephews and nieces who had no liking for that Vera Blackhurst. Ieuwan had made the will only a couple of months before he died. They tried to challenge it, but their solicitors advised them their case wasn’t strong enough to take to court.’

  In the end, a deal had been done. Vera had not hung out for every last penny; indeed, she had offered a compromise which seemed so generous that the family had bitten her hand off. But she’d still walked away with a small fortune.

  Amy Lewis’s little blue eyes gleamed with bitterness. ‘Not a bad investment for six months of her life, I’d say.’

  Harry nodded. He was trying hard to contain his good humour. He could not wait until he got the chance to tell Geoffrey Willatt all about his lady love’s profitable past.

  Chapter 14

  Vertigo was a film in which he found something new each time he saw it. It often troubled him that he was so fascinated by a film about infatuation with a dead woman: it was dangerous to see parallels between life and art. Liz, like Hitchcock’s Madeleine, was dead and beyond recall. He would never forget his wife or the passion he had for her, but he knew that she belonged to the past. Melissa Whitaker was right: life must go on. And yet, he realised, as he parked near the Philharmonic Picture Palace, he had failed to find anyone who had begun to make him feel the way he had about Liz. There had been a brief affair with an older woman who lived at the Empire Dock, a local barrister and then the uncertainties of his relationship with Kim. He cared for Kim, cared for her a good deal, but it was not the same. Perhaps he’d needed to spend time with a woman quite different from his dead wife. But the truth, he was beginning to recognise, was that caring a good deal was not enough. He needed to experience again the hot desire he had only ever known with one woman. If it was possible to experience it again.

  So why had he fixed up a date with a married woman? It didn’t make sense. Adultery had wrecked his own marriage and he told himself that he had no intention of wrecking anyone else’s. He had seen too many clients make that mistake. Besides, Casper May was not a man to cross. So he must behave himself and make the most of her company while he had it. Talk about murder mysteries past and present. And perhaps try to guess the answer to the trickiest riddle of all: what was a woman like Juliet doing married to Casper May?

  He could see her waiting for him on the steps that led to the cinema. Her auburn hair was in a shaggy perm that spilled on to the shoulders of her black jacket. She was leaning back against the wall with her arms folded and smiling as if she owned the place. At once he cast all other thoughts aside and remembered his reason for inviting her out tonight. She made him feel good: it was as simple as that.

  ‘Am I late?’ he asked guiltily.

  ‘No. I’m early. I’ve been looking forward to this, even though I’ve seen the film once before. How about you?’

  ‘I must have watched it half a dozen times. It fascinates me.’

  She looked at him intently. ‘I have the impression you don’t do things by halves.’

  ‘Jim reckons that’s one of my weaknesses.’

  ‘He’s wrong. If you care about something, you should give it all you’ve got. No holding back.’

  With a grin, he took her arm and led her inside. The Picture Palace had been open only a couple of years, but the owner had faithfully recreated the ambience of an old-time cinema, with faded plush seats and even an organ that rose from beneath the floor to play a few tunes before giving way to the dark rhythms of Bernard Herrmann once the main show began. He always found the film engrossing, could not help becoming absorbed in James Stewart’s obsession with the mysterious blonde. But tonight for once he found his attention wandering. When at last he succumbed to tempt
ation and moved his leg experimentally against hers, he was rewarded by an answering pressure. Later, she leaned her head on his shoulder and when, an hour into the picture, he dared to stretch an arm around her shoulder, she did not try to edge away. He felt her permed curls brush lightly against his cheek and closed his eyes, inhaling her perfume, wondering what it would be like to take her home for the night.

  It was over too soon and as they emerged into the chilly night air she smiled at him and said, ‘Thank you. I enjoyed that.’

  ‘Can I offer you a drink?’

  She shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I ought to be getting back.’

  ‘Surely you have time for...’

  ‘No, I’d love to. But it wouldn’t be a good idea. I need to be up early tomorrow morning. I have to drive to Manchester Airport to meet my husband.’

  The brush-off? He scanned her face, desperate to find a clue to her thoughts. ‘Perhaps some other time?’

  ‘I do hope so, Harry.’ She bent towards him and kissed him chastely on the cheek. ‘Thank you so much for asking me to come with you. I’ve had a lovely evening. And I do hope we’ll see each other again before too long.’

  ‘I’m bound to need your help with my first press release.’

  ‘If you do, give me a call.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But even if you don’t, perhaps you’ll give me a call anyway?’

  And then she was gone. He watched her thread through the crowd, raising an arm to hail a passing taxi. Not until the taxi had disappeared did he move. By then he knew that he needed to see her again. Like a junkie craves the needle, he already yearned for another fix of her company.

  When Kim rang him the next morning, he could tell straight away that she had made her decision. The careful tone of her suggestion that he come round for a meal that evening told him that the news was bad.

  ‘I thought - we could talk,’ she said.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Would seven o’clock suit you?’