Suspicious Minds (Harry Devlin)

by Edwards, Martin

  Chapter Thirty

  “Are you a Believer?”

  The well-scrubbed young man sitting next to Harry had a face as pink as the carnation in his buttonhole. TRUST IN THE LORD exhorted the badge which adorned his other lapel. On the top table Brenda Rixton - sorry, Redpath, Harry mentally corrected himself - and her new husband exchanged smiles, oblivious to the bit-part players at their reception.

  “‘Fraid not.”

  This was the first dry day since the storm which had signalled the end of the long hot spell. But Harry’s stock of weather small talk was limited and he was glad when the toastmaster demanded silence for the best man’s speech.

  As the happy couple heard their virtues recited, Harry cast his mind back to that torrential downpour when it seemed the heavens were trying to cleanse the land following the capture of The Beast. But rain cannot wash away everything. No one could tell how long it would take for the community’s scars of fear to fade.

  With a shudder he remembered how near he had come to ruining the covert operation to entrap David Base. Scores of times he had asked himself what would have happened if he had caught up with and confronted David. A confession? Resistance? He was glad he would never find out.

  When the police had arrested David in Vale Park, tucked into his tracksuit they found a ligature, a knotted strip of cord. Even Ruby Fingall would have been hard pressed to explain that and the mask away, let alone the one in ten million match between David’s DNA and the traces found on Claire’s corpse. The clerk hadn’t given his defence the opportunity to test its powers of imagination. He’d been willing to talk straight away, according to the local legal grapevine. Almost as if glad that it was all over.

  The scale of the undercover effort to catch The Beast had become public knowledge. Since Claire’s murder, police had patrolled the peninsula’s parks, its open spaces, with as much manpower as resources allowed. And womanpower. The leggy blonde and her companion whom Harry had first seen trying on Kiss-me-quick hats had both been policewomen. Even now Harry couldn’t quite believe that their skimpy beachwear had concealed panic buttons and a two-way radio.

  “And on that note,” said the best man, putting his memory cards face-down on the table, “it only remains for me to give you a toast: the bride and groom!”

  Everyone stood and raised their glasses solemnly. As they resumed their seats Harry’s neighbour whispered, “Brenda really does look delightful.”

  Bland as background music the young man might be, but he wasn’t wrong. Today Brenda might have passed for ten years younger than forty-five. The blue chiffon two-piece suited her, as had the broad-brimmed hat she’d worn outside. As Colin Redpath stumbled through his speech, she gazed up at him, intent and loving. For an instant a memory surfaced in Harry’s mind, a memory of a caring, anxious face and a soft, white, yielding body underneath his. He banished the image angrily and told himself to be glad she had found Colin and a new way of life.

  The Redpaths were not alone in making a fresh start. Harry had rung Alison Stirrup a couple of times. A self-imposed sense of responsibility had made him fear for her safety. But she and Cathy were back in their Knutsford shop within days of moving out. Alison said her husband had never contacted her. In their conversations she had been uncommunicative, keen to get off the phone. When Harry referred to Stirrup’s claim to have murdered his first wife, Alison was dismissive.

  “You said it yourself, he made that story up to frighten me. I over-reacted. Surely you can understand why. The marriage breakdown. Coming out. It’s been a strain. I got everything out of proportion. I simply needed to escape. From him, from my mother. That’s all.”

  “He told you he’d fixed the brakes on Margaret’s car.”

  “For God’s sake don’t repeat that. I don’t want to be had up for slander.”

  Jack Stirrup had had his fill of defamation law, reflected Harry grimly. And after cooling down he’d changed his mind about a showdown with Alison. He was no fool. He knew there was a limit to how many times you could get away with murder. Whilst she evidently intended to scrub the marriage from her mind as if it were no more than a dirty stain on her life.

  According to a gossipy item in last night’s local paper about the sale of his business, Jack was planning to emigrate to Bermuda. “The last few weeks have been so traumatic, I’ve realised there’s more to life than making money. It’s time to put my feet up,” he was quoted as saying. A fuzzy photograph showed him overweight and cheerful, everyone’s favourite uncle. He had his arm round Rita Buxton, who was described as his fiancée and was looking at him as tenderly as if he were a pension policy.

  “And now pray silence for the cutting of the cake.”

  The toastmaster exuded bonhomie, flashbulbs popped, the newlyweds laughed with embarrassed pleasure as they wielded the knife together.

  “A day to remember,” enthused Harry’s neighbour. “And a jolly nice meal, too.”

  Harry agreed. No worries about strychnine in the soup or mercury in the meringues here in the squeaky clean meeting place of the evangelical group to which Brenda and Colin belonged. Anyway, the poisoning career of Peter Kuiper was at an end. Quentin Pike reckoned the kid was planning to write a book about his experiences. One way of passing his time inside.

  The rituals over, the Redpaths’ guests began to disperse. Harry headed for the bar and over a glass of lager he recalled his conversation the previous evening with Trevor Morgan. They had bumped into each other at the Dock Brief, but the memory of the violent end to their last encounter seemed to have been wiped from the Welshman’s mind.

  After a couple of pints Harry had asked Trevor what he knew about the death of Margaret Stirrup. Her name seemed to have a sobering effect.

  “What makes you ask?”

  “You were in your cups last time we met. You called Jack a bloody murderer. At the time I assumed if you meant anything, you thought he’d killed Alison. Later I changed my mind.”

  Trevor Morgan brushed flecks of beer foam from his mouth.

  “Maybe Jack said a bit too much late one night over a jar.” He contrived the mischievous lopsided grin which had charmed so many women - except for Catherine. “We all shout how smart we are when we’re pissed, it’s human nature.”

  “But is it true that he murdered Margaret?” Harry persisted. “Cold-bloodedly, not in a fit of the famous temper?”

  In a parody of bad acting, Trevor raised a finger to his lips.

  “Mind your mouth, mate. Walls have ears, to say nothing of public bars. Best forget it.”

  “Forget it?” Through the noise and the smoke and the smell of The Dock Brief, enlightenment dawned. “I see. Jack’s paid you off, so everything’s okay now.”

  Trevor grinned. “Good lawyer, that bloke Fowler. The settlement cheque arrived yesterday.”

  Hush money? Harry sighed. At least Trevor hadn’t tried blackmail. But after all he had been through, Jack Stirrup wasn’t going to risk a drunken ex-sidekick shooting his mouth off before the Bermuda flight was called.

  Trevor smacked his lips. “Twelve months’ money, no tax. Not bad, eh? Have another. This one’s on me.”

  For once Harry had found it no hardship to decline.

  “Your belly won’t get any flatter if you keep drinking that stuff,” said a soft voice in his ear.

  He twisted round, spilling some of his pint in the process.

  “Brenda.” He considered her with care. “You look so gorgeous I’ll forgive you for trying to turn me against man’s best friend. His booze, I mean. And the best of it is, you’re happy.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled. “Yes, it’s been a good day. And everyone’s been so kind. They are nice people here, Harry, our friends from the Fellowship.”

  “I’m sure they are. I won’t pretend I’ve been converted. Seeing the error of your ways is one thing. Actually becoming a reformed character is quite another. But anything which has been so good for you must have something going for it.”

&nbs
p; “Yes.” She leaned forward and straightened the flower in his buttonhole. “That’s better. Yes, I have something to believe in now. As well as someone. I can recommend it. But how about you? I’m sorry your girlfriend couldn’t come.”

  “Me too.”

  Her blue eyes regarded him. “Not a permanent rift, I hope?”

  “‘Fraid so.”

  “I’m sorry. She was a beautiful girl.”

  “Easy come, easy go.”

  “You’re a funny man, Harry. You always like to fear the worst. You ought to have faith, even if you think of yourself as an unbeliever. Things aren’t always as bleak as they seem.” She paused, scanning his face for any trace of comprehension. “Well, I hope you understand what I’m trying to say. I’m not much good with words, ‘specially after so much champagne.”

  “You’re as good with words as you are to me. And that’s saying something.”

  She coloured faintly under the make-up and he realised she was thinking back to their affair. He hated himself for the clumsiness of his compliment. He hadn’t meant to remind her of the past, not today of all days.

  “I don’t suppose we’ll see each other much in the future,” she said. “Now I’ve got a buyer for the flat and Colin has this job lined up in Manchester.”

  “I’ll be sorry to see you leave.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Oh dear. Colin’s pointing to his watch. I have to change, put on my going-away outfit. We have a tight schedule if we’re to catch the plane at Ringway.”

  She proffered a hand, a gesture oddly formal and yet one which Harry found touching.

  “Goodbye,” she said. “Look after yourself. And - thank you for the time we had together.”

  She hurried away without giving him a chance to say anything more. He watched her slim figure become swallowed up in the group of well-wishers around her husband.

  “Same again,” he said to the barmaid.

  As she served him she said chattily, “Daft, isn’t it? Weddings are such happy times. And yet they always make me want to cry.”

  As he drank he thought about Valerie and how bitter and betrayed she had sounded on the one occasion when, made brave by an evening at the Dock Brief, he had telephoned her flat to make a stumbling apology for his behaviour towards Julian Hamer at the Law Courts.

  “Someone told me he was giving up the Bar,” he had said.

  “That’s right. Now everyone knows about his state of health, he’s not getting any more briefs. The fact his brain is as sharp as ever is neither here nor there to most of the gutless members of your profession. Thank God the University has more sense. They’ve offered him a teaching post to start next term. He’ll be able to cope, even when he has to get around in a wheelchair.”

  “It might not…”

  “It might not come to that? Let’s not kid ourselves any more, Harry. Let’s be realistic.”

  “And how are you?” he’d asked desperately, after a long pause.

  “I was just getting ready for bed when you rang. I have a big trial tomorrow.”

  “What sort of…”

  “Look, I’m tired and I need sleep. I’m sorry, but I’m not in the mood for aimless chit-chat. I’ll see you around some time, all right? Goodnight.”

  Even now he could hear the click of the receiver as she’d hung up. He cursed his curiosity. When would the demon inside him which craved an answer for everything learn that sometimes the happiest of endings lay in mysteries lacking a solution? How comforting it would be to have the confidence to start taking things on trust. Looking around at the people who surrounded him, their eyes shining with their calm certainties, to his dismay he felt his stomach churn with jealousy.

  He became aware of someone standing by his side.

  “What can I get you?” asked the well-scrubbed young man who had sat next to him during the meal.

  “An unsuspicious mind,” said Harry.

  He didn’t wait for a reply, but slipped off through the city towards the rear exit door that led to the car park, knowing that no one would notice him leave.

  Excerpt from I Remember You

  Chapter One

  Flames licked at the building, greedy as the tongues of teenage lovers. They curled out from the windows above the shopfront and up to the gutters, fierce in their hunger, intent on conquest.

  The smell of burning filled Harry Devlin’s sinuses. Smoke stung his eyes and the back of his throat.

  ‘Don’t even think of going in there.’

  ‘For the love of Jases,’ said Finbar Rogan. ‘What d’you think I have for brains? I’d not try to force my way inside if the missus herself was trapped the other side of that door.’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Come to think of it, if she was - I’d be chucking in a match or two myself.’

  A thunderous splintering of glass made them duck in a reflex of self-defence. Straightening up, Harry saw the first-floor panes disintegrate. He shielded his face as a thousand shards showered the paving all around.

  Finbar cried out in pain and stumbled to the ground. Seeing blood trickle from a cut on the Irishman’s cheek, Harry didn’t hesitate. In a matter of seconds, he dragged Finbar back towards the shelter of a doorway on the other side of the street. There they leaned against each other for support, fighting for breath as the fumes leaked into their lungs.

  The narrowness of Williamson Lane intensified the heat and Harry felt the skin of his face tingle. Finbar groaned and wiped the blood away with his sleeve.

  ‘Thanks for that, mate,’ he gasped. ‘So now we know what we’re in for when we go to Hell.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’

  ‘Listen, you’re a solicitor. Even I have a better chance of Heaven.’

  Harry couldn’t help grinning at his client. Even as his business blazed on this cold October night, Finbar showed no sign of fear or despair. He would always scoff at any unkindness of the Fates.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’ll live to claim the insurance, don’t you fret.’

  Never before had Harry witnessed at such close quarters the raging passion of a fire out of control. A dozen viewings of Mrs Danvers perishing in the ruins of Hitchcock’s Manderley had not prepared him for this; nor could he have imagined that the city centre could be so claustrophobic. He had a dizzy sense of everything closing in on him.

  Disaster had begun to seduce late night Liverpool’s passers-by, excited by the sound and fury. ‘Better than Blackpool bloody illuminations!’ someone bellowed from the safety of the adjoining square.

  The wail of a siren pierced the hubbub, growing louder as each second passed. Harry could hear the fire engines’ roar and saw people pressing back into the shadows, making way as first one, then another of the vehicles rounded the corner and pulled up with a shriek twenty yards away.

  ‘The cavalry,’ said Finbar.

  Suddenly the place was teeming with firefighters. In their yellow headgear and drip pants, navy blue tunics with silvery reflective stripes and rubber boots with steel toe-caps, they might have been storm-troopers from a distant planet. They moved to a pre-ordained routine, running the hose along the ground, connecting it to a hydrant, waving the crowd back, roping off the end of the street. Harry and Finbar were the only spectators within fifty feet of the fire. A man whose white helmet marked his seniority hurried towards them.

  ‘Anyone left inside?’ His urgent tone held no hint of panic.

  ‘No one,’ Finbar called back. ‘Though I might have been in there doing my books if this feller hadn’t been due to buy the next round.’

  The officer spoke into a walkie-talkie, ordering help from an appliance with a turntable ladder, keeping watch all the time on the spread of the fire.

  ‘You own the shop which sells leathers? Or the travel agents next door?’

  ‘No, I’m up above.’

  The words on the blackened signboard at first-floor level were hard to decipher. The officer peered at them. ‘Tattooist’s studio, is that? Y
ou’re the feller I heard on Radio Liverpool this morning?’

  ‘The one and only. Liverpool’s Leonardo da Vinci.’ With boozy bravado, Finbar shrugged off his jacket and ripped open his shirt. On his chest was an extravagant, multicoloured image of a naked woman astride a horse. Her modesty was not quite saved by long dark tresses, and she seemed unaware of the exophthalmic scrutiny of a caricatured Peeping Tom.

  ‘I’ll gladly autograph you as a souvenir,’ he offered. ‘And if you can salvage the electric needles I keep up there, I’ll turn you into the Illustrated Man free of charge.’

  The officer tipped his helmet back, a now-I’ve-seen-everything expression spreading across his face.

  ‘Thanks very much, but I’m pretty as a picture as it is.’

  In the distance, a second siren howled its warning.

  ‘Here come the police,’ said Harry. Ruefully, he asked himself why, earlier that evening, he hadn’t refused Finbar’s invitation for a quick one. He knew the folly of becoming too closely involved with his clients and their misfortunes, yet it was a mistake he could never help making. If only he’d been taught at college the knack of remaining aloof, of concentrating on rules in books, instead of becoming fascinated by the people who broke them…

  ‘Anything combustible in there?’ demanded the fire officer.

  Finbar bowed his head, momentarily abashed. ‘I had paint and thinners on the landing. Been planning to decorate. Early resolution for next New Year.’ He gazed up at the flame-lit heavens. ‘Sod’s law, eh? I should have left the dirt to hold the place together.’

  ‘What about the ceiling tiles?’