Eve of Destruction: A Harry Devlin Mystery Page 12

  ‘Lynn said she would arrive here at half seven. I reckoned you would be out of the way by then. I was planning to take her out for dinner. But lust intervened – and then you turned up.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t.’

  ‘So do I. At least … oh Christ, I don’t know. Maybe you’ve saved me. And Lynn as well, perhaps. The speed with which she disappeared makes me think she suddenly had second thoughts.’

  ‘A bit late.’

  ‘Better late than never.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘I suppose she and I both need a little time to think about where we go from here. But I expect the answer is – nowhere.’

  ‘As I said before, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s all my own bloody fault. Even so, I wish – I wish that, just once, Lynn and I had got it together. It’s so bloody frustrating. You’ve no idea.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Harry said softly, thinking about Kim. But his partner was not listening; there was a distant look in his eyes. All at once Harry was seized with the urge to unburden himself of his own anxieties and his despair at Kim’s sudden and unexplained rejection of him. Yet this was the wrong moment: Jim had enough on his plate. He decided it was better to keep quiet and reached again for the bottle of whisky.

  ‘Won’t you change your mind?’ Harry repeated half an hour later as they stood by the door to his flat.

  ‘Too late for that. The taxi will be downstairs in a minute.’

  ‘You can always pay him off.’

  Jim shook his head. ‘No. Thanks for the offer of a bed, but I’ve booked in at the hotel and I might as well go there. Even if the circumstances are rather different from those I had planned.’

  ‘What could be worse than a hotel room for one?’

  ‘It’s not so bad. I can’t go back home reeking of whisky and make a story about a change of plan sound credible. The mood I’m in, I’d probably spill the beans. In any case, grateful as I am for your company, I’m ready for a few hours on my own. Let’s face it, old son, I have a lot to think about.’

  Harry headed back towards the living room and was pouring himself another drink when he remembered the cassette tape, the cause of the evening’s calamity – if it was calamitous that Jim had been saved from the final act of infidelity. Harry’s recent enthusiasm for eavesdropping had waned during the course of the evening. You could only cope with so many tales of relationships gone wrong. Nevertheless, he had to find out if Becky Whyatt was prepared to press her murderous plans any further. He swallowed the whisky and, slotting the tape into place, pressed play and waited for the next revelation.

  Click.

  ‘Revill Recruitment.’

  ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Er … yes.’

  ‘I had to ring you. I can’t bear thinking about our quarrel any longer. It made me so unhappy, Dominic. You’re all I care about – and I need to know that you care too.’

  ‘Of course I do. You’re just brimming with passion. I told myself last night, that’s all it is, an excess of passion. You don’t mean harm to anybody, you were just letting off steam.’

  ‘You’re still worried about my idea, my idea about Steve?’

  He said sharply, ‘I asked you to drop it, never to mention it again.’

  ‘Oh, love, I understand why you have doubts. Heavens, so do I. It’s just that I need to know that you want the same things that I want.’

  ‘Well, of course I do.’

  ‘A fresh start, a brand new life together – and the money to enjoy it. But don’t you see what that means? I’m sure deep down you realise we can’t go on as we are. I can give you everything you’ve ever longed for, but you must share the risks with me as well as the pleasures. After all, we both want Steve to die.’

  It was too much for Dominic. Harry could almost smell the man’s fear. A short silence on the tape was followed by the sound of a receiver being replaced. He pictured the sweat glistening on Dominic’s brow. Never mind Jim Crusoe: if ever a man was reconsidering the virtues of monogamy, it was the recruitment consultant. Yet who could blame him for a loss of nerve? Love in the afternoon is one thing, cold-blooded murder quite another.

  Harry poured himself another drink as he listened to the now familiar bleep of the Whyatt’s phone. Becky snatched the handset up and answered breathlessly, but if she was hoping for a quick return call from her boyfriend, she was disappointed. Michelle had rung to see if Steven Whyatt could be persuaded to accept the revised offer from Verdant Pastures. When Becky made a terse admission of failure, she groaned.

  ‘We were pinning our hopes on you, pet, thinking you might be waiting for the right moment to try and talk him into it.’

  ‘With Steve, there never is a right moment. He refused point blank to even consider selling.’

  ‘But we thought it was such a handsome …’

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s not as if he doesn’t care about money, but he cares even more about his bloody mazes. Besides, he likes the idea of thwarting me. And Jeremy, come to that.’

  ‘Jeremy’s patience is wearing very thin, pet.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Becky paused. ‘He has a very short fuse, doesn’t he? Michelle – what exactly did happen to make him leave the army?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘No need to bite my head off. I was simply curious. You see, I’ve picked up one or two hints over the years and I’ve always felt – there was more to it all than met the eye. He attacked somebody, didn’t he?’

  ‘It was self-defence. There was an argument outside a bar in Hamburg. The other man was drunk and violent, he only had himself to blame.’

  ‘Is it true that he died?’

  ‘It was just Jeremy’s bad luck that he was involved in the first place. The powers-that-be accepted his story.’

  ‘Because the only other witness was dead?’

  ‘Why on earth are you raking all this up after so long?’ her friend demanded angrily. ‘It’s best forgotten.’

  ‘Don’t be so touchy. I’m fond of Jeremy, truly I am. He has so much more backbone than Steve. There’s something exciting about a man who … who is physical.’

  Michelle hesitated. ‘Pet, you don’t know the half of it. I’m crazy about him. Yet once in a while he … loses control.’

  ‘I’ve seen the bruises, remember,’ Becky said softly. ‘I never did believe that story of yours about falling down the stairs. He hurts you sometimes, doesn’t he?’

  After a long pause, Michelle spoke with a trace of defiance, almost of pride. ‘It turns me on. There, I’ve said it. But I’ll be honest. Sometimes it scares me as well.’

  Harry thought about private lives and the secrets so many people keep. Even friends he believed he understood, Jim Crusoe and Kim Lawrence, had hidden places in their hearts. How well is it possible to know another person? Human beings have an infinite capacity to surprise. He traced a finger across the dusty surface of the table in front of him. The whole flat was a jumble of records, magazines and odd bits of paper which had fluttered from the office files he’d worked on at home. He’d kept intending to tidy things up, but it had seemed pointless to bother until there was enough debris scattered around to make a sort-out worthwhile. Now the challenge was so daunting that it made Hercules’ task with the Augean stables resemble a straightforward spring-clean. He employed a cleaning lady, a widow in her forties, but she had not been seen for a month. Ever since watching Shirley Valentine on television, she’d become entranced by the idea of disappearing to the Greek Islands in search of a swarthy fisherman and Harry was beginning to think that her quest had met with success. At least her romantic dreams were not as wild as Becky’s.

  He listened while a kitchen unit salesman made a cold call to her and a woman who was campaigning for more restrictions on traffic speeds in the neighbourhood rang to solicit support. A glib young man with a camp turn of phrase called to carry out a customer survey following Becky’s recent purchases f
rom a mail-order catalogue. Harry could tell that she relished the chance to express her opinions as well as to indulge in a little embroidery upon the facts of her life. The tiny doll-like medical receptionist in whose mouth butter would not dream of melting became an assertive self-employed businesswoman with three children at the most prestigious fee-paying school in the North of England. Her husband was chairman of a multinational oil company and they had a second home in Switzerland, where they went skiing four or five times a year. She began to flirt, but the young man hastily cut the conversation short and Harry guessed that women, however wealthy and available, were not to his taste.

  Her next call was to the garden centre. When the switchboard girl answered, she disguised her voice with a throaty cough and asked for Jeremy rather than her husband. Harry felt his stomach muscles tightening. He hoped that he could not guess what was in her mind.

  ‘Becky? What’s this about?’ Harry imagined Jeremy’s brooding features knitting in suspicion. ‘Steve never mentioned …’

  ‘It’s you I’m after, not Steve. Please don’t tell him I’ve called.’

  ‘Should I be flattered?’

  ‘No need to be sarcastic. I know you think the sun shines out of Michelle’s shapely little bum.’

  He gave the laugh of a man who is wondering if it might be worth keeping his options open. ‘You’re direct, Becky. I’ve always liked ladies who lack inhibition.’

  ‘Jeremy, you don’t know the half of it. Can we get together, please? I’ll explain everything when we meet. I don’t want to go into detail on the phone. Could you be in the bar at the Ditton Motel tomorrow afternoon, say at half four?’

  ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘I’ve got a proposal to put to you.’

  He sniggered. ‘An indecent one?’

  ‘Now you’re flattering yourself.’

  Click.

  ‘Eight nine, eight nine.’

  A hoarse voice said, ‘Hello, Becky.’

  ‘Roger? For God’s sake, I told you before to stop pestering me. We’re finished with each other.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Becky. I’m not finished with you yet. Whatever’s gone wrong, we can still work it out. I’m not giving up. I’ll …’

  ‘I’m going to put the phone down. You’re pathetic, Roger. Please don’t ring again. If you do, I’ll call the police.’

  ‘You can’t get rid of me so …’

  Click.

  ‘Revill Recruitment.’

  ‘Why did you hang up?’

  ‘Look, I … I can’t talk now. There’s someone here.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. You’re avoiding the issue. Are you afraid?’

  A long pause. ‘Who wouldn’t be?’

  ‘Darling, isn’t the risk half the thrill? Listen, I must see you again. How about your place? I’m still dying to go there. Any chance we might snatch an hour on our own?’

  ‘No, no, Emma will be here and the nanny too.’

  ‘So – when?’

  ‘I – I think tomorrow evening may be possible. That’s absolutely the earliest I can manage, assuming the nanny goes out to see her boyfriend. Emma is taking Marcus to stay over with her mother in Southport. We could meet at the hotel first for a drink, if you like, then come back here.’

  ‘Darling, that’s marvellous! I can hardly wait! And it will give me a chance to explain about my plan.’

  Another pause. ‘Becky, you’re not still … I can’t believe you can possibly be serious about …’

  ‘Oh, but I am,’ she whispered. ‘Tomorrow I’ll be seeing someone who can help to make our dreams come true.’

  ‘I refuse to become involved in any way at all!’

  The playful voice became steely. ‘Don’t snap at me, Dominic. And remember, you’re already involved, make no mistake about that. You talk as if you never had a kinky thought in your life. Have you forgotten what we did in the hotel bathroom?’

  ‘That – that was different.’

  ‘You’re wrong, darling. Break one taboo and you can break them all.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Where’s Jim?’ Lucy asked the moment he walked through the office front door the next morning.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ For once, Harry was brusque: he had enough to worry about for the time being. ‘It’s only twenty past eight. I’m sure he’ll be in shortly.’

  ‘He’s usually here before all of us. And there’s a funny thing. His diary has a line struck through yesterday after six o’clock and something about a client’s snooker tournament.’

  ‘What’s so strange about that?’

  ‘Which of our clients organises snooker tournaments? Games of pool inside Walton Jail hardly count. Besides, he left his briefcase in his room overnight. I’ve never known him do that before. I know he seems to have a few things on his mind lately, but he’s usually so meticulous.’ Not like you was the unspoken rider. ‘And his wife called ten minutes ago. She’s in a terrible state.’

  Oh shit, he thought. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘There’s a domestic crisis. Their son was rushed into hospital during the night. Suspected appendicitis. The surgeon is due to operate soon.’

  Harry fought to hide his feelings. He was having too much practice at that lately. Gritting his teeth, he said, ‘Okay. Better make sure he’s told the instant he arrives.’

  Lucy’s eyes narrowed, as if she had guessed he was holding back on her, but she was shrewd enough to avoid a direct challenge. ‘Yes, I’ll make sure of that.’

  As the door closed behind her, Harry groaned. His partner was inexperienced at deceit; he would never be an accomplished liar, certainly not in the Becky Whyatt league. He decided to give Heather Crusoe a ring, but there was no answer; presumably she was at the hospital. He uttered a silent prayer that his godson would soon be all right and called Steven Whyatt.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said grimly. ‘Today. It’s urgent. How soon can you come in?’

  ‘I’m seeing a client in half an hour, but I could be with you by twelve.’ Whyatt’s tone was curiously eager. ‘Have – have you had a chance to listen to the tape I left for you yesterday?’

  ‘That’s why we need to talk.’

  After putting down the phone, Harry rooted out his family law textbook. He kept it wedged between the copy of Litigation Made Simple which had been his crib during student days and a yellowing history of Liverpool Football Club. Checking up on the letter of the law usually seemed to him to be the last resort of the scoundrel, but as he leafed through the pages he saw that at least his recollection of one particular court decision was accurate. It might make a huge difference to Steven Whyatt’s future. He snapped the book shut and went to pick up his car.

  As he inched through the city centre traffic, he again passed the market researcher and the guitar-playing busker. There was something about today’s Lennon and McCartney song, a mournful rendition of ‘We Can Work It Out’, that tugged at his memory, but he could not afford to waste time puzzling over a musical conundrum. He was not a fanciful man, but after the latest taped conversations he was sure that a disastrous storm was about to burst. The heat of the relationships was suffocating. It was impossible for him to ignore what he had heard: he must do something. Yet he had so few options. Becky would be behind her desk, giving a dainty smile to each new patient. He quailed at the prospect of approaching Jeremy. His best chance was to talk to Dominic and make him understand that Becky’s fantasy was no longer a secret. If that failed, he must make sure that Steven Whyatt went to the police.

  The sun was burning more intensely than ever as he drove through the wrought-iron gates of St Alwyn’s. He left his MG in the shade of the high sandstone wall and as he walked towards the porch he looked around, trying to absorb the atmosphere of the redundant church and its yard. The lawns had been cut on either side of the path and there was a strong smell of new-mown grass, incongruous in the city. Beyond the building, the grounds were wild. From a dista
nce St Alwyn’s still exuded solidity and permanence. Countless generations had come this way to worship and seek comfort from their fears. Now, he thought bleakly, the masses bought their opium from denim-clad dealers who lurked in back streets and dingy bars. Meanwhile the house of God had become home to an adulterer.

  He rang the bell and looked around. At close quarters, he could see that every effort had been made to restore the carvings around the windows and above the main door to their original state. The renovations had been subtle; it was easy to guess that the Revills had spared no expense. All the same, he thought, something is missing. What could it be? He rang the bell again and racked his brains. For all his Catholic ancestry, he did not think of himself as a religious man and it was a long time since he had last attended a service. Yet he could vividly recall the nervous, tingling emotion he always felt when visiting a church. Here it was absent. Standing on the threshold, he realised why the place no longer inspired awe. The bricks and mortar had been repaired, but along the way St Alwyn’s had lost its soul.

  Suddenly one of the double doors opened and a tall girl in tee shirt and jeans stared at him. Her long dark hair was swept back from an oval face with high cheekbones. The redness of her eyes told him that she had been crying. This, he thought, must be the nanny whom Emma believed to be Dominic’s mistress. He reckoned she must be eighteen or nineteen, but her evident misery made her seem more like a child than a temptress. A distant memory stirred, but he could not identify it. He felt embarrassed. Coming here had been a mistake. Why did he keep succumbing to impulse? A solicitor ought to make sure his head ruled his heart.

  Shifting uneasily from one foot to another, he said, ‘My name’s Harry Devlin. The Revills are trying to recruit someone for me and I wonder if I could see Dominic …’

  ‘He’s out.’

  ‘In that case, is Mrs Revill available?’ He did not quite know why he asked the question, but he simply could not slink away with his tail between his legs.

  The girl flushed. ‘She’s working in her office.’

  ‘Do you think I might have a word with her?’