Suspicious Minds (Harry Devlin)

by Edwards, Martin

  She stalked off, head held proudly in the air. Harry groaned inwardly. Her emotion might be actressy but her logic was hard to fault. Why should Alison have walked out on her marriage without even seeking to cash in on a divorce? It didn’t make sense. Unlike the suggestion that she was dead. And if she was dead, was it suicide, accident or murder?

  “Hello again.” It was Francesca, speaking huskily in his ear. He turned and noticed that she was a little unsteady on her feet. Perhaps that tray of wine had proved too tempting.

  “Guess what?” she asked. “My boyfriend isn’t picking me up this evening after all.”

  She gave Harry what was, he guessed, intended to be a meaningful look, but the effect was spoiled by the tipsy vagueness in her eyes and the way she slurred her words.

  “Men are bastards,” he said. “Ask your boss if you don’t believe me. Anyway, I must be off now. Otherwise I’d offer you a lift home myself. Have a good evening, anyway. See you tomorrow.”

  Before she could reply, he had left the room. Her clumsy overture had reminded him that he had forgotten to make arrangements to see Valerie. He hurried to the payphone in the lobby and dialled her number.

  Nothing but the ringing tone. He hung on for five full minutes until the impatient coughing of an elderly man whose frown would have intimidated Churchill forced him to admit defeat. Where was Valerie? He told himself not to speculate. All he could hope was that, like himself, she would be spending the night alone.

  Chapter Seven

  “Julian Hamer?” At the other end of the telephone line, Stirrup spoke the barrister’s name slowly. Measuring it, testing it for weight. “Good, is he?”

  “Recommended,” said Harry tightly. As the sun streamed in through the small window of his office, his mind was clouded by a sudden vision of a well-manicured white hand caressing a honey-coloured cheek. He’d not been able to smother his fear that Hamer had spent last night with Valerie.

  “Fine. I’m bringing Claire along this afternoon. She can tell the barrister how the letter upset her.”

  “No need for that, Jack.”

  “Who’s paying for this meeting, this - what d’you call it? - conference? She’s coming and that’s final. The experience will do her good. Give her an idea of life in the legal profession. She’d make a first-rate lawyer, Harry boy. God knows, she can be argumentative enough.”

  “Sure you want to go through with this? Suing Doreen isn’t going to get Alison back.”

  “What else can I do? ‘Specially now you’ve told me she’s the one telling the police I’ve done away with her precious only daughter. Strikes me, everyone’s so busy calling me a murderer, nobody’s bothering to find where Alison’s run off to.”

  You didn’t seem so bothered yourself, at first, Harry thought. Aloud, he said, “Easier said than done.”

  “I’ve been thinking. What if I hired someone to try and track her down?”

  “You mean a private detective?”

  “Right. The police are no use. They wouldn’t be bloody bothered if Doreen hadn’t made herself such a pain in the arse. Now they’re more interested in harassing me than finding Ali.”

  “The Salvation Army sometimes…”

  “No, I want my own man. Someone who only answers to me. Any ideas?”

  “There’s a feller I use sometimes. Ex-police. He’s the one who found out Doreen was stirring it with the police. Miserable as sin, mind you.”

  “I want a private eye, not a bloody court jester. Get him to call me.”

  After putting the phone down, Harry considered Jack’s initiative. Even now he seemed more concerned to get Bolus and Doreen off his back than to re-build his marriage. Hiring someone to trace Alison looked like the act of an innocent man. Or might it be a double bluff, a calculated gamble taken on the assumption that the detective would not chance upon the truth?

  He had a case before the Dale Street bench that morning. A plea of guilty to handling a dodgy video recorder. Harry was in the corridor outside the courtrooms, half-listening to his client’s implausible story about buying the VCR in a pub from a man whom he had never met before or since, when he spotted in the crowd a familiar head of tousled black hair, bobbing towards the exit.

  “Back in a minute.”

  Harry was lost in the crush of people before his receiver of stolen goods could reply. Battling his way through, he managed to stretch out an arm and tap his quarry on the shoulder.

  Trevor Morgan turned and stared. His eyes seemed to take a minute to focus. Even in his prime, he’d been no Adonis. He had a rugby player’s solid build and his years in the Aberavon front row had left him with a nose so misshapen it was a wonder he could breathe. He used to claim he’d broken it as often as the Seventh Commandment. But by any standards, this morning he was looking rough. On his left cheek a scratch was barely covered by a cheap sticking plaster that had traces of dirt around its edges. The whiff of stale beer on his breath was enough to make anyone take the pledge.

  “Harry. All right?” The words were slurred. No stranger himself to hangovers, Harry realised he was in the presence of a classic of its kind.

  “Okay. I won’t ask if you are.”

  “Thanks, pal.” Morgan pushed a hand through his hair, screwing up his eyes as if in pain. “Jesus, I need sleep. Not this bloody farce.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Bit of trouble with the law. Disorderly conduct on Lime Street station last night, so they tell me. Argument with a porter. Can’t remember the details, think I got into this drinking contest in The Legs of Man and simply wanted to sleep it off on one of his bloody platforms. Not much to ask, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Are you working yet?”

  “That a joke? Who wants to employ a guy of forty-five who’s been turfed on to the street without even a reference? I wouldn’t be here now if not for Jack Stirrup.”

  “You didn’t give him any choice.”

  Trevor Morgan’s career as Operations Director for Stirrup Wines had been punctuated by episodes of sexual misconduct with members of staff. In better times his macho manner and Welshman’s way with words had been a passport to endless affairs with women who worked in the branches. Stories were legion of off-licences throughout the North West displaying the CLOSED EARLY DUE TO STAFF SHORTAGES sign when Trevor and the manageress could be found in bed together in her flat upstairs. If only he’d been content with that, Stirrup would have kept turning a blind eye.

  But easy affairs hadn’t been enough. From time to time Trevor Morgan’s fancy was taken by a new assistant or manageress who remained immune to his charms. Stories reached Stirrup that if cajolery failed, Trevor would threaten the lady with the consequences if she did not come across. Stock deficits might be discovered, disciplinary warning notices issued. The company lost three or four female members of staff suddenly and inexplicably. Before long Stirrup had been forced to admit to Harry that there was no smoke without fire.

  Stirrup’s solution was to take Trevor on one side and tell him to reserve his attentions for those who welcomed a fling with the boss’s right hand man. For a time all was quiet until an incident in the stock room of a branch in West Wirral. What actually happened, no one would ever know. A young assistant claimed that Trevor had tried to rape her. He said she’d welcomed his advances. The police were called, although in the end charges weren’t pressed. The Equal Opportunities Commission started breathing fire and brimstone and the girl claimed a small fortune in compensation from the company. For once Stirrup accepted Harry’s advice that discretion in the law was the better part of valour and settled out of court. The only outlet for his temper was to sack Trevor Morgan.

  Morgan said now, “He didn’t have to take that little bitch’s word rather than mine.”

  “Christ, Trevor! Let’s not go over old ground. After all, he was willing to pay you off.”

  Realising how hard Morgan would find it to get another job, Harry had persuaded his client to offer six months’ pay in
a severance deal. But Trevor had prepared for his dismissal interview with the aid of a bottle of whisky and when Stirrup had told him of the loss of his job, he’d grabbed his boss by the tie. Within seconds they were wrestling. A couple of Stirrup’s teeth had been loosened; Morgan finished up with a smashed cheekbone. After that the opportunity for constructive industrial relations had been lost. The money hadn’t been paid and as far as Harry knew the men had not been in contact since.

  Trevor Morgan was about to respond fiercely, but something restrained him. He looked first at Harry, then at the floor.

  After a moment he said, “Wish I’d taken the money now.”

  “Things must be difficult for you.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  “How’s Cathy taken it?”

  Morgan avoided Harry’s gaze. “You know what bloody women are like.”

  Harry wasn’t sure he did. More particularly, he didn’t know what Cathy Morgan was like. He’d only met her once, at a dinner party thrown by the Stirrups before their move to Prospect House. Strong, steely-eyed and sarcastic, she delighted in cutting her husband down to size in front of others. Harry had assumed it was her revenge for numberless infidelities, a kind of marital quid pro quo.

  “Want me to have a word with Jack?”

  “No point.”

  “Take a look in the mirror, Trevor. You can’t carry on this. You’ll kill yourself.”

  “No great loss, Harry.”

  “For God’s sake, you need to pull yourself together. Give Ossie Fowler a ring. He’s a solicitor in the Albert Dock, if anyone can squeeze blood out of a stone, he can. Get him to write to Jack. I’d have to advise on the whys and wherefores, maybe some deal could be struck. It’s what Jack really wants, as well as you. But once he’s taken a decision, he’ll not change it without a little pressure.”

  Trevor Morgan rubbed his stubbly chin. “I won’t go to him cap in hand. I’ll have to think about it. You…”

  “Mr Devlin, you’re wanted.”

  The voice was low and insistent. Harry felt a bony hand grip his shoulder. He turned to look into the eyes of Ronald Sou, his court clerk.

  “Your case is on. The bench is ready.”

  “Okay, Ronald. Thanks.” Harry nodded at Morgan. “Must go. Accept the advice, won’t you? Free, gratis and for nothing - and I haven’t even asked you to sign a legal aid form.”

  He hurried into court and atoned for his lateness with a plea in mitigation (a sick wife and a brood of young kids, always handy) which probably shaved his larcenous client’s fine in half. When it was over he dropped his briefcase back at the office before dodging through the traffic on the Strand on his way towards the river.

  He felt a rare sense of self-satisfaction as he approached the front of the dock complex. Making his way from the Pump House to the waterfront, pint of beer in hand, was a stooped but sturdy figure. Even from a rear view, the cardigan was unmistakable.

  “Wondered if I might find you here,” Harry said as he caught the man up.

  Jonah Deegan didn’t reveal any surprise at being thus accosted. He sipped his beer and looked at the ships moored at the quayside.

  “Brought my cheque?”

  “Not even received your bill yet. Teach you to rely on second class post.”

  Jonah contrived a grumbling noise while sipping at his pint. “I don’t come here every day, you know.”

  “Never said you did, Jonah. But I know how you like looking at the old ships.”

  Jonah nodded and jerked a thumb towards a brigantine on the Canning Half Tide Dock. A horde of small boys was swarming over it, whooping with glee.

  “Don’t make ‘em like that any more. Though it’s a sad end. Proud vessel that sailed the seas. Become a bloody tourist attraction for kids who’ve never seen anything rougher than the Mersey from the side of a ferryboat.”

  “Did you prefer this place when it was derelict for all those years?”

  Jonah did not reply. After a while he said, “So you fancy yourself as a detective, eh? Tracking me down here. What d’you want?”

  Harry explained about the disappearance of Alison Stirrup. Jonah showed not a semblance of interest. Most of the time he kept his eyes on the ships.

  “Not my usual kind of thing,” he said when Harry had run out of breath.

  “Don’t play hard to get. The money’s good.”

  “So you’re not my client?”

  “Very witty. Of course, you’re acting for Stirrup. I’m just the messenger.”

  Jonah drained his glass. “Needed that. Get us another, will you? Have one yourself if you want.”

  He made no offer to pay but Harry went to The Pump House anyway. When he returned with two full glasses, Jonah wandered over to the walkway leading to the riverside.

  “Used to come here as a kid, you know. To watch the ships. More of ‘em in those days, of course. I used to think they were all off to America. Reckoned the States were just the other side of the horizon.”

  He took his beer without comment. “Did he kill her, d’you think?”

  “Stirrup?”

  “Who else? Does he want to look like an anxious husband? Hiring me when the trail’s gone cold?”

  “What more can he do? You work on the assumption he’s innocent till proven guilty.”

  “Said like a true lawyer.” A lifetime’s cynicism packed into five words.

  “So you’re turning the job down?”

  “Never said that. I’ll look for her.” The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Besides, you said yourself, Stirrup is loaded, don’t mind taking a few quid off him.”

  “Now who’s talking like a lawyer?”

  Chapter Eight

  Harry arrived at Balliol Chambers on the stroke of four to find Stirrup and Claire already in the waiting room. His client sprang to his feet, breezy and confident, a typical litigant at square one, as yet unconcerned by the law’s uncertainties and delays. The girl looked preoccupied and didn’t respond to Harry’s hello.

  “All set, Harry? Ready when you are. The - what d’you call him? - clerk was here a minute ago. He said this Mr. Hamer would like a word with you first.”

  Julian’s door was ajar. As Harry walked in, the barrister came from behind his desk to shake hands.

  “Good to see you.” His smile lacked humour. “Especially as you seem to have a client with money to burn.”

  “If only there were more of them.”

  “Yes, yes. But this letter - really, he’s a fool if he doesn’t simply write it off to experience. You weren’t born yesterday. You know that as well as I do.”

  Hamer’s testiness surprised Harry. Usually he was as urbane as a hereditary peer. Today shadows lurked under his eyes, as if he were short of sleep. What were you up to last night? Harry hoped he didn’t know the answer.

  “How will he take being advised to forget the whole thing?”

  “Badly, Julian. He’s after blood.”

  “For Heaven’s sake! He’s more than likely killed his wife and got away with it. Does he want to bump off his motherin-law too? And his daughter’s here, I’m told. Really, Harry, you should have spared me the child.”

  “Waste of time, I agree. But Jack insisted. He has ideas about her studying for the Bar.”

  At least she’s got the basic attribute, a touch of the prima donna, he might have added. But didn’t.

  “Very well. Wheel them in.”

  As Harry made the introductions, he saw Stirrup absorb with approval the mahogany furnishings, the instructions to Counsel tied with pink ribbon which were piled high everywhere, the bookcases filled with calfskin-bound law reports and a complete set of Halsbury’s Statutes. Claire confined her greeting to an adolescent mumble.

  Denise, David Base’s deputy clerk, came in bearing a tray of tea in a silver pot and dainty china cups. Stirrup beamed. Value for money, his expression said, civilised behaviour in the finest tradition of the English legal system. Julian rather spoiled the moment by letting h
is cup slip from his hand, spilling its contents on to the carpet. A moment of clumsiness out of keeping with his customary elegance of word and deed. But Denise mopped up and order was restored.

  When at last Hamer spoke he had switched to his courtroom manner. Each syllable had a resonance that even Harry found compelling.

  “I must congratulate you, Mr. Stirrup.” A sentence of imprisonment might have been pronounced with less gravity.

  “I don’t follow.”

  Hamer indicated the slim bundle of papers which Harry had sent round to him. His expression of judicial solemnity matched his tone. “I have read the letter. In my view, it contains a plain libel. I take it for granted that in your daughter’s eyes your reputation is excellent and this Mrs….” - he cleared his throat before enunciating the name with as much distaste as an old maid might describe a crude bodily function - “… Capstick, has certainly done her best to tarnish it. Yet it takes a man of some courage to pursue an action of this kind in your - ah, present circumstances. A man, as well, with a deep pocket, for in the case of a libel published to a single party, your daughter here, your damages will be small and the cost great. Not merely cost in terms of legal fees, although those will be heavy - even, I should emphasise, if your claim ultimately succeeds. But there are other costs in litigation and…”

  “What other costs?”

  “Time is money where a businessman is concerned and this case will take up a good deal of your time. Moreover, in a matter such as this, where principle is at stake, I presume you will not be satisfied with a mere apology. You therefore have to expect that Mrs. Capstick will be advised to throw as much mud as possible at you in the hope - a feeble one, I trust - that some will stick. Naturally that will be distressing and might harm your business. The police, who have according to my instructions already been involved in this matter, may be urged to press their enquiries further. You must be ready to face prolonged interrogation from them as a result. Many of your acquaintances and business colleagues may tell themselves that no smoke exists without fire. And then, there is your daughter to consider.”