Valerie gave David the thumbs-up sign and gestured to Harry to deposit the papers he was carrying on the floor by the main desk. The clerk hung up and flipped the sweet into his mouth with a casual flourish.
“Not an easy man to please, Mr Fingall. So - another success, Miss Kaiwar?”
She smiled, the first unstrained expression Harry had seen from her that afternoon. “The legal aid fund had value for money, I think. And haven’t I warned you those wretched peppermints will rot your teeth? Anything new come in?”
“A County Court claim in Runcorn.” David Base was still in his twenties, but his manner was as discreet as that of a veteran civil servant. Nevertheless, his thoughtful face yielded a hint of sympathy. “A matter concerning a soiled carpet.”
“Marshall Hall never had to put up with this.”
“The case has more twists than a Berber,” the clerk assured her solemnly. “And you never know, it might lead on to greater things.”
“A dispute over an Axminster, you mean?”
The three of them laughed. Harry regarded most barristers’ clerks as the professional equivalent of used car salesmen, flogging the services of clapped-out Rumpoles with mendacious protestations of faith in their performance. But he felt in David Base’s debt.
A few weeks earlier, Crusoe and Devlin had sent a brief on a Crown Court trial to one of the middle-ranking barristers in chambers, only to be told at the last minute that the chosen advocate was unavailable because one of his cases had overrun. David had offered as a substitute a young woman new in chambers called Valerie Kaiwar. Accustomed to last minute let-downs, Harry had feared the worst. Usually some wet-behind-the-ears kid would foul up a winnable case, earning experience at the luckless client’s expense. To Harry’s amazement, Valerie not only mastered the papers overnight, but also achieved an acquittal, to the chagrin of the prosecutor presenting the case against the light-fingered accused.
Afterwards, Harry had chatted with her over coffee. She talked animatedly, using her hands to emphasise the points she made. Justice, integrity and principles were words she often used, though sometimes with a cutting irony. Her pride in her performance and her instinctive sympathy for the underdog were worthy enough. But what entranced Harry was the passion invested in everything she did or said, from her mimicry of her opponent’s lacklustre closing speech to the way her eyes shone with pleasure when he complimented her on a job well done. Unlike the second-rate advocates whom he encountered day after day, trudging round the courts like sleepwalkers, she was not simply in it for money or security, but because what mattered most to her was fighting for a cause.
At first sight they had nothing in common. She came from a wealthy background; her old man was a Ugandan Asian who had been kicked out by Idi Amin only to settle in the North West of England and make a fortune by building up a chain of cut-price supermarkets. She had read law at Somerville and learned the art of public speaking by arguing for radical motions before chinless sceptics at the Oxford Union. Harry had been born in Liverpool’s bandit country, within spitting distance of Scotland Road. He’d lost his parents in his teens and Liz through murder after a short failed marriage. Yet at least he and Valerie shared a questioning mind. To say nothing of an addiction to film noir.
One thing led to another. Dinner at the Ensenada, an afternoon spent wandering around the Maritime Museum. Neither of them wanted to push the relationship too fast, too soon. They had kissed long and hard a couple of nights back after watching the original version of D.O.A. at a city film club, but that was all. So far.
“Hello, Valerie. Triumphed again?”
Julian Hamer had emerged from his room. Harry could forgive the barrister’s Charles Dance looks and Charterhouse and Cambridge charm, because Hamer never posed or patronised. With his easy manner and sharp mind he was a difficult man to dislike. But not impossible, for he fancied Valerie. Harry felt sure of that: something in the way Hamer spoke to her stretched beyond an established man’s courtesy to a colleague a dozen years younger.
“Another fine result, Mr. Hamer,” confirmed David Base.
“Did she make old Kermincham wake up, Harry? Poor old devil, he’s been on the bench so long I’m surprised he hasn’t got piles. Tell us about it, Valerie.”
The warmth of her smile made Harry itch with irritation.
“Some other time, perhaps. Right now I have a case to get up.”
Hamer nodded. He seemed tired for once: lines of fatigue edged the corners of his eyes. Starting to look his age, Harry thought with a stab of malice. In days gone by - and especially in the midst of tedious trials - he’d wondered idly about Hamer’s sexual preferences. For someone so smooth to escape marriage for so long must say as much about his instincts as his luck. But now Harry was gloomily convinced that his rival was a bachelor, gay only in the most traditional sense.
“First things first. See you later then.”
“Sure.”
Did they exchange a glance of complicity? Whenever he saw Valerie in Hamer’s presence Harry had the sense of a secret shared, from which he was excluded. He told himself not to be paranoid.
Valerie set off down the passageway. Feeling awkward, Harry followed. He wanted to talk to her alone, but realised that now was not a good time. Perhaps tonight would be better, when she had shaken off the courtroom blues.
She occupied a corner of the building more akin to a cupboard than a room. The shelf running along the rear wall overhung the chair behind her desk. A taller woman would have cracked her head if she rose to her feet without ducking.
He cleared his throat, embarrassed by his own nervousness. “I was wondering - would you like to come round to the flat tonight?”
She considered him from under long black lashes.
“I can’t make it tonight, Harry. Sorry. But - I’ve got things to do. You know how it is.”
Although spoken kindly, the words slapped him. He realised how much he’d been counting on her saying yes. He told himself he didn’t own her, and there would be other nights, but he felt a boy’s frustration at the denial of a longed-for treat.
“Okay.”
Something in his tone prompted her to stretch a hand across the desk and touch his fingers. “Maybe tomorrow, how about that?”
He tried to look don’t-careish. “Shall I give you a call?”
“Please.”
There was a short pause. He wasn’t certain whether she intended to say anything else. Finally he stood up. “All right then, Val. I’ll leave you to your carpet.”
“Thanks so much for coming back with me.”
“The pleasure was mine.”
On the way out, he stopped again at David’s desk and asked if he could use the phone.
“Feel free.” The clerk flicked a peppermint into the air with elaborate top-spin and caught it nonchalantly between two fingers. “If only England’s wicket-keeper could do the same, eh? Heard the news about the Test team, by any chance?”
Harry shook his head. “When England plays the West Indies, ignorance is bliss.”
He dialled Stirrup’s direct line. Propped next to the handset was a framed photograph of a pretty blonde girl. David’s fiancée, Valerie had explained the other day. Harry thought again about The Beast, who threatened the safety of so many girls like her. When would the man be caught?
“Jack? I’ve checked and the diary’s clear. If the offer’s still open, I’d be glad to see you this evening after all.”
Stirrup was hearty. “I’ll ring young Claire, tell her to put the oven on, roll out the red carpet. You’ve not seen the new place yet, have you? Just make sure the charging meter’s switched off before you arrive, all right?”
“I’ll see you at half-eight.”
He put down the receiver. “Good win for Valerie today,” he said to the clerk. Something prompted him to add, “Especially picking up the brief at the last minute.”
David Base glanced up from his paperwork. “Today’s case? The stabbing? No, you must b
e thinking of something else. Windaybanks instructed her a long time ago. Mr. Pike admires Miss Kaiwar as much as you do.”
“My mistake.”
But as Harry went down the stairs he knew he had not misunderstood. Yesterday, when turning down his offer of a visit to the Everyman, Valerie had said she’d been landed with a new brief for a case today. She’d even thrown in a moan about Quentin Pike’s lack of consideration; she would have to sacrifice her evening to mug up all the facts. He felt sickened by the silly little lie. Sicker still that he could guess the reason for it.
Chapter Four
Driving through the boulevards of West Kirby on the way to Jack Stirrup’s home, Harry wondered if Valerie was at that very moment with Julian Hamer. See you later. Hamer’s casual farewell to her must have been literally meant. Since Liz’s death, Harry had lived without jealousy and it was a shock to recognise envy nibbling like a rat at his guts.
Maybe he was doing Valerie an injustice. Starting out on her career, she was bound to be busy some nights. And if she were seeing Hamer, what of it? As professional colleagues they might have a dozen good reasons to socialise from time to time. But that argument held no more water than a recidivist’s alibi.
Harry bit his lip. No point in agonizing - life was too short. Better by far to do something positive to occupy his mind. Such as puzzling over Alison Stirrup’s disappearance.
Stirrup lived in affluent Caldy, at the end of a lane which petered out into an unmade track leading to the crest of a sandstone hill overlooking the Dee. Harry approached the house by way of a drive which wound through beech and lime trees, finally revealing after the last bend a large redbrick building with a much-gabled roof and a mass of small, irregularly-placed mullioned windows. Prospect House dated back to the eighteenth century and according to Jim Crusoe, who had handled the conveyancing, so did the plumbing. Outside the front door, a tarpaulined builder’s lorry and a skip full of rubble signified that the repair programme still had a long way to go.
As Harry locked his car Stirrup appeared at the front door, two glasses of beer in his hands. His short-sleeved designer leisure shirt did not flatter his paunch.
“Glad you could make it. Here, quench your thirst. Care for a quick trip round the estate?”
He led Harry along a path of crazy paving which rambled around the side of the house. The overgrown gardens extended for acre after acre. Rhododendron bushes loomed on either side, blocking out the low evening sun. Brambles poked at the two men with tendrils like the fingers of menacing strangers. They walked past an empty greenhouse with cracked and cobwebbed panes and a tumbledown stable block. Even the estate agents’ particulars had described the place as a challenge.
Harry guessed that the most diplomatic course was to admire the view. Doing so was no hardship: a heat haze shimmered over the river, making the grey-green Welsh hills beyond seem remote and mysterious. Stirrup enthused about the sunsets in this part of the world, then apologised for the state of the grounds.
“Can’t find a gardener, believe it or not. You’d think people would be glad of a job. Anyway, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Thought I’d concentrate on the house first. Christ, I knew it was a big job when I started, but if I’d realised…”
He launched into a jeremiad about the tribulations of modernising an old property. The expense, the defects not revealed even by an expensive survey, the delays, the inadequacies of tradesmen. Harry speculated that Alison might simply have grown tired of the inconvenience of living in an approximation to a builder’s yard.
When they went inside, the progress made became apparent. The entrance hall boasted polished walnut wainscoting, a low ceiling with exposed beams and half-timbering in the old Cheshire style. All it lacked was a life-size portrait of the lord of the manor.
“Woodworm treatment alone cost me a bloody fortune,” grumbled Stirrup, although there was a note of pride in his voice.
Harry was making all the right noises when a door banged and a girl appeared. She glanced theatrically at her watch.
“You’d better be sitting down in the next two minutes.”
“Hello, Claire,” said Harry. “Sorry we’re late, your dad’s been showing me round outside.”
Stirrup’s daughter was the child of his first marriage. Her mother had died in a car crash when the girl was still at infants’ school. Her figure had filled out since Harry had last seen her. A tight jersey and narrow-waisted jeans did nothing to disguise curves which, for a fifteen-year-old, were generous. A year or two ago she had been a quiet daddy’s girl, a flat-chested, androgynous kid with the abstracted appearance of someone who has spent too long listening to a personal stereo. Round-framed spectacles had been abandoned in favour of contact lenses and she had grown her black hair to shoulder length. Her nose was too big, and her jaw too long, for her to claim prettiness, but she was now unmistakably a young woman. She even had the sulky look which in Harry’s teenage memories was inseparably associated with girls who had just become aware of their power to appeal to men.
“You remember Mr. Devlin?” asked Stirrup, all paternal good humour.
“Yeah.” She turned her back on them. “I’m putting the stuff out on the table this minute, okay?”
Stirrup winked at Harry, who had never fathomed why so many parents regard their offsprings’ rudeness as a source of amusement. They went into the dining room, a large oak-panelled place. The round table was set for two.
“Claire ate earlier on,” explained Stirrup. “Busy young lady, you know, she wanted the rest of the evening to herself.”
As the girl served them with melon, Harry recalled that her father had told him that she had her heart set on a career in catering. He asked if that was still the case and she nodded curtly before withdrawing, leaving Harry to reflect that he found it no easier to converse with fifteen-year-old girls than he had done when he was the same age.
Over the meal - beef cooked in wine, simple but excellent - Stirrup talked about his company, interrupting himself only to shove forkfuls of food into his mouth. Loudly he bemoaned the iniquities of the tax system, the greed of customers and the unreliability of suppliers. And above all, the difficulty of finding competent staff.
“What’s the latest on Trevor?” asked Harry, pouring the last of the wine.
“Morgan? Christ knows. No one’s asked me for a reference. Last time I asked around, he was drinking more than ever. The man’s a fool to himself.”
Harry put the wine bottle down guiltily. “Pity,” he said. “You and he were close at one time.”
“Close?” Stirrup leaned over the table and snapped his fingers. “We were like that, Trevor Morgan and me, ever since the days when I had one off-licence and a scratty little wine bar in Wrexham called The Stirrup Cup. Claire was just a toddler then, it was in the days when Margaret was still alive. He and I have been together ever since. If he could have kept his hands off the female staff, he’d be with me now. But he went too far.”
“How did Cathy take his sacking?”
“No idea. Never seen her from that day to this. Tell you the truth, I could never stick the woman. Hard-nosed bitch. She gave Trev a hard time, no wonder he played away from home. Ali got on with her all right, reckoned she was cultured. But once I’d given Cathy’s old man the push, that was the end of it. The girls could scarcely keep on socialising.”
Claire came in, bearing mints and cups of coffee. Harry congratulated her on the meal and received a shrug in response. Stirrup said genially, “She still fancies going to catering college. Sometimes I worry I’ve bred a female Bryan Grealish, God help us. I keep telling her to go to university, take a degree in law. Make yourself a fortune like that feller Devlin, I keep on saying.”
As he bellowed with laughter, his daughter looked briefly at the heavens and went out again.
“I didn’t go to university,” said Harry mildly. The Polytechnic had been good enough for him. Studying in his spare time while he took a succession of casual jobs to keep h
is head above water. After the death of his parents, money had always been tight.
“What? Well, you know what I mean. No way will a solicitor ever starve. Not while…”
He was interrupted by the roar of a motorbike engine coming close to the house before cutting out. A look of anger darkened his face for a moment, then was gone. Harry heard footsteps: Claire hurrying to the back door.
Lowering his voice, Stirrup said, “That’ll be lover boy. Sly little creep.”
“Claire’s young man?”
Stirrup made a noise, part belch, part expression of disgust. “Not so young. Twenty years old, would you believe? Claire’s only a kid yet. Oh, yes, I know she’s got a figure. And she can cope with any lad who tries to go too far. She’s got a yellow belt in karate, would you believe. All right, things are different from when you and me were young. All the same, I don’t like it. A cradle snatcher, that’s what he is.”
Harry didn’t think a five-year age gap put the lad in Bryan Grealish’s class as a cradle snatcher. Nor was he thrilled to be bracketed with Stirrup in age.
“Don’t get me wrong, Harry boy. I’m no Mister Bloody Barrett of Wimpole Street. I know a thing or two about the younger generation, how they behave. Forbidden fruit and all that. My girl’s no angel, she’s flesh and blood. I haven’t asked her not to keep seeing him. That’s the mistake my first wife’s old man made with me. Margaret and me, we simply ran off and got married. No, matter of fact, I encourage her to bring him into the house. Let her see him in surroundings she knows, not some back street pub or disco. That way she’ll realise soonest he isn’t for her.”
“What does the lad do?”
“Not a bloody hand’s turn! That is, he’s a student. Studying law, would you believe? At the Poly though, not a proper university.”
Words failed Harry this time, but his host was unaware of it. Stirrup wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up, gazing through the dining room window. After a moment he strode from the room. Harry could hear him shouting to Claire, urging her to invite her friend inside. The reply sounded mutinous, but within a couple of minutes Stirrup was back, wearing the complacent expression of a man who has scored a point.
Suspicious Minds (Harry Devlin) Page 3
