“It’s Claire. She’s disappeared.”
Chapter Ten
“Call the police,” said Harry for the twentieth time. “It’s the only way.”
“What kind of advice is that?” Stirrup banged his fist on the pine table. “So they can lock me up?”
Frustration enveloped Harry like a pre-war London fog. How easy it would be to lose sight of what mattered, when all that was clear was Stirrup’s stubbornness. He fought an urge to take hold of the man and try to knock some sense into him. Brawling with a client was bad for business. And it would not bring Claire back home.
“Don’t be paranoid. They’re not going to lock you up because your daughter has disappeared.”
“Paranoid, you say?” Stirrup laughed scornfully. “You’d be bloody paranoid if you were in my shoes. Fat lot of help you are. My own bloody solicitor advising me to turn myself in. You’ll really make it to Lord Chief Justice, you will, with a legal brain like that.”
They were in the kitchen at Prospect House. The room was smart and clean, elegant and lifeless as a picture in an ideal home magazine. The silence was broken only by the sullen burbling of the coffee machine in the corner.
“Jack, there’s no question of your turning yourself in. Be realistic, you have no choice but to report Claire as missing. How long has she been gone now? Four hours? Five? Every minute you delay could make matters worse.”
“Worse?” Again the harsh laugh. “And will they be better if I’m charged with killing her as well as bloody Alison?”
“Nobody’s going to charge you. No way. Any fool could tell you’d never harm a hair on her head.”
“No more I would.”
Stirrup shut his eyes. He looked like a sick, sleeping old man who had no wish to wake again. Harry wanted to sympathise, to assure him that everything would turn out right in the end. But it was a promise no one could make.
After receiving his client’s telephone message, Harry had driven straight over from Liverpool. To abandon Valerie as soon as she had arrived dismayed and embarrassed him. If only they had left the flat before the call came. At least she understood at once that he could not let his client down. His apologies she waved away with a philosophic smile.
“There’ll be other times.”
The promise cheered him on the journey, but he forgot everything when he arrived at the house. Stirrup was pacing up and down outside the front door, kicking at the gravel. As he explained what had happened, he wheezed as if on the verge of a coronary.
Claire had left the house at nine-thirty, saying that she was going down into West Kirby to change her library books. She often did that on a Saturday morning, according to her father, catching the bus which stopped on the main road, a short walk away, at twenty to ten. She had mentioned that she would make lunch for twelve because Peter Kuiper was coming round to see her later that afternoon and she had wanted to blow-dry her hair before he arrived.
Noon came and went and Stirrup began to worry. At half past, he got out the car and drove slowly down the road to West Kirby to see if he could spot her if she had decided to stroll back on foot. No sign at the library. People he spoke to couldn’t recall having seen a girl matching her description.
Increasingly frantic, he tried one shop after another. Nothing. Walking the length of the promenade, he scanned every inch of yellow sand but saw no Claire. Convinced that he must have missed her in coming down the hill from Caldy, he raced back along the winding road to Prospect House. It remained as he had left it, locked and undisturbed. At that point, in desperation, he rang Harry.
“Any problems with her lately, Jack? Was she worried, depressed, sulky? Had you quarrelled?”
“Course not. All right, she acted a bit off colour Thursday afternoon and evening. Time of the month, for all I know. Or maybe she was mooning over that feller at - whatsit? - Balliol Chambers. Anyway, she went out to see some schoolfriend that evening and yesterday she was as right as rain. That young turd Kuiper came to see her, but he didn’t stop more than a couple hours. She and I watched the late night movie on the box. Then she kissed me as usual and went up to bed.”
“And this morning?”
“No different. She pulled my leg as I was reading the paper. You know, I still read the Mirror, though it’s a Labour rag. Force of habit, my old man used to take it when I was a kid. Claire said when she came into money, she’d insist on having quality newspapers. Nothing but the best for her. And that was it. Next thing I knew, she was sauntering down the drive without a care in the world. Matter of fact…”
“Yes?”
Stirrup frowned. “No, it’s gone. Something odd struck me a moment ago, but I’ve lost it.”
“Have you rung her friends? She may have bumped into one of them unexpectedly in the town. They could have wandered off together without giving their parents a second thought.”
“Claire wouldn’t do that. She’s an only child. I know it sounds corny, but there’s a special bond between us.”
It did sound corny, but Harry merely said, “Have you checked?”
“She hasn’t many friends,” said Stirrup reluctantly. “At least not what I’d call real friends. But yes, I rang a couple of people. Karen Lawler’s folks. Pam Macdougall’s. They’d not seen her. All they said was - phone the police.”
“What about this meeting with Peter Kuiper? If…”
The roar of a motorbike interrupted Harry, seizing the attention of both of them. It grew louder before suddenly cutting out. The two men exchanged a glance.
“That’s him!” Stirrup jumped to his feet. “By God, if he’s done anything to her…”
“Jack.” Harry rose and laid a restraining hand on his client’s arm. “One step at a time. There’s nothing to suggest the lad had any connection with Claire’s disappearance. Before you inflict any grievous bodily, shouldn’t we establish a few facts?”
“Let go of me.” Stirrup shrugged himself free. But he had become sulky rather than violent.
Harry followed him outside. Kuiper had stopped his bike next to the old stable block. The young man looked over his shoulder at them.
“You!” shouted Stirrup. “Come here!”
Kuiper approached, wary as if confronting a rottweiler. He had forgotten to affect a swagger and his expression betrayed puzzlement at the older man’s naked hostility.
“Yes?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“All right. Here I am.” Cocky again. “Talk away.”
“Where is she?”
“What are you on about?”
“Don’t give me that, smart-arse. Claire. My daughter. The girl whose boots you’re not fit to lick.”
“I never thought of licking her boots.” With a scarcely suppressed snigger, Kuiper laid heavy emphasis on the final word.
“You dirty little shit!” Stirrup lunged forward with unexpected speed and yanked Kuiper’s arm behind his back, forcing a yelp of startled protest mixed with pain.
“Jack! Leave him.”
Harry grasped his client by the shoulder and Stirrup let Kuiper go, though not without one last wrench of his captive’s arm to send him spinning to the ground.
“Whose side are you on?”
“Be quiet, Jack.” Breathing hard, Harry stood astride the fallen youth. “Now listen to me, Peter. Claire has been missing for hours. Jack is worried sick. Do you know where she is?”
Kuiper blinked. “Missing?”
The lad sounded mystified. Harry’s heart sank. Until that moment he had hoped that a childish elopement of some kind would explain Claire’s sudden departure. If the boyfriend was equally in the dark, the puzzle became more sinister.
In his frustration, he yanked Kuiper back to his feet. Not gently.
“Why did you come here this afternoon?”
“To see Claire, of course. We’d fixed to meet. Look, what’s going on?”
“You heard. She’s nowhere to be found. Said she was going out to the library, but never came back.�
��
“Shit.” Dismay spread across Kuiper’s face. If he was faking it, Harry thought, he deserved to tread the boards at the Playhouse.
Harry turned to Stirrup. “He’s telling the truth.”
Stirrup glowered. “Is he? I don’t know. Claire was never a moment’s bother till he turned up.”
“She’s not a child,” said Kuiper. “Even if you’d like her to stay that way. She’s a person in her own right. Intelligent. Ambitious. And far more…”
“Shut it, both of you,” said Harry. “This is getting us nowhere. Time’s ticking by and none of us has any idea where Claire may be. Jack, I don’t mind what you say. I’m going to phone the police myself.”
Stirrup started towards him. “I told you…”
“What matters most, Jack? Of course there’ll be tough questioning. But you can take it, when Claire’s safety may be at stake. Can’t you?”
“She’s all I care about. You know that.”
“Yes,” said Harry. “Shall we go inside and make that call?”
The two of them walked towards the house. As they reached the kitchen door they heard the motorbike engine flare into life again. Stirrup spun round and ran to where Kuiper had been. Long before he reached the stable block, however, the bike had gone and with it the young man. Stirrup shook his fist at the emptiness. An absurd gesture of defiance and yet, Harry thought, strangely moving. He felt a surge of pity for his client and went to join him.
“He was lying,” said Stirrup. “He must have Claire tucked away somewhere.”
“Do you really believe that?”
Stirrup turned a ravaged face towards Harry. “What else can I believe?”
Harry didn’t answer. Kuiper had expected to find Claire here, of that he was certain. If not, why turn up? Screaming in on a motor-cycle was hardly furtive. His shock when told she had vanished had surely not been feigned. But why ride off again if he was as anxious as Stirrup for the girl to be found?
For a second time they crunched along the pathway to the house. Stirrup was silent, plainly turning ideas over in his mind. Eventually he spoke in a raw, cracked voice.
“Doesn’t look good, does it? First Alison goes, now Claire. What will Inspector Bolus make of it, do you think? After all, I can’t prove either of them left of their own free will.” He gestured towards the untended grounds. “Where do you think they will start digging? Here or under the beech trees?”
As they reached the kitchen, Harry said, “A fifteen-year-old girl is a different proposition from a woman twice that age.”
“Spit it out.” Stirrup took a deep breath and said, “You must be thinking what I’m thinking. What if that bastard has got hold of her?”
“Peter didn’t…”
“No. You know who I mean. If you’re right and Kuiper really had nothing to do with it, there’s only one explanation, isn’t there?”
Harry stared at Stirrup.
“The Beast.”
“Christ, Jack. Let’s not start thinking on those lines. Make your call.”
As Stirrup began to dial, however, Harry reflected that their secret fear was indeed the same. It was easy to take refuge in the knowledge that Claire’s hair was dark and that the monster supposedly craved blondes. But can a monster always be relied upon for logic and consistency?
Suddenly Stirrup slammed down the receiver. He swore as if stung by a wasp.
“What is it, Jack?”
Stirrup pointed to the internal door. From a metal hook hung a gaudily coloured PVC cook’s apron and a shopping bag in a Liberty print.
“I remember now. When Claire set off this morning, I thought there was something strange. She wasn’t carrying her bag with the library books. And look, it’s still there.”
He strode over to the bag and ripped it from the hook. Three hardbacks in protective covers spilled out onto the floor. Stirrup picked up one of the books, called To Be the Best, flipped it open and shoved it under Harry’s nose.
“See the return date? Today. She lied to me. The little witch - she never meant to go to the library at all.”
Chapter Eleven
“Still no news about Claire?” asked Valerie.
Harry shook his head. “Close on thirty-six hours now and none of us has any idea where she is.”
They were studying the dinner menu at the Ensenada. It was their first time together since Stirrup’s anguished summons had interrupted their Saturday afternoon. Harry hoped a meal in his favourite Liverpool restaurant might make amends; he refused to think of its effect on his bank balance. At the door, Pino Carrea, the amiable and loquacious proprietor, had greeted them as if favoured by a visit from royalty. Pino had kissed Valerie’s hand and extolled the virtues of the Chateaubriand. But then an actress currently starring at the Everyman had arrived in the company of a gentleman other than her husband and, with a flurry of apologies, Pino had turned to welcome the newcomers and glean as much gossip as possible.
“What do the police think?”
“Bolus obviously reckons Jack’s eliminating his family one by one.”
“And you?”
“No way he’d ever harm that girl.”
Claire had vanished into thin air. A search of her room at Prospect House had revealed no hint of the assignation from which she had failed to return. Assuming there had been an assignation. But why else would she deceive her father about the purpose of her visit to West Kirby? The police had rapidly obtained confirmation from a bus driver that he had picked Claire up at the nearby stop on Saturday morning. He remembered her getting off the bus on the edge of town. Thereafter the trail petered out. No sightings either in West Kirby or elsewhere.
Harry had spent most of the day with Stirrup and the police. Not once had Bolus even raised his voice. But his questions had become scalpel-sharp.
“For your wife to go missing, that’s unfortunate,” suggested the policeman late in the afternoon. “But for your daughter to disappear as well…”
For Stirrup that had been the last straw. He’d leapt to his feet, the veins in his head bulging.
“You stupid bastard! While we’re here wasting time, my daughter…”
Only the combined efforts of Harry and a burly constable restrained him. Bolus never flinched, assessing his suspect’s demeanour with unruffled calm. After his outburst, Stirrup had sat down again, head in hands. Not weeping, but not far from it, Harry judged. And Bolus had been content not to push any further. At least for the time being.
All the obvious leads were being followed. Detectives were interviewing Claire’s schoolfriends, her teachers and people she knew locally. As yet they had turned up nothing helpful. Bolus wanted urgently to see Peter Kuiper. The student was not to be found at his digs and no one there could say where or with whom he might be.
“Is it possible,” suggested Valerie gently, “that you may have been wrong about the boyfriend?”
“Okay, he may have something to hide - Claire’s underage, after all. Yet I’m equally sure he expected to find her at home.”
“What about Jack Stirrup? Perhaps Claire discovered he’d done away with Alison? She might have tried to blackmail him. There may have been a struggle. A violent blow. A more or less accidental death.”
“Nothing’s impossible,” said Harry slowly.
“But?”
“Okay, there were occasional hesitancies. Contradictions. Useful for a prosecuting counsel, perhaps - but nothing to convince me Stirrup killed his own daughter. He loves the girl. Even if he did murder her in a moment of madness, he wouldn’t be able to hide his guilt.”
“Then if he’s innocent…” She broke off to demand: “What are you looking at?”
“See over there,” whispered Harry. “The feller who has come in with the young blonde.”
“Don’t tell me he caught your eye, rather than her.”
“Jealous? I can’t believe it. Anyway, the answer is yes. You know who he is?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Bryan Grealis
h and I go back some way.”
“Seriously?”
“Now who’s jealous?”
Pino had entrusted the actress and her escort to a minion and was now lavishing hospitality on Grealish and the girl. Bearded, pot-bellied and barely five feet tall, the restaurateur resembled a pint-sized Pavarotti; Harry always half-expected him to burst suddenly into song. For once Pino seemed unconcerned that a male diner was tieless; perhaps he realised that by Grealish’s standards of sartorial elegance, a plain open-necked shirt and grey slacks were much the same as formal dress.
The businessman took the welcome as his due, like a film star being flattered at an Oscar ceremony. Harry recalled the blonde from his visit to the Majestic; the low cut and brief length of her expensive white cocktail dress meant that she was almost as skimpily clad by night as by day.
“How do you come to know him? Is he a client?”
“No, I met him through Daddy. They’ve had business dealings for years. Bryan bought a lot of shares in Saviour Money and he was elected to the board a month or so ago.”
“Small world. I ran into him myself the other day. He also happens to be an old rival of Jack Stirrup. What do you make of him?”
“I can resist the bedroom eyes. He’s one of those men who thinks he’s committing a social gaffe if he doesn’t put his hand on your bum. Though I’m a little old for his tastes; it’s ages since I was sweet sixteen.”
Harry muttered, “That’s all we need. They’re being shown over here.”
Pino was conducting the newcomers to an adjacent table. Harry saw Grealish recognise first him and then Valerie, and watched the man’s eyebrows rise.
“We meet again. Evening, Mr. Devlin. And Valerie, how are you?”
Grealish clasped her hand and lifted it to his lips whilst the blonde at his side gave Harry a surly nod.
“I’m fine, Bryan. I understand you know Harry?”
“Right. He and a client granted us the honour of their custom one lunchtime last week. Though I had no idea that the two of you were friends. I always understood that barristers and solicitors moved in separate social circles. Like gentry and tradesmen.”
Suspicious Minds (Harry Devlin) Page 8
