The noise of another car engine interrupted him. Someone else was coming up the drive, headlights tracing a path through the trees. It wasn’t a panda car this time. Brakes squealed as the driver found his path blocked by the police cars parked near the front of the house. A door banged. Harry peered through the gloom and saw two figures getting out of a Jaguar. Jack Stirrup had come home.
“What the bloody hell is going on here?”
Harry moved to meet his client, a couple of paces ahead of DI Swarbrook.
“Jack, it’s me. Been having fun and games in your absence. It’s…”
But his voice trailed away as he looked beyond the red face of his client to the person who had been a passenger in the Jaguar. A lithe, long-legged woman with a mass of frizzy brown hair. The nervous way she was biting her lip contrasted oddly with the confident provocation of her tight black dress. Harry didn’t know who she was. One thing he did know: this wasn’t Alison Stirrup. Nor, by the look of her, someone Jack had invited back simply for a quiet evening’s game of snooker.
Chapter Eighteen
“Why did Peter do it?” asked Valerie.
They were together on the sofa in her Crosby flat. A candle’s unsteady light cast strange shadows across the room. After a Mexican meal washed down with plenty of wine, Harry’s mood was mellow. He hoped for once in his life he might end the night feeling more like Warren Beatty than Woody Allen.
He found it hard to believe that only twenty-four hours had passed since the bizarre events at Prospect House. The discovery of Kuiper’s cache of contaminated foodstuffs and of the other woman whose existence Jack Stirrup had kept so quiet. Explanations seemed to Harry to have lasted half the night before Swarbrook was willing to let him crawl home to bed. And even then, much had been left unexplained.
How much better it was to be here with Valerie. She was curled up beside him, her pale green frock revealing much more than it concealed, her Giorgio fragrance deepening the intoxication of the moment. All evening they had talked of things other than Peter Kuiper’s arrest and Jack Stirrup’s embarrassment. The conversation had ranged from sixties music and Entertaining Mr. Sloane to Jim Thompson’s books and Chandler’s screenplay for Double Indemnity, while sixties love songs played in the background. Now Harry was relaxed and ready to tell her about the previous evening, for the only taboo tonight was talk of going home.
“He had at least a hundred thousand reasons. You can do a lot with the kind of ransom he was after. All the same, I don’t believe the money was everything to Peter.”
“What else, then? The lure of living dangerously?”
“If you like. He wanted to put himself beyond the law. Above it. Remember Rope?”
She nodded. Her love of Hitchcock movies exceeded even his. He slipped an arm round her bare shoulder.
“Or its true life equivalent, the Leopold and Loeb case? Peter reminds me a little of what’s his name, Nathan Leopold. The clever student who felt superior to the outside world and turned to crime to prove it.”
“Nietzsche has a lot to answer for.”
“Doesn’t he play in goal for Bayern Munich? Anyway, Peter had the perfect help-mate in Claire Stirrup. A young girl, intelligent enough but naive, adoring and eager to share in whatever scheme her boyfriend-who-could-do-no-wrong might dream up. An experiment in blackmail which promised a small fortune as well as the thrill of teenage rebellion was simply too much to resist.”
Valerie moved her face close to his. “Folie à deux. Where two people share the same delusion.”
“Folly is right,” he said.
He looked into her eyes, trying to read what was in her mind. His fingers traced an invisible pattern on the smooth skin of her shoulder. He had never possessed the gift granted to so many other men of being able to slip at will into slickly seductive chat whenever a woman gave the slightest encouragement. The sexy lines refused to spring to his lips.
She shifted her position, sitting more upright. He left his hand where it was, just resting on her, not venturing further. The memory came to him of back-row fumblings in the Odeon years of his youth. Mistakes he would not repeat again.
“Have you spoken to Quentin Pike today?” she asked.
“Called him this afternoon. Swarbrook’s given Peter a hard time. Serve the young bugger right. Anyway, the top and bottom of it is that no one can pin Claire’s killing on him. He’s adamant he didn’t see her on Friday and no one can prove otherwise. He reckons she seemed excited on the phone, but he put that down to his news that Saviour Money had agreed to cough up the ransom demand.”
“Daddy tells me that Friday was when he finally bowed to the blackmail threat.”
“So I gather. I don’t know how they communicated with Peter. He kept phoning from different call boxes, I suppose. Your father probably told you, the company put a down payment in a building society account which the lad had opened in a false name.”
Harry refilled their glasses. “Peter’s idea was to make random withdrawals from hole-in-the-wall cash dispensers. The police couldn’t mount a round-the-clock surveillance of every single one. Or so he assumed. Anyway, he made the first three withdrawals on Saturday. First in Freshfield, then St. Helens, finally at Ellesmere Port. Quite a distance apart, even for a biker who sees a speed limit as a challenge to his virility.”
“So he didn’t have an opportunity to meet Claire on Saturday morning?”
“On the basis of the timings, Quentin’s sure Peter couldn’t have abducted her before he turned up at Prospect House. And after Jack and I told him his girlfriend had vanished, he says he panicked. Dumped the cash in a night safe then skulked out of sight, hoping to hear from Claire. Convincing the police is another matter, but there isn’t a shred of forensic to link him to the murder.”
Valerie placed a honey-coloured hand on his and began to stroke.
“He must have been petrified that if detectives started sniffing round they’d uncover the blackmail plan. Even if they found Claire alive and well but simply put her under pressure with their questions.”
“It’s the criminal’s nightmare,” said Harry, content to keep the conversation going, at least for the moment. “To become caught up in someone else’s crime.”
“So the plot thickens. If Claire intended to meet someone on Saturday morning, and that someone wasn’t Peter Kuiper, who was too busy collecting his ill-gotten gains - what was she up to?”
“No idea. Of course the library books may be a red herring. Suppose she simply forgot them? Realised what she’d done and decided to walk back home. It was a sunny day, she may have fancied the exercise. Suppose she caught the eye of The Beast…”
“You think that’s what happened?”
“No one’s come up with a better idea yet. Of course Jack’s still howling for Peter Kuiper to be charged with her death.”
“And when he pauses for breath, how does he explain bringing a new lady friend home the night after his daughter was murdered?”
“Not so new, I suspect. Jack and I had a long conversation this morning. Plenty of bluster, as you might expect. The woman’s name is Rita Buxton and she manages his branch at Heswall. Divorced, mid-thirties. According to Jack, she’s been a comfort since Alison disappeared.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Valerie satirically.
“Trouble is, my memory’s better than Jack gives me credit for. Rita Buxton’s name came up at the time Trevor Morgan was sacked. He had a brief fling with her a couple of years ago, as I recall. Sounds like a lady who believes in keeping the management satisfied, never mind the customers.”
“So Stirrup has known for some time she was available?”
“Cynic. But yes, you’re right. He’s adamant they haven’t been sleeping together, before or after Alison disappeared. I’d find it as easy to believe Trevor Morgan had gone teetotal. Jack says he needed to be with someone after he learned about Claire. Fair enough, but…”
“Not the behaviour of a worried husband?”
“
Exactly. So much has happened lately, it’s easy to forget Alison is still missing. You can bet Doreen Capstick will be telling Bolus I-told-you-so as soon as she gets to hear that Jack really does have a bit on the side.”
“Together with a motive for losing his wife?”
“Two and two occasionally make four,” Harry admitted. “I pressed him again today. Jack insists he doesn’t know what has happened to Alison.”
“And you accept that?”
“What choice do I have? I’m sure he’s not telling me the whole truth, but there’s still no evidence to suggest he’s done Alison any harm. Maybe she found out about Rita and did a runner. Jack may be as baffled as the rest of us.”
Valerie’s nails glided along the back of his hand. His whole body began to tingle with anticipation.
“I don’t like much of what I’ve heard about your client, but I can’t help sympathising with him. For Peter Kuiper to use his house as HQ for major crime as well as seducing his daughter was adding insult to injury. And on top of that, the girl’s been savagely killed.”
“Claire’s death still hasn’t sunk in properly yet. Perhaps it never will. Peter may have been right when he said she was devoted to him, but Jack couldn’t have loved her any more. If he never finds out for sure that Peter was screwing the girl, so much the better.”
“So you think it’s healthier to live a lie than to face up to the truth?”
Her manner was pensive. The question seemed to have a special, unfathomable meaning for her.
He put his cheek against hers. “No, I don’t. It’s less painful, though.”
“You couldn’t do it yourself, Harry. Kid yourself forever, believe in an illusion. You’re not made that way; you’re too inquisitive, not prepared to take things at face value. On trust.”
You didn’t know me when I was married to Liz, he felt like saying.
“One thing I don’t kid myself about - that what is right for me is right for my clients, for everyone else.”
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s important to trust those we care about, to have faith in them, come what may. Perhaps it’s the most important thing of all.”
She paused, then opened her mouth as if to add something else. He had the impression for a second that she was going to impart a confidence. But the moment passed and she folded her lips together again in a sad smile of mingled affection and regret. He wished he knew what she thought about him.
Squeezing her shoulder gently he said, “Would you like to go to bed?”
He had meant to hide how nervous he felt but the croakiness of his voice was a giveaway. The question seemed to wash over her like the tide. He held his breath as he waited for her answer. She seemed to choose it with care.
“I don’t believe in getting too serious too soon, Harry.”
“Are you saying no?”
“I’m saying yes. I simply wanted you to know how I feel.”
He kissed her on the lips. “You bet I want to know how you feel.”
And then he took her by the hand and led her to the narrow bed in the room next door.
Chapter Nineteen
“To the detective instincts of the English lawyer,” said Bharat Kaiwar, raising his glass. “Mr. Devlin, I congratulate you on your persistence.”
Harry shared a look of amused complicity with Valerie. It was late in the afternoon and they were the last customers in the Ensenada after a long and lavish lunch. Two empty bottles of Veuve Clicquot peeped out of the ice bucket in front of them. Harry privately regarded their meal more as a celebration of the previous night than as a thank you for his unintended apprehension of the Saviour Money blackmailer, but it was hardly diplomatic to say as much in earshot of Valerie’s courteous, old-fashioned father. After a few token disclaimers he had been content to grin amiably whenever Kaiwar reiterated his gratitude and refilled their glasses.
“Stop it, Daddy,” said Valerie. “He’s inquisitive enough, without your encouragement.”
“How can you say that?” said her father. “You, who have always been so interested in people. And the truth. Why else did you take up a career in the law? Not for the financial rewards, I’m sure, not after telling me for many years that one should work for a cause in which one believes, rather than for money alone.”
Harry glanced at the girl. She was looking at her father with that mixture of impatience and affection which so many children feel for their parents. Bharat Kaiwar was a grey-haired, softly spoken man with a gentle dignity of manner more common amongst clergymen than tycoons. Only the cut of his suit and the finger-snapping authority with which he had ordered the food hinted that he was accustomed to the power that riches bring. Yet beneath his quiet exterior ran, Harry did not doubt, that streak of single-mindedness which divides those who do from those who dream. That sense of purpose which his daughter had inherited.
“One thing I’ve learned already,” she said, “is that the law is not concerned with the search for truth.”
“Justice, then?”
“Occasionally. Though each day in court I see injustices done.”
Harry felt like a spectator at a game which Valerie and Bharat Kaiwar had played many times before. For all the bond between father and daughter, the generation gap would always be a chasm between them.
When Valerie had departed to the loo twenty minutes earlier, Kaiwar had told Harry of his pride in her and of his anxiety that she was sometimes headstrong and too easily hurt. Harry sensed that he was himself being assessed for suitability as a boyfriend of a millionaire’s only child. Most of the easily measured things - age, status, income - were against him. He was even in the wrong branch of the legal profession. At least the Kuiper episode meant he would be spared paternal disapproval. Yet it occurred to him that Valerie would expect Bharat Kaiwar to frown on the men in her life, would be ready to go her own way and make her own choices. Earning her father’s favour had in itself done nothing to cement his relationship with her. It was somehow typical that she approved more of the small steps he had taken to fix Kuiper up with a capable lawyer. Her sympathy would always be with the underdog.
Charge card in hand, Kaiwar ambled over to the cashier. Harry felt Valerie’s hand creeping along his leg, sending a frisson of excitement down his spine. He moved his head so that he felt her hair against his cheek. Last night they had been hot with passion. After making love they had lain naked on the bed together, warmed by each other as well as by the heat of the high summer evening. They hadn’t said much, had been content with the touching of their bodies.
“Don’t stop,” he said.
“Happy?”
“Mmmm.”
He brushed a finger against her cheek. The skin was cool.
“And you?” he asked after a pause.
“I enjoyed last night, Harry. Of course. And I’m glad to see Daddy relaxing today. He aged ten years while the scare was on.”
It wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for, but this was not the time to argue about it.
“I’m glad it’s over for him.”
“Here he comes.” Valerie withdrew her hand from Harry’s leg as Bharat Kaiwar returned.
“Well, Valerie, Mr. Devlin. I’m grateful for you taking the time out from your busy days to let me organise this little celebration.”
“Harry. Please call me Harry.”
“Harry, thank you again.”
“Look, I already said it was a pure chance. I’d no idea what Kuiper was up to.”
“Nevertheless. It was my company’s good fortune that you acted as you did,” said Kaiwar as they walked to the door with thanks and smiles from Pino. “My colleague on the board, Bryan Grealish - I spoke to him this morning. He is delighted also. The problem at the Majestic with the glass worried him. Of course he never dreamed there was any connection between that matter and the trouble at the supermarkets.”
“You know we’ve been invited to a sixties party at the Majestic, Harry?” asked Valerie. “This evening. It’s Bryan’s birth
day. He’s planning to mark the occasion in style. Want to come?”
Harry could have thought of better ways in which they could pass the time, but he responded to the mood of the moment and said, “Love to. When?”
“Would you like to pick me up about eight?”
“I’ll see you then.”
Outside they said goodbye. “Don’t pretend you’re going to work after all that champagne,” said Valerie as her father searched for a taxi.
“Best time. The law seems to make more sense when I’ve had a few.”
She laughed. “Till tonight, then.”
The sun was beating down as he headed for the Law Courts. Passers-by in the street looked relaxed, but as usual the heat wave was throwing the country into a panic. Farmers moaning about a drought, environmentalists warning of the greenhouse effect. You can’t ever win, thought Harry. Even he was worrying now that Valerie might be cooling towards him, repenting of her ardour the previous night. Telling himself to relax, not to conjure up unnecessary fears, was logical but didn’t do any good. Why can’t we, he wondered, learn to trust our luck when fortune grants rare favours?
In the court library he checked on the law of attempts - on behalf of a client so inept that he’d been caught picking the empty pocket of an off-duty policeman - and on his way out spotted a familiar stoop-shouldered figure emerging from a doorway at the other end of the landing. What had Jonah Deegan been doing in the Probate Registry?
Harry frowned. He had been trying to phone the detective without success. Naturally Jonah did not have any truck with an answering machine and this morning a quick visit to Albert Dock on the off-chance had failed to yield results. A progress report on the search for Alison would be welcome.
He quickened his pace only to be distracted by the sound of someone calling his name.
“Harry. What news?”
He turned to confront another acquaintance in immaculate three-piece suit and bow tie.
“Just finished my case,” said Julian Hamer, mopping his brow. His face was grey, perhaps the after-effects of gruelling advocacy. The man’s elegance, Harry had begun to realise, was all on the surface. “A landlord and tenant dispute, about as fascinating as watching traffic lights change, but plenty of money at stake. What I wanted to know is, any response from Mrs. Capstick yet?”
Suspicious Minds (Harry Devlin) Page 13
